e was backed up against the Column of the Lion, holding at bay a horde of gondoliers who were shrieking, "Gondola! Gondola!" as only Venetian gondoliers can. He had a half-defiant look, like a cornered stag, as he stood there protecting a small wizen-faced woman of an uncertain age, dressed in a long gray silk duster and pigeon-winged hat—one of those hats that looked as if the pigeon had alighted on it and exploded.
"No, durn ye, I don't want no gon-do-la; I got one somewhere round here if I can find it."
If his tall gaunt frame, black chin whisker, and clearly defined features had not located him instantly in my mind, his dialect would have done so.
"You'll probably find your gondola at the next landing," I said, pointing to the steps.
He looked at me kindly, took the woman by the arm, as if she had been under arrest, and marched her to the spot indicated.
In another moment I felt a touch on my shoulder. "Neighbor, ain't you from the U.S.A.?"
I nodded my head.
"Shake! It's God's own land!" and he disappeared in the throng.
The next morning I was taking my coffee in the café at the Britannia, when I caught a pair of black eyes peering over a cup, at a table opposite. Then six feet and an inch or two of raw untilled American rose in the air, picked up his plates, cup, and saucer, and, crossing the room, hooked out a chair with his left foot from my table, and sat down.