The painter sprang out of his lazy posture.
“What are the things I have seen to those!” he cried. “What do I know of the world, compared to you? You have seen more of life here in Malamocco than I ever did in all the strange cities I have seen! It is nothing to know how men say ‘Good-morning’ in other languages or how they look in foreign coats, if you know what they say on the decks of sinking ships, and how they look when they are washed up dead by the sea!”
For a moment the fisherman was silent, surprised by the other’s vehemence. Then he said:
“Perhaps so. But what good does it do me to know these things? I would rather have your mestiere. It is not so monotonous. It is not so hard. It is not so sad——”
The painter jumped impatiently to his feet. He wanted to prove in some palpable way the inferiority of his manner of life, so that the fisherman could not help being convinced.
“Get up!” he cried. “Wrestle with me!”
“What shall I wrestle with you for?” asked the fisherman in astonishment, sitting back with his hands propped behind him in the sand. “I want to talk about these things.”
“You shall talk about these things afterward,” laughed the painter. “Now I want to see how easily I can throw you. Get up!”
The fisherman obeyed slowly and stood, loose-jointed, waiting to see what the other would do. The painter suddenly clinched him, at which the fisherman’s muscles reacted instinctively. There was a short sharp tussle; and the painter found himself on his back in the sand, panting, the other’s knee on his chest.
“You see?” demanded the painter.