“We shall find him keeping order among the coachmen in the station-yard,” replied Peppino.
And there he was in the uniform of a guardia municipale.
“Why, Joe!” I exclaimed, “I thought you were writing at a desk all day in the Mansion House. I did not know you were a policeman.”
He replied that he was a guardia municipale, which is not exactly the same thing, and was going on to explain the difference between the carabinieri, the pubblica sicurezza, the guardia municipale, the guardia campestre and all the rest of it, when I interrupted him:
“I shall never remember what you are telling me; I shall always think of you as a policeman.”
“All right,” he replied, “I’ll be Joe the Policeman, and Ninu is a policeman too.”
“I can quite believe it,” I said. “When we went to the lava you both treated me just as our policemen in London treat the old ladies and gentlemen who are afraid of the traffic; you helped me along and never let me fall down, and looked after me as though I had been given specially into your charge. London policemen are just like that—very kind and helpful. I know one of them in private life and he is a capital fellow. I made his acquaintance over my bicycle.”
“How was that?” inquired Joe. “Did you get run over and did he pick you up? What did I tell you about living on the slopes of volcanoes?”
“It was not exactly that,” I replied; “it was because I wanted to avoid being run over that I gave my bicycle to a man to sell it for me when the motor-cars began to get on my nerves, and this policeman bought it. He did not give much for it, but if the value of his friendship is taken into the account I think I made rather a good bargain.”