“The machines?”
“Call them that if you like. They are merciless. They devour the most sacred and ancient beings to make things to sell. They respect nothing.”
“But, my friend, you are not able to judge.”
Fiammiferino pinched my ear furiously and howled in a voice that sounded like a whistle, it was so loud and shrill:
“Don’t contradict me. You must be careful, you know, for if you make me angry I may take fire.”
I quieted him, talking as gently as I could. I was sorry he had such an inflammable temper, but I suppose the phosphorus was largely to blame.
I can’t tell you how many other intimate conversations I had with Fiam. When we were alone he always sat astride of my collar, and I usually let him sit there when I was working and writing. I must tell you that he gave me excellent advice, made suggestions, and explained Japanese affairs to me. I shall even have to own that more than once my success as a journalist at this time was due entirely to Fiam, but for pity’s sake don’t mention it to any one.
He often left his post of observation on the battlement, and came down onto my necktie, which he called “the silk waterfall.” There he read what I wrote and gave me his opinion with a frankness that would have made me very angry if I hadn’t been so fond of him. Sometimes in the midst of a sentence I would hear his little voice shrieking: