“What! you like the French better than the Italians?”
“Oh, no, I was thinking of you when I said ‘that’s a good thing,’ because if you were Italian you would probably come here to work for Signor Garofoli, and I’d be sorry for you.”
“Is he wicked, then?”
The boy did not reply, but the look he gave me spoke more than words. As though he did not wish to continue the conversation, he went over to the fireplace. On a shelf in the fireplace was an immense earthenware saucepan. I drew nearer to the fire to warm myself, and I noticed that the pot had something peculiar about it. The lid, through which a straight tube projected to allow the steam to escape, was fixed on the saucepan on one side with a hinge and on the other with a padlock.
“Why is that closed with a padlock?” I asked, inquisitively.
“So that I shan’t take any of the soup. I have to look after it, but the boss doesn’t trust me.”
I could not help smiling.
“You laugh,” he said sadly, “because you think that I’m a glutton. Perhaps, if you were in my place, you’d do the same as I’ve done. I’m not a pig, but I’m famished, and the smell of the soup as it comes out through the spout makes me still hungrier.”
“Doesn’t Signor Garofoli give you enough to eat?”
“He starves us…”