Falutini, a great bunch of rags in his hand, was at the side of the engine, wiping the brass and softly humming. Fairfax heard it—
"Azuro puro,
Cielo azuro,
Mia Maddalena..."
"Stop that infernal bellow," he said, "will you?"
The Italian lifted himself upright and responded in his own tongue—
"I work, I slave, I endure. Now I may not sing? Macché," he cried defiantly, "I will sing, I will."
He threw his chest out, his black eyes on Tony's cross blue ones. He burst out carolling—
"Ah Mia Maddalena."
Fairfax struck his face; the Italian sprang at him like a cat. Falutini was as tall as Fairfax, more agile and with a hard head. However, with one big blow, Fairfax sent him whirling, and as he struck and felt the flesh and blood he discovered how glorious a thing a fight is, how nerve relaxing, and he received the other's assault with a kind of ecstasy. They were not unequally matched. Falutini's skin and muscles were like toughened velvet; he was the cock of his village, a first-rate boxer; and Tony's muscles were of iron, but Fairfax was mad and gloomy, and the Italian was desperate and disgusted, and he made the better show.
A few men lounged in and one called out: "You darned cusses are due to start in ten minutes."
Fairfax just then had his arm round the Italian's neck, the close cropped head came under his chin, and as Fairfax panted and as he smelt the garlic that at first