The Land of Cockayne: A Novel

by Matilde Serao

'Yes, some small sum every three or four months,' Don Crescenzio remarked sceptically.

'You are mistaken; one may say that I benefited him, and these wretched sixty francs he gave me every month, for me not to clap on soles any longer, but work at necromancy, were not even the hundredth part of what he won each month. Now he is leaving me, ungrateful fellow! like this ... enough: I may tell you I had given certain numbers to him symbolically, numbers that must necessarily come out; and they did come, you know.'

'Then, he won?'

'No, nothing; he did not understand—he staked on others' figures—his mind is not trustworthy now. When he knew it he got the stroke.... To your health, sir.'

'But had you really told him what were good numbers?'

'I swear it before God; but he did not understand.'

'Why did you not play them?'

'You know quite well that we cannot play.'

'Ah, yes, that is true.'

They stopped speaking; the cobbler put the glass to his lips and took a sip of wine.