Patsy put out his head and one arm. The vendor of the straw-covered flasks of red and white wine joined the group.
“This is a serious affair, amici miei,” he said. “Signori, restrain the gentleman! Between ourselves now, is he mad? If so, my brother, who is of the carabinieri, can easily be summoned.”
Patsy by this time had got one shoulder out and was frantically waving an arm and a leg. That was too much for the immemorial beggar with the head and beard of Jove, who for forty years has sat upon that platform and begged. He laid down his tray of matches and hurried off on one leg and a crutch to the office of the capo stazione. Meanwhile, the guard came out of the restaurant furtively wiping his moustache. He rushed at the carriage with his key. Only one person on the platform had maintained his equilibrium,—the waiter from the restaurant, a man of the world, continued to walk calmly up and down the platform, offering his atrocious chiccory brew—he called it coffee—to the other passengers. He rather superciliously let us alone.
The guard hurried to the window. “I asked the signori before I allowed myself to attend to my duties at Colonna if any of the illustrious ones desired to descend. You yourself, excellency, assured me you desired nothing!” He fitted the key to the door as he spoke.
“Behold, did I not speak the truth?” said the fruit seller; “am I not right? the door opens.”
Patsy leaned comfortably back in the corner and lighted a cigarette. The capo stazione arrived, hastily buttoning his gold-laced coat. He looked daggers at the guard.
“What is wrong? If there has been any inattention it shall be reported. How is this? One of the travellers obliged to get out of the window, and now that the door is open nobody alights?”
“That gentleman,” said Patsy, nodding towards Mr. Z——, “wished to see if he could climb out of the window. Do not trouble yourselves, he is not mad, merely an original. So sorry you should have been disturbed.” The capo bowed politely to Patsy, fixed poor Z—— with a freezing stare, and returned with olympian dignity to that stuffy seat of authority, his office. The Jove-like beggar, leaning on his crutch, in his curiosity to see us forgot to beg.
“Un fiasco di vino!” said the wine seller, thrusting a flask into the carriage.
“Portugalli!” shrilled the old fruit woman.