“Not like yours!” Patsy magicked the peevish proprietor into good humor, and we were free to enter the dark cavern. Two half naked fellows stood at a deep trough kneading flour and water to a paste. A pair of barefoot men, harnessed to a heavy wooden pole that turned a press, trod their weary round. The paste was put into this press, and came out in long strips. A fifth youth cut the strips into the proper lengths and hung them to dry over bamboo canes.
“These might be the serfs of Roger the Norman making pasta for his army,” said Patsy; “it’s positively mediæval!”
The rude interior was like an ancient cave,—floor, walls, ceiling were all of stone; the men worked in a dull heavy-hearted way that hurt you. There was none of the joyous thrill of labor lightly carried; it was a grievous place.
“The pasta made in America is villainous; I have eaten it,” said the capo. “It is made of wheat flour; bah! Semolina is the only flour fit to make macaroni for Christians.”
“Un bicchiere di vino,” Patsy gave the money to the elder of the men harnessed to that heavy pole. The fellow threw back his beautiful plume of hair out of his gray-blue eyes and thanked Patsy awkwardly.
“Grazie, beviamo a vostro salute.”
The second-hand boot-store next door was a much gayer place than the mill.
“What can I sell you?” said the jolly proprietor, evidently the buffo of the quarter. “Riding-boots good as new? Fishermans’ boots? They will keep you dry to the knee!”
The riding-boots at once dainty and sportsman like, looked extraordinarily like Teodoro’s; the heavy hobnailed fisherman’s boots leaned fraternally against them.
“I do not buy today,” laughed Patsy; “perhaps I may sell tomorrow.”