“The steamer will start from Genoa. Smith, our Consul, is buying up the town to fit her out,” said a young secretary.
“The Ambassadress has collected half a shipload of supplies!”
“All the sterilized milk you can lay your hands on—” This to one who offered contributions.
“Put my money in tobacco; those poor devils need a smoke if ever man did,” said the Roman American.
Waiting in that office was like watching the movement of a vast engine, feeling the throbbing of our country’s mighty heart—our pulses leapt to keep time with it.
“Weston Flint is just the man for you. He is a graduate of our school and speaks Italian well,” said Mr. Carter, director of the American Classical School.
“If you can get Giordano of the Tribuna, he’s your man. He speaks English as well as I do,” said a journalist.
“I know three trained nurses who are ready to go if they’re wanted.”
At last our turn came; Captain Belknap found time to speak to J. The intense concentrated force that we had felt in the atmosphere of that room seemed personified in the naval attaché. To be in his company was like touching an electric battery. Only a few words were exchanged; the upshot of it all was that J. offered his services and was accepted. He said he was ready to go in any capacity, and was then and there appointed interpreter and general handy-andy-man to the expedition. My services were refused; no women except professional trained nurses were wanted.
“Do you know a man with some knowledge of accounts you could get to go with us? He must speak Italian.” Captain Belknap said it lightly enough, as if he were merely dropping a hint. What was it that made that hint more imperative than a command?