“By all means! Pray take your choice.”
And so it came about that, relieved of a tenuous and very sticky five-franc note, and loaded down with three biographies of the flying monk, one of Egidio, two of Giangiuseppe—I had been hopelessly swindled, but there! no man can bargain in a hurry, and my eagerness to learn something of the life of this early airman had made me oblivious of the natural values of things—and with sundry smaller volumes of similar import bulging out of my pockets I turned in the direction of the hotel, promising myself some new if not exactly light reading.
But hardly had I proceeded twenty paces before the shopkeeper came running after me with another formidable bundle under his arm. More books! An ominous symptom—the clearest demonstration of my defeat; I was already a marked man, a good customer. It was humiliating, after my long years’ experience of the south.
And there resounded an unmistakable note of triumph in his voice, as he said:
“Some more biographies, sir. Read them at your leisure, and pay me what you like. You cannot help being generous; I see it in your face.”
“I always try to encourage polite learning, if that is what you think to decipher in my features. But it rains santi this morning,” I added, rather sourly.
“The gentleman is pleased to joke! May it rain soldi tomorrow.”
“A little shower, possibly. But not a cloud-burst, like today. . . .”
X
THE FLYING MONK
As to the flying monk, there is no doubt whatever that he deserved his name.