“A pure job, signore mio, a pure job! There is a society in Cerignola or somewhere, a society which persuades the various town councils—persuades them, you understand——”
He ended abruptly, with the gesture of paying out money between his finger and thumb. Then he sadly shook his head.
I sought for more light on this cryptic utterance; in vain. What were the facts, I persisted? Did certain householders subscribe to keep a guardian on their premises at night—what had the municipalities to do with it—was there much house-breaking in Manfredonia, and, if so, had this association done anything to check it? And for how long had the institution been established?
But the mystery grew ever darker. After heaving a deep sigh, he condescended to remark:
“The usual camorra! Eat—eat; from father to son. Eat—eat! That’s all they think about, the brood of assassins. . . . Just look at them!”
I glanced down the street and beheld a venerable gentleman of kindly aspect who approached slowly, leaning on the arm of a fair-haired youth—his grandson, I supposed. He wore a long white beard, and an air of apostolic detachment from the affairs of this world. They came nearer. The boy was listening, deferentially, to some remark of the elder; his lips were parted in attention and his candid, sunny face would have rejoiced the heart of della Robbia. They passed within a few feet of me, lovingly engrossed in one another.
“Well?” I queried, turning to my informant and anxious to learn what misdeeds could be laid to the charge of such godlike types of humanity.
But that person was no longer at my side. He had quietly withdrawn himself, in the interval; he had evanesced, “moved on.”
An oracular and elusive citizen. ...