"The facchino must be doing ticket-duty," the collector remarked. "We'll go in and get your ticket."
A tall, yellow, broken-looking man was behind the little wicket in the ticket-office, puttering with some sort of repair work on a shelf. Mr. Wrenmarsh addressed him in Italian. The man took a blue and green ticket from a pigeon-hole on the wall, placed it under the stamp, on the knob of which he then brought down his fist with a nervous bang. Instantly he broke out into a violent exclamation.
"Sacro sangue della Madonna!" he shouted, and began to rave hysterically.
"What's the matter?" asked Taberman. "What is he saying?"
"He is cursing quite well," returned the archæologist coolly. "His hand was unsteady, and he's broken the stamp. He wants to know what will become of him when the capo finds the punch is broken."
"Is he tight?" inquired Jerry inelegantly.
"Oh, he's only bally-rotten with malaria. Look at his face."
"Tell him he ought to take some quinine," suggested Taberman, genuinely sorry for the wretched-looking fellow.
Mr. Wrenmarsh interpreted, but the Italian replied in a tone of mingled despair and contempt, and went out to show the broken punch to his superior.