“Then they are Neapolitans?”
“Neapolitans! No, Signore. They are from Mergellina.”
Artois smiled. The tension which had surprised the sailor left his face.
“I understand. But there is no Sicilian here called Buonavista?”
“A Sicilian, Signore? I never heard of one. Are there Buonavistas in Sicily?”
“I have met with the name there once. But perhaps you can tell me of a boy, one of the fishermen, called Ruffo?”
“Ruffo Scarla? You mean Ruffo Scarla, who fishes with Giuseppe—Mandano Giuseppe, Signore?”
“It may be. A young fellow, a Sicilian by birth, I believe.”
“Il Siciliano! Si, Signore. We call him that, but he has never been in Sicily, and was born in America.”
“That’s the boy.”