“I say, Manfredo, do you know it’s ten o’clock, and you have not written a line of the daily ‘summary’ yet?”
Lauri shook himself, re-lit his cigar, which had gone out, and once more began turning over the papers. Giuntini, too, had gone back to work; but he, like all journalists, could cut all Europe to pieces, though his thoughts were wandering in the sphere of the moon.
“What telegrams has the Times to-day?” he asked while scribbling away.
“None; neither the Times, nor the Daily News, nor the Temps, nor the Nord; they are all empty as my pockets. I don’t in the least know how to make up this evening’s Foreign Intelligence. There is a little about Afghanistan in the République, but all stale matter hashed up for the third or fourth time. I shall have to end by translating the latest Assembly scandal from the Figaro.”
Enrico Onufrio.
WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK.
It is said among business men that it requires twelve Jews to cheat a Genoese; but twelve Genoese are not enough to cheat a Greek.... Only one person, that I ever heard of, enjoys the not very enviable distinction of having cheated—not merely one Greek, but two.
He was a Bari man.
He was returning to Italy, but had no boots—or rather, the things he had were no longer boots. He carefully counted up his money, found that he had not enough to buy a new pair, and so quieted his conscience. Then he went to a shoemaker’s in the Street of Hermes.[[11]]
“I want a pair of shoes by Monday morning, to fit me exactly, with round toes,” etc.; in short, he gave the fullest directions.