Biaggio gave a little grunt as if he were being brought back from a deep meditation. "There is a way," he said slowly. "If thou write to her of the Brown Fur that thou art sick and cannot do the work——"
"But never in my life was I better. Only last week Giacomo said I have grown fat. How the——"
"It is possible," replied Biaggio wearily, "to be sick of a sickness that makes one neither thin nor white. With a sickness—of the legs like the rheumatism, for example, one eats, one sleeps, only one cannot walk or stand for many hours."
In spite of his efforts to the contrary, the wonder and admiration grew deeper in Luigi's eyes. "Thou thinkest the——?"
"I am sure," now that Luigi was reduced to the proper state of humility Biaggio gave up his attitude of distant oracle, and leaned close. "Thou hast made a mistake, but it is not too late. If thou dost wish I will write it for thee."
"If thou sayest," replied Luigi and now it was his turn to gaze at the strings of garlic, "if you will do this favor."
"With pleasure," Biaggio's fat hands made little gestures of willingness to oblige. "Of a truth it is not much, but when one wishes to buy the house, and already the family is begun, two dollars and a half each week——"
Luigi glanced at him sharply. "Two and——"
Biaggio drew the ink to him and dipped his pen. "Two and a half for thee, and for me——"
"Bene, bene," Luigi interrupted quickly, "it is only just."