"Every soldo he has. Cavalli talks to him all the time. They are like crazy people over there at the Beneto. Ah, good Luigi, do not win! I am so unhappy!" and the tears gathered in her eyes. Luigi, still holding her hand, laughed gently as he looked up into her face. The others who had heard the girl's plea laughed with him. "Go, child, and bring Marco here to me. Cavalli shall not ruin you both, if I can help it." The girl pushed her hair back from her flushed face, drew her shawl closer about her shoulders, bent her pretty head, wormed her way out of the dense throng pressing in upon the table, and ran with all her might toward the Caffè Beneto, followed by her mother. In a few minutes the two were back again, their arms fast locked in those of a young fellow of twenty--they marry young under Italian suns--who stood looking at Luigi with curious, wondering eyes. Not that he did not know the champion--every man in Venice knew him--but because Cavalli had pictured Luigi as of doubtful strength, and the Luigi before him did not fit Cavalli's measure. "Marco," said Luigi, a smile crossing his face. "Yes, Signore Zanaletto," answered the boy. "Come nearer." The young fellow advanced to the table. The others who had been near enough to learn of the girl's errand crowded the closer. Every utterance of a champion on a day like this is of value. "You should be at work, boy, not betting on the race. You earn your living with your hands; that is better than Cavalli's way; he earns his with his tongue. I am nearly twice your age and have rowed many times, but I have never yet wagered as much as a soldo on any race of mine. Give your money to the good mother, and let her take it to the Pietà and get your boat. You will need it before the month is out, she tells me." The boy hung his head and did not answer. "Why do you think I shall lose? Have I not won four already?" "Yes, but every year the signore gets older; you are not so strong as you were. And then, no man has won five races in fifty years. It is the Nicolletti's year to win, Cavalli says." A cheer here went up from the outside of the crowd. Some of the Nicolletti who had followed the boy had been listening. "Cavalli should read his history better. It is not fifty years, but sixty. But we Italians work for ourselves now, and are free. That counts for something." "Francesco works, Signore Zanaletto. He has arms like my leg." "Yes, and for that reason you think him the stronger?" "I did when Cavalli talked to me. Now I am in doubt." The cheer that answered this reply came from some Castellani standing in the door of the caffè. When the cheering slackened a man on the outside of the crowd called out: "Your Luigi is a coward. He will not bet because he knows he'll lose." At this a big stevedore from the salt warehouse lunged toward Luigi and threw a silver lira on his table. "Match that for Francesco!" he cried. Luigi pushed it back.