The crowd fell back, Luigi striding along, his hand on Marco's shoulder. The champion could hardly conceal a smile of triumph as he neared the door of the Caffè Beneto, which opened to let them in. The two passed through the long passage into the room opening out on the veranda and the water beyond. Francesco sat at a table with his back to a window, sipping a glass of wine diluted with water. Cavalli, his head bound with a yellow handkerchief, the colors of the Nicolletti, a scowl on his face, sat beside him. Every inch of standing room was blocked with his admirers. "Signore Francesco," said Luigi, courteously, removing his hat, "I understand that you want to lose some money on the race. I have come to accommodate you. How much shall it be?" "Ten lire!" cried one of the officers of the regatta, pouring some silver beside Francesco's hand as it rested on the table. "Put your money here, Signore Zanaletto. Our good landlord will hold the stakes." "The money is not enough," answered Luigi. "I am the challenged party, and have the right to choose. Is it not so?" "Yes, yes," cried half a dozen voices; "make it fifty lire! We are not _lazagnoni_. We have money--plenty of it. See, Signore Castellani"--and half a dozen palms covered with small coin were extended. "I can choose, then, the kind of money and the sum," continued Luigi. "Yes, gold, silver, paper--anything you want!" "Then, gentle Nicolletti," said Luigi, in his softest and most courteous voice, "if you will permit me, I will choose the poor man's money. Match this, Signore Francesco," and he threw a copper soldo (a coin the size and thickness of an English penny) upon the table. "It is yours if you win." A roar of laughter greeted the announcement. Francesco sprang to his feet. "I am not here to be made a fool of! I don't bet with soldi! I throw them to beggars!" he cried, angrily. "Pardon me, signore. Was it not agreed that I had the choice?" Some muttering was heard at this, but no one answered. "Let us see your soldo, then, signore," continued Luigi. "The race is the thing, not the money. A soldo is as good as a gold piece with which to back one's opinions. Come, I am waiting." Francesco thrust his hand into his pocket, hauled up a handful of small coin, picked out a soldo and threw it contemptuously on the table. "There--will that do?" Luigi picked up the copper coin, examined it carefully, and tossed it back on the table. "It is not of the right kind, signore. The stamp is wrong. We Castellani are very particular as to what money we wager and win." The crowd craned their heads. If it was a counterfeit, they would put up another. This, however, did not seem to be Luigi's meaning. The boy Marco was so absorbed in the outcome that he reached forward to pick up the coin to examine it the closer when Luigi stopped him with his hand. "What's the matter with the soldo?" growled Francesco, scrutinizing the pieces, "isn't it good?"