She glanced at Chick. Poor darling, this was awfully important to him, and it was mean of her to take it all so lightly. But he was being pretty darn solemn and masculine. Impatiently she said. “If you’d _only_ tell me what it is, Chick, perhaps I could make them understand.” Oh dear, how annoying men could be! Chick seemed not to hear. The new distraction was a cabbage, wilted, but unquestionably of more recent vintage than either the galosh or the ancient magazine. Its discoverer had waited for a time outside the magic circle, while firing forth a rapid stream of “_Ecco ... ecco ... ecco!_” as he held aloft the proffered vegetable. Breaking through at last he encountered the two previous presenters of articles, thus gaining the attention also of the crowd. Which was his downfall. An old woman, black shawl over her head, flattened slippers of magenta felt upon her feet, having heaved her way through by sheer force of language, not only wanted a cabbage, but _the_ cabbage. Perhaps it was the cabbage of her childhood, perhaps she had nursed it from a tiny seedling, this dejected thing. For a moment longer Cynthia listened, then screwed up her face and clapped frantic hands to ears. Couldn’t they get out of this soon? Close behind the old woman came shouldering two calm carabinieri, just in time it seemed to prevent a general combat. White gloved hands behind them, patent leather hats set squarely above unruffled brows, two identical, magnificent examples of the Venetian police. Tweedledum, it seemed, asked the questions. Tweedledee answered them. Conversely Dum asked and Dee answered. Comparative silence settled upon the circle and Cynthia cautiously removed her hands from her ears. All available witnesses began to present their evidence. As there were perhaps a score in number all acting out their theories in violent pantomime, Cynthia began to wish they weren’t right in the center of it. The one who had taken upon himself the part of the inquirer after lost articles, Chick’s rôle in fact, was losing things in all directions with wide, dramatic sweeps of his arms. Tweedledum and Tweedledee executed a half turn in perfect unison, raised right hands in gloves of immaculate whiteness in formal salutation and in Chick’s direction. By now, Cynthia knew them of old, they would have come to an unshakable conclusion. If they awarded the galosh to the old lady, the cabbage to Chick, both parties would have to be content. But no, they had another plan. The cabbage was bestowed upon its rightful owner who still lingered, voluminous with words, to see what else might happen. The golash returned to the gondolier in whose craft it had originally been found. Cynthia applauded the decision, then translated for Chick’s benefit Tweedledum’s speech: “We’re to go to the police station, Chick. That’ll teach you, young man, not to start riots. And I hope it does!”