Ristofalo and Richling had hardly separated, when it occurred to the latter that the Italian had first touched him from behind. Had Ristofalo recognized him with his back turned, or had he seen him earlier and followed him? The facts were these: about an hour before the time when Richling omitted to apply for employment in the ill-smelling store in Tchoupitoulas street, Mr. Raphael Ristofalo halted in front of the same place,--which appeared small and slovenly among its more pretentious neighbors,--and stepped just inside the door to where stood a single barrel of apples,--a fruit only the earliest varieties of which were beginning to appear in market. These were very small, round, and smooth, and with a rather wan blush confessed to more than one of the senses that they had seen better days. He began to pick them up and throw them down--one, two, three, four, seven, ten; about half of them were entirely sound. "How many barrel' like this?" "No got-a no more; dass all," said the dealer. He was a Sicilian. "Lame duck," he added. "Oael de rest gone." "How much?" asked Ristofalo, still handling the fruit. The Sicilian came to the barrel, looked in, and said, with a gesture of indifference:-- "'M--doll' an' 'alf." Ristofalo offered to take them at a dollar if he might wash and sort them under the dealer's hydrant, which could be heard running in the back yard. The offer would have been rejected with rude scorn but for one thing: it was spoken in Italian. The man looked at him with pleased surprise, and made the concession. The porter of the store, in a red worsted cap, had drawn near. Ristofalo bade him roll the barrel on its chine to the rear and stand it by the hydrant. "I will come back pretty soon," he said, in Italian, and went away. By and by he returned, bringing with him two swarthy, heavy-set, little Sicilian lads, each with his inevitable basket and some clean rags. A smile and gesture to the store-keeper, a word to the boys, and in a moment the barrel was upturned, and the pair were washing, wiping, and sorting the sound and unsound apples at the hydrant. Ristofalo stood a moment in the entrance of the store. The question now was where to get a dollar. Richling passed, looked in, seemed to hesitate, went on, turned, and passed again, the other way. Ristofalo saw him all the time and recognized him at once, but appeared not to observe him. "He will do," thought the Italian. "Be back few minute'," he said, glancing behind him. "Or-r righ'," said the store-keeper, with a hand-wave of good-natured confidence. He recognized Mr. Raphael Ristofalo's species. The Italian walked up across Poydras street, saw Richling stop and look at the machinery, approached, and touched him on the shoulder.