“I am from upper Italy, a Sienese; I have naught to do with those of the south; I do not say there are not brave people among them but they have too hot blood. They all go armed too, even the women; I have proof of it--” he glanced half consciously at a scar on his wrist; when he spoke again an odd note of resentment had crept into his voice, a shadow into eyes clear as a forest brook. “We who have nothing but our two arms--or at best a little _gingillo_ of a knife, so long, what can we do against them? Nothing! It is best to keep away from them, to have nothing to do with them--enough, I have said it!” VII BUILDING THE NEW MESSINA “_Un soldo! Eh! Signore, un soldo!_” The brown boy, naked as the day he was born, threw up his right arm with that graceful gesture of asking that makes it hard to deny the Neapolitan beggar anything. “Give me the valise, Signore; there is no danger of its getting wet,” said Antonio, the boatman, an old friend; J. knew him by his gold earrings and the red scar on his cheek. “_Un soldo!_” the boy implored. J. tossed a coin into the water; the boy dived for the money, caught it before it was ten feet below the surface, and came up snorting like a young grampus, the _soldo_ in his cheek, his arm raised in that irresistible gesture. “_Basta!_” cried Antonio, bending to his oars. There is war to the knife between him and the diver, a share of whose profits he demands. “To the American war-ship, Signore? Off to Messina again? I would not go in your place!” The boat shot out from the Immacolatella and past the small steamer bound for Ischia, while J. counted his packages. They were pursued by a boatload of musicians, singing “Santa Lucia.” From the shore came a whiff of fried fish, just enough to whet the appetite. “The ‘Celtic’ is close in shore, I believe,” said J., “I suppose I must give you a franc.” “Four miles at least, Signore.” Antonio paused in his rowing; “To another it would be five francs, but we are old acquaintances, let us say three.”