Before I left I was introduced to a very nice fellow who had just arrived in Venice, and a somewhat amusing incident occurred. I did not catch his name at first, and, as he spoke English so fluently and looked so much like an Englishman, I was somehow under the impression that he was a correspondent of a London paper. He appeared mystified when, after a few casual remarks, I asked him how long he had been in Italy. “How long?” he exclaimed. “Why, I live here.” “But you are not an Italian?” “Well, you see my grandfather was,” he replied with a touch of humour which I was only able to appreciate, when I heard later that my “English journalist” was Peppino Garibaldi, a nephew of the great patriot. He had just come from the Front, where he had been to see the King to offer his services in raising a regiment of volunteers similar to the one he had recently commanded on the French front in the Argonne. His offer, it appeared, was not accepted, but afterwards I learned he was given a commission in the Army, and he has since so distinguished himself in action that he has risen to the rank of Colonel. I believe his brothers have also done equally well in the Army, thus proving that they are all real “chips of the old block.” CHAPTER III From Venice to Udine—Reservists rejoining—Interesting crowd—Delays en route—Endless procession of military trains—Drawn blinds—The Red Cross train—Arrival Udine—Scene on platform—In search of an hotel—A little incident—The well-dressed civilian—The obliging guide—My suspicions—Awkward questions—The best hotel in Udine—A little “Trattoria” close by—A cheap room—First impressions of Udine—At the Police Office—The _permis de séjour_—The _Carabinieri_ and the local police—The fascination of the big guns—The “Military Commandant of Udine”—A difficult proposition—The luck of the undelivered letter—My guide has to leave me—I change my quarters—The Hotel “Tower of London”—Alone in Udine—An awkward predicament—A friend in need—Still more luck—Dr. Berthod—I am offered a studio—I accept—The delight of having this studio in Udine. CHAPTER III The train service between Venice and Udine was apparently running as usual, and there was no difficulty in getting tickets in spite of the drastic regulations with regard to passengers. Possibly it was assumed that anyone already inside the War Zone had permission to be there, so no further questions were asked. My guide, of course, got the tickets, so I had no trouble in that matter; perhaps if I had gone to the booking office myself with my limited vocabulary of Italian it would have been different. As it was, it all seemed ridiculously simple, and there appeared to be no difficulty whatever. In Venice they are so accustomed to Englishmen, and artists are such “common objects of the seashore,” that I attracted no particular notice, in spite of my rucksack and my Norfolk jacket, breeches and leggings.