“I want to speak to you,” Arthur said in Italian. “Do you understand me?” The man shook his head. “It's no use talking that patter to me,” he said; then, plunging into bad French, asked sullenly: “What do you want? Why can't you let me pass?” “Just come out of the light here a minute; I want to speak to you.” “Ah! wouldn't you like it? Out of the light! Got a knife anywhere about you?” “No, no, man! Can't you see I only want your help? I'll pay you for it?” “Eh? What? And dressed like a swell, too------” The sailor had relapsed into English. He now moved into the shadow and leaned against the railing of the pedestal. “Well,” he said, returning to his atrocious French; “and what is it you want?” “I want to get away from here----” “Aha! Stowaway! Want me to hide you? Been up to something, I suppose. Stuck a knife into somebody, eh? Just like these foreigners! And where might you be wanting to go? Not to the police station, I fancy?” He laughed in his tipsy way, and winked one eye. “What vessel do you belong to?” “Carlotta--Leghorn to Buenos Ayres; shipping oil one way and hides the other. She's over there”--pointing in the direction of the breakwater--“beastly old hulk!” “Buenos Ayres--yes! Can you hide me anywhere on board?” “How much can you give?” “Not very much; I have only a few paoli.” “No. Can't do it under fifty--and cheap at that, too--a swell like you.” “What do you mean by a swell? If you like my clothes you may change with me, but I can't give you more money than I have got.” “You have a watch there. Hand it over.” Arthur took out a lady's gold watch, delicately chased and enamelled, with the initials “G. B.” on the back. It had been his mother's--but what did that matter now? “Ah!” remarked the sailor with a quick glance at it. “Stolen, of course! Let me look!” Arthur drew his hand away. “No,” he said. “I will give you the watch when we are on board; not before.” “You're not such a fool as you look, after all! I'll bet it's your first scrape, though, eh?” “That is my business. Ah! there comes the watchman.” They crouched down behind the group of statuary and waited till the watchman had passed. Then the sailor rose, and, telling Arthur to follow him, walked on, laughing foolishly to himself. Arthur followed in silence. The sailor led him back to the little irregular square by the Medici palace; and, stopping in a dark corner, mumbled in what was intended for a cautious whisper: “Wait here; those soldier fellows will see you if you come further.” “What are you going to do?” “Get you some clothes. I'm not going to take you on board with that bloody coatsleeve.” Arthur glanced down at the sleeve which had been torn by the window grating. A little blood from the grazed hand had fallen upon it. Evidently the man thought him a murderer. Well, it was of no consequence what people thought. After some time the sailor came back, triumphant, with a bundle under his arm.