“Ah, you are looking for blood also,” I said. “Well, I have thought of another weapon which once upon a time I could handle with some skill. Let's have a duel with pitchforks.” “Pitchforks! What is it?” he asked. “I do not understand.” “It's a favorite weapon in New England. My great-grandfather fought the Indians and the British with it, and it was one of the weapons with which I fought against poverty when I was a boy. It's a great blood-letter. I used to kill coons and hedgehogs with the pitchfork.” “Please tell me what it is. What is it?” he pleaded. With my pencil I drew a picture of it and said: “This handle is about five feet in length and very strong. These three prongs are of steel and curved a little and long enough to go through the abdomen of the most prosperous mayor in France.” “My God! It is the devil's weapon!” he exclaimed. “You may report to him that the American pitchfork is the 'devil-_op_-ment' of our interview, and I shall name the day and hour as soon as I can get hold of the weapon.” “I shall tell my friend, and, please, may I take the picture with me?” said Vincent. “Certainly, and you may say to him that I shall cable for the forks to-night, and that as soon as they arrive I shall appoint the day and hour.” He gave me his card. “You live here in Rome?” I asked. “I do.” “Do you work for a living?” “I am a sculptor.” “I have often thought that I should like to see a sculptor. Sit down till I get you framed and hung in my portrait-gallery.” “I must go,” said he. “Perhaps you will do me the honor to call.” I agreed to do so, just to show that I entertained no grudge, and with that he left me. Before going to bed that night I cabled to my secretary as follows: “Ship to me immediately four well-made American pitchforks, three tines each.” I said nothing to Betsey of the proposed duel, but broke the news that I had met a great sculptor, and she wanted to see his studio, and next day we called there. Mrs. Mullet was sitting for a bust, in her dinner gown. Before we had had time to recognize the lady the artist had introduced her as the Madame Mullette, from Sioux City. “Isn't this an adorable place?” she asked in that lyrical tone which one hears so often in the Italian capital. She pointed at busts of several Americans standing on pedestals and awaiting delivery. “Look at the whiskers embalmed in marble!” Betsey exclaimed, as she gazed at one of the busts. It had that familiar chin tuft of the Zimmermann hay-seed and a dish collar and string tie. The face wore the brave, defiant, me-against-the-world look that I had observed in the statue of Titus, made after he had turned Palestine into a slaughter-house. “Why, that is our old friend from Prairie du Chien who came over on the _Toltec_,” I said. “You remember the man who is studying the history of the world, all about the life of the world, especially the life of the ancients?” “Yes, indeed,” said Betsey.