“I am ready for the stern arbitrament of the pitchfork,” I said. “Will you come with me?” “Certainly,” said he. “Come on,” I said, as I started with one of the forks in my hands. “I'm going to get through with my haying to-day if possible.” “Hadn't we better send the forks by messenger?” said Richard. “No, I'd rather carry them myself,” I answered. “I don't want them to be delayed or lost in transit.” “They are not so elegant as swords or guns,” he said, as he took one of the forks. “They are more reputable,” I assured him. We made our way into the crowded street and soon entered a drug shop to buy some first-aid materials, and deposited our forks in a corner near a small boy who sat on a stool devouring primes. He soon discovered a better use for his prunes and amused himself by-impaling them on the fork tines. When we were ready to go we gathered the fruit and gave it back to the boy. I never had so much fun with a pitchfork in all my life. In fact, I can think of no more promising field for the pitchfork than the city of Rome. It is an exciting tool, and as an inspirer of reminiscence the fork is even mightier than the sword or the pen. Mine rose above me like a lightning-rod, and currents of thought began to play around the burnished tines. I never dreamed that there were so many ex-farmers of our own land in Italy. A number of them stopped us to indulge in stories of the hay-field. We might have learned of many a busy and exciting day on “the old farm,” but time pressed and we sprang into a cab and soon entered the studio of the sculptor with the forks in our hands. “Here we are,” I said, as De Langueville opened the door. To my painful surprise, the young count was there. He was looking at a sword when we caught sight of him. He sheathed and laid it down on a table and joined the sculptor, who had begun to examine the forks. The end of each tine excited their interest. De Langueville felt them, and then there was a little dialogue in Italian between him and his friend which was not wholly lost upon me. “They use it to fight Indians,” said the sculptor. “They are poisoned,” said the count, as his eye detected some stains on the steel which had been made by the prime-juice. “I think so,” the other answered, and then, addressing me in English, he asked: “Will you kindly name the day and hour?” “Here and now,” was my answer. Another dialogue in Italian followed, and then De Langueville said to me: “It is impossible. The count requests for more time.”