Albert Edward thought he did. "Used to swot up a lot of Italian literature when I was a lad; technical military stuff about the divisions of Gaul by one J. Cæsar." "Too technical for everyday use," I objected. "A person called D'Annunzio is their best seller now, I believe." "Somebody'd better hop off the bus at the next stop and buy a book of the words," said the Babe. At the next halt I dodged the deputation and purchased a phrase-book with a Union Jack on the cover, entitled _The English Soldier in Italy_, published in Milan. Among military terms, grouped under the heading of "The Worldly War," a _garetta_ (sentry-box) is defined as "a watchbox," and the machine-gunner will be surprised to find himself described as "a grapeshot-man." It has also short conversations for current use. "Have you of any English papers?" "Yes, sir, there's _The Times_ and _Tit-Bits_." (Is it possible that the land of Virgil, of Horace and Dante knows not _The Daily Mail_?) "Give me, please, many biscuits." "No, sir, we have no biscuits; the fabrication of them has been avoided by Government." "Waiter, show me a good bed where one may sleep undisturbated." _In the train_:-- "Dickens! I have lost my ticket." "Alas, you shall pay the price of another." A jocular vein is recommended with cabbies:-- "Coachman, are you free?" "Yes, sir." "Then long live liberty." Very young subalterns with romantic notions may waste good beer-money on foreign phrase-books and get themselves enravelled in hopeless international tangles, but not old Atkins. The English soldier in Italy will speak what he has always spoken with complete success in Poperinghe, Amiens, Cairo, Salonika, Dar-es-Salaam, Bagdad and Jerusalem, to wit, English. But to return to our train. At nightfall we left the fairy coast behind, its smiling _signorinas_, flags, flowers and fruit, and swarmed up a pile of perpendicular scenery from summer to winter. During a halt in the midst of moonlit snows our carriage door was opened and we beheld outside an Italian officer, who saluted and gave us an exhibition of his native tongue at rapid fire. "He's referring to us," said the Babe. "Answer him, somebody; tell him we're on his side and all that." "_Viva l' Italia_," William exclaimed promptly. The Italian countered with a "Viva l'Inghilterra" and swept on with his monologue. "Seems to want something," said Albert Edward. "Wonder if Cæsar is too technical for him." "Read him something from _The English Soldier in Italy_," I suggested. The Babe thumbed feverishly through the handbook. "'Let us get in; the guard has already cried'--No, that won't do. 'Give me a walk and return ticket, please'--That won't do either. 'Yes, I have a trunk and a carpet-bag'--Oh, this is absurd." He cast the book from him.