Not one of the little Neapolitan merchants would either enter into partnership with him, give him credit, or even trade with him for ready money. “If you would cheat your own father, to be sure you will cheat us,” was continually said to him by these prudent little people. Piedro was taunted and treated with contempt at home and abroad. His father, when he found that his son’s smartness was no longer useful in making bargains, shoved him out of his way whenever he met him. All the food or clothes that he had at home seemed to be given to him grudgingly, and with such expressions as these: “Take that; but it is too good for you. You must eat this, now, instead of gourds and figs—and be thankful you have even this.” Piedro spent a whole winter very unhappily. He expected that all his old tricks, and especially what his father had said of him in the market-place, would be soon forgotten; but month passed after month, and still these things were fresh in the memory of all who had known them. It is not easy to get rid of a bad character. A very great rogue {311} was once heard to say, that he would, with all his heart, give ten thousand pounds for a good character, because he knew that he could make twenty thousand by it. Something like this was the sentiment of our cunning hero when he experienced the evils of a bad reputation, and when he saw the numerous advantages which Francisco’s good character procured. Such had been Piedro’s wretched education, that even the hard lessons of experience could not alter its pernicious effects. He was sorry his knavery had been detected, but he still thought it clever to cheat, and was secretly persuaded that, if he had cheated successfully, he should have been happy. “But I know I am not happy now,” said he to himself one morning, as he sat alone disconsolate by the sea-shore, dressed in tattered garments, weak and hungry, with an empty basket beside him. His fishing-rod, which he held between his knees, bent over the dry sands instead of into the water, for he was not thinking of what he was about; his arms were folded, his head hung down, and his ragged hat was slouched over his face. He was a melancholy spectacle. Francisco, as he was coming from his father’s vineyard with a large dish of purple and white grapes upon his head, and a basket of melons and figs hanging upon his arm, chanced to see Piedro seated in this melancholy posture. Touched with compassion, Francisco approached him softly; his footsteps were not heard upon the sands, and Piedro did not perceive that anyone was near him till he felt something cold touch his hand; he then started, and, looking up, saw a bunch of grapes, which Francisco was holding over his head. “Eat them: you’ll find them very good, I hope,” said Francisco, with a benevolent smile.