THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
the race-tracks, all morally harmless, but intellectually corrupt.
The day before they reached Gibraltar, Italy as a lesson was about finished. Of all the splendid names he had heard, only three remained clearly defined: Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and Cellini. He felt genuinely depressed that all the others had been dropped by the wayside. And yet, if he had confided in her, doubtless she would have told him that to know a little of the lives of these three men was in itself a liberal education. The truth is, aside from being great artists, the three had also been great fighters, and that is why their names and deeds stuck in William Grogan's head.
"Italy! Say, that makes me think. I've got an old friend in Naples—Tommaso Malfi. He and his wife kept the fruit-store next to the shop. I used to play with his kiddies noontimes. And many's the dish of spaghetti I've eaten with the family. He made his pile, six or seven hundred, sold out to Cipriano, and hiked for the old country. He'll be glad to see little Willie Grogan. He used to call me Guglielmo Grogano, for sport. He tried to teach me some of his lingo, but I couldn't bat over .017."
"Beg pardon, Mr. Grogan," said a voice at his elbow. It belonged to the purser. "I found this wallet of yours."
William seized it eagerly.
"Everything there?" asked the purser.
"Ye-ah. Where'd you find it?"
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