het in the immortal _Three Musketeers_, O'Mally had done some
neat fishing through one of the cellar windows. Through the broken pane
of glass he could see bin upon bin of dust-covered bottles, Burgundy,
claret, Sauterne, champagne, and no end of cordials, prime vintages
every one of them. And here they were, useless to any one, turning into
jelly from old age. It was sad. It was more than that--it was a blessed
shame. All these bottles were, unfortunately, on the far side of the
cellar, out of reach, and he dared not break another window. Under this
which served him lay the bin of Chianti. This was better than nothing;
and the princess would never miss the few bottles he purloined.
Sometimes he shared a bottle with Smith, who was equally incurious.

To-day was warm and mellow. On the stone bench by the porter's lodge,
hard by the gate, sat the old Florentine and O'Mally. From some unknown
source O'Mally had produced a concierge's hat and coat, a little
moth-eaten, a little tarnished, but serviceable. Both were smoking
red-clay pipes with long bamboo stems.

"Pietro," said O'Mally, teetering, "have you ever waited for money from
home?"

Pietro puffed studiously, separating each word with all the care of a
naturalist opening the wings of some new butterfly. He made a negative
sign.

"Well, don't you ever wait. There's nothing to it. But I've got an
idea."

Pietro expressed some surprise.

"Yes, and a good idea, too. If any tourists come to-day, I propose to
show them round the place." O'Mally was quite in earnest.

Pietro's eyes flashed angrily. "No, no! Mine, all mine!"

"Oh, I'm not going to rob you. I'll give you the tips, _amico_. What I
want is the fun of the thing. _Comprendery?_"

Pietro understood; that was different. If his Excellency would pay over
to him the receipts, he could conduct the tourists as often as he
pleased. Yes. To him it was tiresome. Most people were fools.

"Let's begin the lesson, then."

"_Come sta?_" said Pietro, shifting his pipe.

"That's howdy do," said O'Mally. "How is your wife?"

"That ees _Come sta vostra_!"

Pause.

"_Che tempo fa?_" said Pietro suddenly.

O'Mally frowned and jammed down the coal in his pipe. "Who--no, how!--is
the weather. Who can say? _Che lo sa?_"

"_Bene!_"

Solemnly they went over the same ground. To be sure, O'Mally always
failed to get the right twist to the final vowels, but he could make
himself understood, and that was the main thin