"No. I come from Corsica."
"Looking for work?"
"Yes; it will be hay-cutting time soon, and a
gentleman that has a farm near Ravenna came
across to Bastia the other day and told me there's
plenty of work to be got there."
"I hope you'll find it so, I'm sure, but times are
bad hereabouts."
"They're worse in Corsica, mother. I don't
know what we poor folk are coming to."
"Have you come over alone?"
"No, my mate is with me; there he is, in the
red shirt. Hola, Paolo!"
Michele hearing himself called, came lounging
up with his hands in his pockets. He made a
fairly good Corsican, in spite of the red wig which
he had put on to render himself unrecognizable.
As for the Gadfly, he looked his part to perfection.
They sauntered through the market-place together,
Michele whistling between his teeth, and
the Gadfly trudging along with a bundle over his
shoulder, shuffling his feet on the ground to render
his lameness less observable. They were waiting
for an emissary, to whom important directions
had to be given.
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