icilian from a
little village (_un villaggio_) not far from Messina. His name was
Filippo Canamelli. His father was a mason (_un muratore_). Filippo and
his older brother Frank had decided to seek their fortunes in America.
Frank had gone over the year before, promising to send money back to pay
for Filippo's passage. He had done so that winter, in _Febbrajo_.
Filippo had sailed from Naples the next month, and had landed in New
York in April. There he chanced upon a friend with whom his brother had
left word for him to come to a certain address in Boston. But in that
city he had lost all track of Frank. Searching aimlessly for him, he had
drifted down to Stonington and had gone to work in the granite quarries.
But he found the labor too hard and he was desperately homesick. He had
given up his job the day before. What he should do and where he should
go next he did not know. He talked rapidly between his sobs, while Jim
listened.

When he had finished, Spurling stepped across the wharf to his waiting
friends. Very briefly he rehearsed the Italian's story.

"Boys," he concluded, "what do you say to asking him to come down with
us to Tarpaulin? I believe he's a clean, straight little fellow, and he
can more than make up for his board by cooking and doing odd jobs. We
can afford to pay him something to boot."

Before either Budge or Throppy had a chance to express an opinion Percy
spoke out decidedly:

"Take that little Dago with us? I say no. You can't trust his kind. I
know 'em. They're a thieving, treacherous lot, smooth to your face, but
ready to stab you the minute your back's turned. I'll bet you a
five-dollar bill he's got a knife hid somewhere about him. He might take
a notion some night to cut all our throats."

"Whittington," said Spurling, bluntly, "under the circumstances it might
be better taste for you not to speak until you've heard from the rest of
us. My throat's worth just as much to me as yours is to you, and I don't
feel I'd be running any great risk by inviting that boy to come along
with us."

Lane and Stevens agreed.

"It's three against one, Whittington," said Jim.

He walked over to the Italian and said a few words to him. The lad's
face lighted up with gratitude. Impulsively he bent and kissed
Spurling's hand. Jim flushed with embarrassment as he and the stranger
came back to the others.

"He'll be glad to go with us, fellows. Now let's get a move on and
hustle this stuff aboard. We wa