eper in Luigi's eyes. "Thou thinkest the----?"

"I am sure," now that Luigi was reduced to the proper state of humility
Biaggio gave up his attitude of distant oracle, and leaned close. "Thou
hast made a mistake, but it is not too late. If thou dost wish I will
write it for thee."

"If thou sayest," replied Luigi and now it was his turn to gaze at the
strings of garlic, "if you will do this favor."

"With pleasure," Biaggio's fat hands made little gestures of willingness
to oblige. "Of a truth it is not much, but when one wishes to buy the
house, and already the family is begun, two dollars and a half each
week----"

Luigi glanced at him sharply. "Two and----"

Biaggio drew the ink to him and dipped his pen. "Two and a half for
thee, and for me----"

"Bene, bene," Luigi interrupted quickly, "it is only just."

"Between friends," explained Biaggio as he began to write.

"Between friends," echoed Luigi, and added to himself, "closer than the
skin of a snake art thou--friend."

The Lady in the Brown Fur came next day. She had been very angry and
disappointed in Luigi, too angry and disappointed to go near him. Now
she felt very sorry and uncomfortable when she saw his right leg
stretched out before, so stiff that he could not bend it. He smiled and
made the motion of getting up, but could not do it, and sank back again
with a gesture of helplessness more eloquent than words. When the Lady
in Brown Fur had gone, Vincenza found an extra bill, brand new, tucked
into the pocket of the little Carolina.

Luigi waited until he was quite sure that Biaggio would be alone. There
was a look of real sorrow in his dark eyes as he slipped a shiny quarter
across the counter. "She left only two," he explained, "the reason I do
not know. Perhaps next time----"

"It is nothing, nothing between friends." Biaggio slipped the quarter
into the cigar box under the counter and smiled a fat smile at Luigi.
But he did not hold the door open when Luigi went, and his little eyes
were hard like gimlet points. "So," he whispered softly. "So. One learns
quickly, very quickly in this new country. Only two dollars this time.
Bene, Gino mio, the price of sausage, as that of oil, goes up--between
friends."

VIII

THE HAMMERPOND BURGLARY

The Story of an Artist

By H.G. WELLS

IT is a moot point whether burglary is to be considered as a sport, a
trade, or an art. For a trade the technique is scarcely rigid enough,
and its claims