where I was for the moment.

Carmelo and his brother Rosario at Castellinaria have both been in prison
for attempting to murder, but they can neither of them be said ever to
have belonged to the class of habitual criminals.

In the Teatro Machiavelli Peppino Fazio gave me as a ricordo one of the
knives used by the mafiosi. The blade doubles on the handle, so that
when open it is about twice as long as when shut; some are as long as
twenty-four inches when open, mine is only eighteen. Being intended for
the theatre, it has never been sharpened or pointed but, except for this
it is a real mala vita knife. They told me there would be nothing to
fear so long as I continued the life of blameless respectability which
had no doubt become habitual to me--or some nonsense of that kind--but
that if I should happen to be caught by the police in doubtful
surroundings and searched, even this knife, in spite of its arrested
adolescence, might get me into trouble.

"So you had better be careful," said one of them; "but if you do get put
into prison, let us know and you shall be treated as well as any
ricottaro. I will bring you a good dinner every day."

"Yes," said another, "and I will bring you cigarettes."

"And I," said a third, "will fetch your linen and bring it back to you
nicely washed and ironed."

Whenever I show my knife to any of my English friends, for I am happy to
say I got it safely home, they always exclaim that it is an entirely
prosaic object. And so it is. It is as unromantic as an escape of gas.

Several times I have been in a theatre when the performance has been
interrupted by a disturbance among the audience, but I have never seen it
develop into a serious row.

Once in Palermo my bedroom looked over a small piazza, and one night I
heard talking and looked out. I saw a crowd and distinguished a man
disputing from below with another man on a balcony about fifteen feet
from mine, and there was a woman in the room behind him. The dispute was
all in dialect, but evidently they were very angry. Presently the man on
the balcony drew a revolver, it shone in the doubtful light, and he
threatened the man below; but nothing further happened and presently the
crowd dispersed, the man on the balcony retired and all was quiet.
Perhaps this was the prelude to a murder, and I may have read about it
afterwards in the newspaper without knowing how near I had been to the
crime.

There was one other occasion w