l not attempt to describe the interior of the 'Catalafina.'
Farrell saved me that trouble on the threshold. 'Twenty years or
so,' he said, pausing and inhaling garlic, 'often makes a difference
in these places. One mustn't expect this to be quite what it used to
be." . . . Well, I hadn't, of course, and I dare say it wasn't.
It had sand on the floor, and spittoons. It was crowded, between the
spittoons, with little cast-iron tables, covered with dirty
table-cloths spread upon American cloth and garnished with artificial
flowers and napkins of Japanese paper. Farrell called them
'serviettes.' He also said he felt 'peckish.' I--well, I had taken
the precaution of dining at Boodle's, and responded that I was rather
for the bucket than the manger. He considered this for some time and
then laughed so loudly that all the anarchists in the room looked up
as if one of their bombs had gone off by mistake. . . . Oh, I omitted
to mention that all the space left unoccupied by cigarette-smoke and
the smell of garlic was crowded with anarchists, all dressed for the
part. They wore black ties with loose ends, fed with their hats on,
and read Italian newspapers--like a musical comedy. The waiters
looked like stage-anarchists, too; but you could easily tell them
from the others because they went about in their shirt-sleeves.

"Farrell caught the eye of one of these bandits, who came along with
a great neuter cat rubbing against his legs. Farrell began with two
jocose remarks which didn't quite hit the mark he intended them for.
'Hallo, Jovanny!' he said pretty loudly, 'I don't seem to remember
your face, and yet it's familiar somehow.'--Whereat Giovanni, or
whatever his name was, flung a look over his shoulder that was equal
to an alarm, and all the anarchists looked up uneasily too--for
Farrell's voice carries, as you may have observed. He followed this
up by smiling at me over the _carte du jour_ and observing in a
jovial stentorian voice that he felt like a man returned from exile.
Fifteen years--and it must be fifteen years--is a long stretch. . . .
'Oh, damn your Italian,' said Farrell suddenly, dropping the card.
'In the old days we used to make orders on our fingers, in the dumb
alphabet, and risk what came.'

"By this time he had Giovanni, and several anarchists at the nearer
tables, properly scared. But he picked up the card and went on,
innocent as a judge,' We used to have a code in those days.
For instance, yo