NEXT morning Harry was woke by the appearance of his little friend at his bedside. For a moment it was all fantastic to him like a dream, the narrow slip of room with its tall walls, and straight windows, and the strange little figure by his bedside. “Hallo,” he said, “who are you, and what do you want?” opening his sleepy eyes, and springing up in bed. Paolo retreated with a little alarm.

“I go to the bureau,” he said, “but before I go I am here to say good morning. What will you do without me?” the little man added with great simplicity. “Get lost, get into what you call skrape. Antonio, he speak a little. I come to advise that you take him with you. It will be only five lire, not very moche for an English.”

“I wish you could remember,” said Harry pettishly, “to say an Englishman. An English is no sense: you never hear me say that.”

“Alright,” said Paolo good-humouredly. “I will remember; but it will be better to take Antonio; he shows you everything, all the palaces and streets, and you give him cinque lire—five,” holding up his fingers spread out to show the sum, and counting them with his other hand, “and you talk, he tell you things in Italian, you make a lesson out of him,” he added with a grin, showing all his white teeth.

It was a sensible suggestion, but Harry was perverse. “That is all very well,” he said, “but I don’t care about seeing your palaces; what I want is to get something to do. Ain’t there a Times, or something with advertisements? where a fellow could see what’s wanted?”

Paolo looked at him with a doubtful air, and his head on one side like a questioning sparrow. He was so small and so spare, and Harry so big, stretched out in the small bed which could not contain him, that the simile held in all points. It appeared unnecessary that he should do more than put out his hand to make an end altogether of his adviser, and there seemed a consciousness of this in the little man himself, who, recollecting last night, hopped a little farther off every time that Harry advanced leaning on his elbow, and projecting himself out of bed.

“You bring letters, you are recommended?” he said. “No?” A cloud came over Paolo’s face; then he brightened again. “You come with me,” he said. “The Consul, that is the prince of the English—man. You come wid me, and I will recommend you. I will introduce you. He have much confidence, what you call trost, in me.”

“But you don’t know anything about me,” said Harry.

Paolo looked at him with an effusion of admiration and faith, “Siamo amici,” he said, laying his hand upon his heart with a sentiment and air which to the cynical Englishman were nothing less than theatrical. But Harry did not understand what the words meant.

“That is all very well,” he said again, supposing that this was a mere compliment without meaning. “But what could you say about me? nothing! You don’t know me any more than the Consul does—or anybody here.”

“Between friends,” said Paolo, “there is not the need of explanation. I understand you, Mister. Are you a Christian or a Protestant,” he added quickly, “have you a name of baptism, perhaps?” Paolo did not want to hurt the feelings of his new friend in case he was not provided with this article. But Harry’s pride was wounded to the quick.

“A Christian,” he cried, “or a Protestant? I am both a Protestant and a Christian! I never heard such horrible intolerance in all my life. It is you who are not Christians, you papists praying to idols—worshipping saints, and old bones, and all sort of nonsense.” Harry was so much in earnest that his face grew crimson, and Paolo retreated yet another step.

“You heat yourself; but it is not needed,” he said, waving his hand with deprecating grace. “Me, I am above prejudices. Here one calls one’s self Giovanni or Giacomo, or Paolo, as with me; and when the person is respectable of years, Ser Giovanni or Ser Giacomo; but if one has not a name of baptism, it is the same, that make no difference——”

“Do you take me for a heathen that never was christened?” cried Harry. “My name is——” here he stopped and laughed, but grew redder, with a dusky colour; but “in for penny in for a pound,” as he had already remarked to himself—“my name is Isaac—Isaac Oliver, as I told you,” he said.

“Bene, bene!” said Paolo. “It is enough, I will say to the consul: here is Mister Isaac, who is my friend. He is English—man; yes, I recollect—man; and I respond for him. He will be so condescending as to take a situation; he will interpret like me; he will make the Italian into the English, and the English into the Italian.”

“But how can I do that?” said Harry, “when I don’t understand one word of your lingo? I can’t do that.”

Paolo’s countenance lengthened once more; but he speedily recovered himself.

“That will teach itself,” he said. “I will talk; I will tell you everything. Aspetto! there is now, presently, incessantly—an occasion. Komm, komm along; something strikes me in the head. But silence, the Vice-Consul, he it is that will settle all.”

Harry did not think much of Paolo’s recommendation; but yet the idea of appealing to the Vice-Consul was worth consideration. The thought of an Englishman to whom he could tell his story—or if not his story, yet a story, something which would seem as an account of himself—was like a rope thrown out to him amid a waste of waters. And, as an Englishman, he would have a right to be listened to. English officials are not like American, the natural vassals of their countrymen; but still, when a man is at his wit’s end, there is something in the idea that a person of authority, in whom he has a vested interest, is within reach, which is consolatory. To be introduced to this functionary, however, by Paolo, whose position did not seem to be very important, did not please Harry’s pride. He sent the little fellow away with a vague promise of thinking of it, which disappointed the friendly little man. Paolo could not restrain his anxious desire to be of use. He went off to the Farmacia to buy soap and tooth-powder for his amico, and even proposed to fetch him the little bicchierino of acquavite, with which some people begin their day, a proposal which filled Harry with horror. Paolo put his dressing-table in order with the care of a woman, and lingered, anxious to do something more. He would have brushed his friend’s clothes, if Harry would have let him. He was proud of his new discovery, the big Englishman, whom he had secured to himself, and whom he admired in proportion to his own smallness and inconsiderableness. Something of the pleasure of a nurse with an infant, and of a child with a new toy, was in his bustling anxious delight. When at last, however, he was half forced, half persuaded to go away, Paolo made a few steps back from the door and held up a warning finger.

“Mister Isaack mio,” he said, “one must not any more knock down. It is not understood in Livorno. That which can well do itself in England is different: here—it is not understood.” His face had become very grave, then a deprecatory smile of apology broke over it. “In Italy they are in many things behind,” he said. “It is not—understood.”

“Don’t be afraid, Paul-o,” said Harry, laughing, “I shan’t knock down anyone to-day. Even in England we don’t do it but when it is necessary. You may trust me, I shall knock nobody down to-day.”

“Alright, alright!” said Paolo, with a beaming countenance. He turned back again to instruct his friend at what hour it would be best to come to the bureau. “I will speak, and you shall be expected. I will respond for you,” the little man said.

At last he went away full of amiable intentions and zeal in his friend’s cause, zeal which deserved a better reward. For Harry did not build much upon the influence of Paolo. It hurt his pride to think of presenting himself anywhere under the wing of this little Italian clerk. He would stand upon his own qualities, he said to himself, not upon the ready faith and rash undertaking of a stranger; but though he put it in this way, it was not in reality because he objected to Paolo’s trust in him, or thought it rash as another man might have done, but because he felt himself Paolo’s social superior. It would be hard to say on what this consciousness was founded. Harry’s only superiority had been his family, and that he had put away. As he was dressing, he turned over a great many things in his mind which he might say to the Vice-Consul. Few young people understand how much better policy it is in all such cases to speak the truth than to invent the most plausible of stories, and Harry was not wiser than his kind. He made up various fictions about himself explaining how it was that he thus presented himself alone and unfriended in an altogether strange place—all of which he would have stated with a faltering tongue and abashed countenance, so as to impress the falsehood of them upon the hearer; for to invent excuses is one thing, and to produce them with force and consistency another. Successful lying, like everything else, wants practice; few men can succeed in it who only do it once in a way. It requires study, and careful consideration of probabilities, so that the artist shall not be put entirely out by an unforeseen question: and it needs an excellent memory, to retain all that has been said, so as not to contradict previous statements. Harry possessed none of these qualities, but then he was not aware of the want of them; and the thing which made him depart from tale after tale was not any suspicion of their weakness, or his weakness, but an inability to please himself in the details of his romance. And then the thought of going as it were hat in hand, to ask the Consul to provide him with employment, and the inevitable starting forth of little Paolo to pledge himself for everything his friend might say, discouraged him. He grew downhearted as he put himself into the best apparel he had, and brushed his hair, and endeavoured to look his best. Would it not be better to start off again, to go, though he had made up his mind against it, to America after all? There, there would be no language to learn, no difficulty in understanding what was said to him. He went down and swallowed his breakfast, coffee and bread, which seemed to him the most wretched fare, turning this over in his mind. But for one thing he did not like to be beaten; no Englishman does, he said to himself; and Harry was of the primitive, simple kind of Englishman who clings to all national characteristics. He could not bear to be beaten, to contradict himself as it were, and depart from his plan. While he was thinking of all this, however, a brilliant expedient occurred to him. Though he was reluctant to tell his own story, he was not disposed to screen himself by any fiction of excuses from the consequences of anything he had done; and it was undeniable that he had “got into a row” on the previous night. No Englishman, he reflected, would think the worse of a young fellow who had knocked down a drunken sailor to prevent him from molesting a woman; but it would be as well to go and tell the story of this little incident in case of any ulterior proceedings. Harry fairly chuckled over his own wisdom in hitting upon so admirable a way of presenting himself to the representative of his country. He had never before felt himself so clever. He munched his dry bread and drank his coffee with a wry face, but something like a mental relish at least. Little Paolo’s friendly conscience would not need to be strained. He would be able to bear witness of the facts in all sincerity, and, if anything were to come of it, there would be at least a friend in court, a valuable advocate secured. Antonio, the waiter, drew near while Harry came to this conclusion, and watched him dispatching his simple refreshment with friendly looks. The Italians admired the young Englishman’s fine limbs, and height and strength, and they made a pet of him because he was a stranger and helpless; perhaps the waiter was not without an eye to substantial rewards, but he had at the same time a most friendly eye to Harry’s helplessness, and an amiable desire to make him comfortable. He stood and watched him eating with sympathy.

“Ze gentleman would like an egg, perhaps, Sarr?” he said.

“I should like half-a-dozen,” said Harry with a sigh; “but no, no, never mind—never mind; for the present this will do.”

“Ze gentlemen Italian eat no breakfast,” said Antonio; “ze eat—after; but I will command for ze English gentleman, if it makes pleasure to him, ze English breakfast. There is already one here.”

“One—breakfast!” said Harry, surprised.

“One,” said Antonio, with a finger in the air, “English-man, and two tree Americans; ze eat of ze beef in ze early morning. It is extraordinary: eat of ze beef when you comes out of your bed. But it is the same—it is the same; that makes nothing to our padrone; and I will command it for ze gentleman if he will.”

“I wish you would,” said Harry, “another time; dry bread is not much to breakfast upon: and the bread is very queer stuff.”

“It is good bread,” said Antonio, “Sarr, very good bread; bettare far than ze bread of London;” he nodded his head as he spoke with self-satisfaction. “Ze gentleman would like me go wid him—show him all ze places, and ze grand catedral, and all that ze English gentleman go over ze world to see?”

“No, Antonio; I don’t care about cathedrals, but you can come with me to the English Consul’s if you like, and show me the way.”

“I like very moche, Sarr,” said Antonio, with a grin. “Ze English gentlemans please me. Zey is astonished at everyting. Ze pictures—O! bellissimi! and ze palazzi, and ze churches. It is noting but O! and O! as long as zey are walking about. But, Sarr,” said Antonio, coming closer, “Livorno is not moche. It is a city of trade. Com to Firenze, Sarr, if you would see beautiful pictures and beautiful houses. Ah! that is something to see. Or to Venezia—better still. I am of Venezia, Sarr. Ze gentleman will not say to Signor Paolo that I tell him so, but Livorno—pouff!” Antonio blew it away in a puff of disdain. “Firenze and Venezia, there is where you will see pictures—everyware—of Raphael and Michael Angelo, and Tiziano, and——”

“I don’t care much about pictures,” said Harry, calmly. “I like the shipping better. You can take me to the docks if you like. I don’t want you to tell me about them. I like to see things I know about myself. But I tell you what, Antonio, you may teach me the names in Italian, if you like; that will always be making a little progress,” Harry said, suddenly bethinking himself of Paolo’s suggestion.

Antonio’s face had lengthened by several inches. An English gentleman who did not want to see pictures was a personage of whom he had no understanding. He began to think that Harry was not a genuine Englishman after all.

“Ze signor is perhaps Tedesco—no? Or Americain—no? I have known many English,” said Antonio, gravely, “but zey all run after ze pictures. Ze gentleman is what you call an original. Benissimo! that makes noting to me. Ze sheeps in ze harbour are very fine sheeps. You will not see no bettare—no, not in England. Ze signor wishes—eh?—perhaps to make observations, to let ze Government—ze ministers know, Italy is now a great country, and ze others are jealous. You fear we will take ze trade all away?”

“Not so bad as that, Antonio,” said Harry, with a great laugh. “Where I have come from I wish I could show you the docks; they are about ten times as big as these.”

Antonio grinned from ear to ear. He did not believe a word of what Harry said. “If it pleases to ze gentleman,” he said, laughing too. He was perfectly tolerant of the joke, and glad to see his protegÉ cheerful. Then Harry jumped up from the table, poorly sustained for the business he had in hand by his light meal, but somewhat anxious to get through the ordeal he had proposed to himself. Antonio, however, who appeared presently in the well-worn and assiduously brushed costume of a laquais de place, could not quite let him off the inevitable sightseeing. He led him to the Duomo and into the great Square with a pretence that this was on the way to the Consul’s office, and made him look at again, whether he would or not, the same public buildings which he had gazed at dreamily as he wandered about the streets the day before, and looked at languidly in the moonlight under Paolo’s active guidance. He had been but twenty-four hours in Leghorn, and already he had associations with the street-corners, which probably he would never forget. Already this new world was acquiring known features of acquaintanceship; his life beginning to put forth threads like a spider’s web, and twist and twine, the new with the old. It startled Harry to feel that he was no longer a stranger here, where he had landed so forlorn. After the round which Antonio beguiled him into making, it was about eleven o’clock before they reached the door over which the well-known British symbol was put up. The outer office was full of people and business, sea-captains and merchants’ clerks, and even a few examples of the kind of traveller who is most common in Italy, he who travels for pleasure and not for business. Harry had to wait among the rest who were seeking an audience of the Vice-Consul. Here Antonio left him, and he could not see anything like the olive-countenance and brilliant costume of Paolo; but it was an English group among which he stood. The clerks even spoke English, if one or two of them displayed the tongue-tied hesitation which is common to all classes when they speak a language imperfectly understood. One of the tourists did his best to draw Harry into conversation, lamenting the cruel fate which had detained him in such a place. He was just starting for Pisa, this pilgrim said, where there was really something to see. “One might as well be in Liverpool as here,” he said. Harry did not make any reply. This was just the reason why he himself approved of Leghorn more than of any other place he had seen. When it came to his turn at last, almost all the other appellants and petitioners had been seen and dismissed. They all wanted something; and Harry’s new acquaintance had talked and worried him so much with his dislike to a place where there was so little to see, that he had almost forgot the manner in which he had arranged with himself to open his own story; when at length everybody else was despatched, and he had to go forward to his audience. His heart beat a little faster as he went in. The Vice-Consul was a man of a portly presence, something like an English merchant of the higher class, with grizzled hair, and an aspect of great respectability and authority. He was fully conscious of his dignity as the representative of the British Government, and of Her Majesty herself, amid an alien and inferior race. He did not think much of Italy or the Italian people, and he felt it was his mission in life to keep them down. He was seated in great state upon a large chair, which swung round with him when he moved. His table, his papers, the manner in which he appeared over them, with the air of a judge on the bench, was very imposing to a stranger, especially when that stranger was in difficulty and came to ask help. He made Harry a very formal bow, and pointed to a seat near, which had something of the air of a seat for the prisoner at the bar.

“What can I do for you?” he said, with a dignified inclination of his head; after the first glance his look softened. He was used to see a great many people, and it was a compliment to Harry’s appearance that it interested the Vice-Consul. He almost smiled upon him, with a benignity in which he did not very often indulge.

Then it was that Harry’s real difficulties began; but how thankful he was that it was a true story he was telling, and not a fictitious account of himself!

“I came to tell you, Sir,” he said, “of something that occurred last night—a scrape—that is to say a row I got into. I suppose I must call it a row.”

“It is a great pity when strangers get into rows in a foreign town, Mr.——Oliver. I think you said Oliver?”

What a fool I was thought Harry!—as he did after every new production of that name; but his last chance of reclaiming his own was now over.

“What you say is quite true,” he said, “and I should not have been such a fool but for urgent cause. I knocked down a fellow who was annoying a lady. He deserved a great deal more than I gave him; if he had been an Italian I might have hesitated, but he was an Englishman. So I just knocked him down.”

“Very wrong, very wrong,” said the Vice-Consul, “and a curious way of showing your preference for your fellow-countrymen. But you had better tell me all about it. When did this occur, and where?”

Harry described the place as well as he could. “There was a lot of them,” he said. “The Italians—if they were Italians—gave way when I spoke to them. I’ll do them that justice. The English fellow, I did not say anything to him. I was not going to argue with a brute like that. I just quietly knocked him down. It was a young lady and a woman with her. You see, if I had stood there talking, the others might have been up to us, and have given her more annoyance. I daresay it did not hurt the fellow much; and if he’s a man he’ll take it quietly, for he deserved it; but I thought it was perhaps best to let you know.”

The Vice-Consul had started slightly when Harry described, as well as he could, the locality in which this incident took place. Now he asked quickly, “And the lady—did you know her? and did she get clean away?”

“Know her!” said Harry, “I only arrived here yesterday; besides I did not want to know her: it might not have been pleasant for her. We watched her safe out of reach; indeed we went on till we heard a door shut where she lived, I suppose. No, it was not for that. It was to say that if the fellow complained, or brought any action, or anything of that sort—I wanted you, Sir, being the representative of England, to know the real facts. That is how it was.”

There was a smile about the Vice-Consul’s mouth. “As it happens I have heard about it already,” he said. “I’ll speak to you farther on the subject by-and-bye—Don’t be alarmed, it will do you no harm; sit down and rest yourself, and wait for a few minutes. I am going in to lunch presently, and I’ll talk to you then,” the Vice-Consul said. Harry did not know what to think. The consequences could not be very bad, since this great functionary restrained a smile; but there was evidently a second chapter to the adventure. Harry withdrew as he was directed to the other end of the office, and there stood gazing at railway timetables, and pictures of ships. There was all about a line of vessels to America from Genoa which had lately been established, just the very thing for him if he intended to do what he had been thinking of. But Harry scarcely knew what he was looking at. All these questions seemed things of the past. What was the Vice-Consul going to say to him? What was to come of it? Till he knew this he could not think of anything else.