| Author: | Matilde Serao | ISBN: | 1230001668759 |
| Publisher: | T.M. Digital Publishing | Publication: | May 6, 2017 |
| Imprint: | Language: | English |
| Author: | Matilde Serao |
| ISBN: | 1230001668759 |
| Publisher: | T.M. Digital Publishing |
| Publication: | May 6, 2017 |
| Imprint: | |
| Language: | English |
He had put down his block under the Impresa portico, and stretched himself out on the ground, as if awaiting customers; but he forgot to beat those two dry claps with the brush on the wood to claim it. Deeply engrossed with a long list of ticket numbers in his hand, the old dwarf’s yellow, distorted face was transformed by intense passion. As the hour got near, people went on passing before him, and a murmur of hoarse, strident Neapolitan voices rose in the court.
A man, a workman, stopped near the shoeblack; he might have been thirty-five, but he was wan, and his eyes were dull; his jacket was thrown over his shoulder, showing a coloured calico shirt.
“Do you want a shine?” the bootblack asked mechanically, laying down his list of numbers.
“Just so,” replied the other, grinning; “I want a shine. If I had another half-penny, I would have played a last ticket at Donna Caterina’s to-day.”
“The small game?” asked the shoeblack in a whisper.
“Yes, a little for the Government and a little to Donna Caterina. They are all thieves—all thieves,” the workman afterwards added, chewing his black stump of a cigar, and shaking his head with a look of great distrust.
He had put down his block under the Impresa portico, and stretched himself out on the ground, as if awaiting customers; but he forgot to beat those two dry claps with the brush on the wood to claim it. Deeply engrossed with a long list of ticket numbers in his hand, the old dwarf’s yellow, distorted face was transformed by intense passion. As the hour got near, people went on passing before him, and a murmur of hoarse, strident Neapolitan voices rose in the court.
A man, a workman, stopped near the shoeblack; he might have been thirty-five, but he was wan, and his eyes were dull; his jacket was thrown over his shoulder, showing a coloured calico shirt.
“Do you want a shine?” the bootblack asked mechanically, laying down his list of numbers.
“Just so,” replied the other, grinning; “I want a shine. If I had another half-penny, I would have played a last ticket at Donna Caterina’s to-day.”
“The small game?” asked the shoeblack in a whisper.
“Yes, a little for the Government and a little to Donna Caterina. They are all thieves—all thieves,” the workman afterwards added, chewing his black stump of a cigar, and shaking his head with a look of great distrust.
