He Approaches A Clerkly-Looking Man, Sitting Under The
Corner Arch, And Makes His Bargain.
He has obtained permission of
the sentinel who guards him:
Who stands near, leaning against the
wall and cracking nuts. The galley-slave dictates in the ear of
the letter-writer, what he desires to say; and as he can't read
writing, looks intently in his face, to read there whether he sets
down faithfully what he is told. After a time, the galley-slave
becomes discursive--incoherent. The secretary pauses and rubs his
chin. The galley-slave is voluble and energetic. The secretary,
at length, catches the idea, and with the air of a man who knows
how to word it, sets it down; stopping, now and then, to glance
back at his text admiringly. The galley-slave is silent. The
soldier stoically cracks his nuts. Is there anything more to say?
inquires the letter-writer. No more. Then listen, friend of mine.
He reads it through. The galley-slave is quite enchanted. It is
folded, and addressed, and given to him, and he pays the fee. The
secretary falls back indolently in his chair, and takes a book.
The galley-slave gathers up an empty sack. The sentinel throws
away a handful of nut-shells, shoulders his musket, and away they
go together.
Why do the beggars rap their chins constantly, with their right
hands, when you look at them? Everything is done in pantomime in
Naples, and that is the conventional sign for hunger.
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