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"
I
want
to
go
to
the
Quirinal
Hotel
.
"
"
He
says
wan
huner
lire
,
"
explained
the
interpreter
.
"
I
understand
.
I
’
ll
give
him
fif
’
y
lire
.
Go
on
away
.
"
This
last
to
the
insistent
man
who
had
edged
up
once
more
.
The
man
looked
at
him
and
spat
contemptuously
.
The
passionate
impatience
of
the
week
leaped
up
in
Dick
and
clothed
itself
like
a
flash
in
violence
,
the
honorable
,
the
traditional
resource
of
his
land
;
he
stepped
forward
and
slapped
the
man
’
s
face
.
They
surged
about
him
,
threatening
,
waving
their
arms
,
trying
ineffectually
to
close
in
on
him
—
with
his
back
against
the
wall
Dick
hit
out
clumsily
,
laughing
a
little
and
for
a
few
minutes
the
mock
fight
,
an
affair
of
foiled
rushes
and
padded
,
glancing
blows
,
swayed
back
and
forth
in
front
of
the
door
.
Then
Dick
tripped
and
fell
;
he
was
hurt
somewhere
but
he
struggled
up
again
wrestling
in
arms
that
suddenly
broke
apart
.
There
was
a
new
voice
and
a
new
argument
but
he
leaned
against
the
wall
,
panting
and
furious
at
the
indignity
of
his
position
.
He
saw
there
was
no
sympathy
for
him
but
he
was
unable
to
believe
that
he
was
wrong
.
They
were
going
to
the
police
station
and
settle
it
there
.
His
hat
was
retrieved
and
handed
to
him
,
and
with
some
one
holding
his
arm
lightly
he
strode
around
the
corner
with
the
taxi
-
men
and
entered
a
bare
barrack
where
carabinieri
lounged
under
a
single
dim
light
.
At
a
desk
sat
a
captain
,
to
whom
the
officious
individual
who
had
stopped
the
battle
spoke
at
length
in
Italian
,
at
times
pointing
at
Dick
,
and
letting
himself
be
interrupted
by
the
taxi
-
men
who
delivered
short
bursts
of
invective
and
denunciation
.
The
captain
began
to
nod
impatiently
.
He
held
up
his
hand
and
the
hydra
-
headed
address
,
with
a
few
parting
exclamations
,
died
away
.
Then
he
turned
to
Dick
.
"
Spick
Italiano
?
"
he
asked
.
"
No
.
"
