Part 10

“Perhaps O’Seticchio?”

“Or the figlio d’ O’Zibalocchio?”

The good-natured individual volunteers to beat the surrounding district and bring in all the Luigis he can find. After half an hour they begin to arrive, one by one. He is not among them. Dismissed with cigars, as compensation for loss of time.

Meanwhile half the village has gathered around, vastly enjoying the fun, which it hopes will last till bedtime. You are getting bewildered; new people flock in from the fields to whom the mysterious joke about Luigi must be explained.

“Luigi—Luigi,” they begin again. “Now, which of them can he mean?”

“Perhaps O’Marzariello?”

“Or O’Cuccolillo?”

“I never thought of him,” says the good-natured individual. “Here, boy, run and tell O’Cuccolillo that a foreign gentleman wants to give him a cigar.”

By the time O’Cuccolillo appears on the scene the crowd has thickened. You explain the business for the fiftieth time; no—he is Luigi, of course, but not the right Luigi, which he regrets considerably. Then the joke is made clear to him, and he laughs again. You have lost all your nerve, but the villagers are beginning to love you,

“Can it be O’Sciabecchino?”

“Or the figlio d’ O’Chiappino?”

“It might be O’Busciardiello (the liar).”

“He’s dead.”

“So he is. I quite forgot. Well, then it must be the husband of A’Cicivetta (the flirt).”

“He’s in prison. But how about O’Caccianfierno?”

Suddenly a withered hag croaks authoritatively:

“I know! The gentleman wants OTentillo.”

Chorus of villagers:

“Then why doesn’t he say so?”

O’Tentillo lives far, far away. An hour elapses; at last he comes, full of bright expectations. No, this is not your Luigi, he is another Luigi. You are ready to sink into the earth, but there is no escape. The crowd surges all around, the news having evidently spread to neighbouring hamlets.

“Luigi—Luigi. . . . Let me see. It might be O’Rappo.”

“O’Massassillo, more likely.”

“I have it! It’s O’Spennatiello.”

“I never thought of him,” says a well-known voice. “Here, boy, run and tell——”

“Or O’Cicereniello.”

“O’Vergeniello.”

“O’Sciabolone. ...”

“Never mind the G—— d—— son of b——,” says a cheery person in excellent English, who has just arrived on the scene. “See here, I live fifteen years in Brooklyn; damn fine! ’Ave a glass of wine round my place. Your Luigi’s in America, sure. And if he isn’t, send him to Hell.”