"Ben-a carry pack-a lik-a dat-a--forty-two months--army--ol-a country,"
said the voice out of the darkness.

It was an Italian labourer on his way to supper, interested in our
knapsacks.

"You're an Italian?"

"Me come from Pal-aer-mo."

The little chap was evidently in a talkative mood, and I nudged Colin to
do the honours of the conversation.

"Pal-aer-mo? Indeed!" said Colin. "Fine city, I guess."

"Been-a Pal-aer-mo?" asked the Italian eagerly. Colin couldn't say
that he had.

"Great city, Pal-aer-mo," continued our friend, "great theatre--cost
sixteen million dollars."

There is nothing like a walking-trip for gathering information of
this kind.

The Italian went on to explain that this country was a poor substitute
for the "ol-a country."

"This country--rough country. In this country me do rough-a work," he
explained apologetically; "in Pal-aer-mo do polit-a work."