He was backed up against the Column of the Lion, holding at bay a
horde of gondoliers who were shrieking, "Gondola! Gondola!" as only
Venetian gondoliers can. He had a half-defiant look, like a cornered
stag, as he stood there protecting a small wizen-faced woman of an
uncertain age, dressed in a long gray silk duster and pigeon-winged
hat--one of those hats that looked as if the pigeon had alighted on it
and exploded.
"No, durn ye, I don't want no gon-_do_-la; I got one somewhere round
here if I can find it."
If his tall gaunt frame, black chin whisker, and clearly defined
features had not located him instantly in my mind, his dialect would
have done so.
"You'll probably find your gondola at the next landing," I said,
pointing to the steps.
He looked at me kindly, took the woman by the arm, as if she had been
under arrest, and marched her to the spot indicated.
In another moment I felt a touch on my shoulder. "Neighbor, ain't you
from the U.S.A.?"