A Story of Venice

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXIII, Issue 22444, 13 June 1936, Page 9 (Supplement)

A Story of Venice

CHAPTER VII AFTER his chuckle over their narrow escape from detection, Bertoli did not continuo down to tho water but conducting Paul up the beach to their former position, he rolled another of his interminable cigarettes and inhaled its smoke in a long spell of languid enjoyment. Then ho turned to Paul with a mischievous look in his eyes. "Little Signor," he uttered, twittingly, "when those men hailed us, you wero badly tempted to break your word with Bertoli?" "Of course," Paul admitted. "But you're British," his captor Enid, grinning. "On that I staked everything. For the Britishers, they do not go back on their word. They are like Bertoli, the vanished, who breaks his word never!" And puffing his chest out. ho gave it a resounding slap. The Grave Merchant Paul couldn't help laughing. There was a gay streak about this rare scoundrel which amused Paul at moments in spito of his unhappy strait. As now again, when having returned to their dressing-box the Italian hummed a merry tune under his breath, then suddenly wheeling round and turning his back, was busy with his hands to his face for a minute or two before whipping round onco more to show himself with a moustache and a trim goatee beard—all the work of a charcoal stick. His eyebrows also had come straggling down at both ends, and his face appeared broader and fatter. "And now who'd know Bertoli!" lie said, with a snuffle. "In truth that good man has vanished. Begard your grave merchant!" And though still in his v.rap with the bathing suit underneath, he most verily looked a different man altogether. Then ho tossed a bundle at Paul. "Quick! Put these on," ho ordered. "Your kind father, tho merchant, will watch outside while you do so." And out the ruffian stepped, leaving Paul staring blankly at a white shirt and collar, black jacket, and sombre grey trousers. How it went against tho grain to stick to his promise, and thus minimise even more the chance of detection!

By GUNBY HADATH

. Still, there it was. He had vowed he would do all they told him. And in this manner, leaving Paul's bathing suit in tho box, the pair came away from tho beach under everyone's noso. Beneath the trees by the tramline they found a closed motor-car, with nono other at its wheel than Sertoli's "good Carlo." "Now, in you get!" tho former bade, with a snap. "Oil, whero are we going?" gasped Paul. "You'll see," smiled Bertoli. Then Paul's fortitude almost broke, a shout reached his lips. But a man was bound by his word. That shout got no further. He climbed in. The car shot away. Almost as big as the Colosseum of Pome and in a state of preservation truly remarkable, stood Verona's vast amphitheatre, ringed by stone seats which climbed in innumerable tier after tier to the sky. Bertoli's first idea whea he made for this refuge had been to take hiding in one of the underground passages by which the gladiators had once been conducted to the arena. But, perceiving this arena packed by a party of tourists, who, with merry shouting, began to climb the stone tiers, lie changed his mind and hurried Paul into their midst, with Carlo on his one side and himself on tlie other. Up, then, climbed most of the tourists, step after step, and with every upward advance their figures grew smaller to their less energetic friends, who watched from below. And up went the three who were not tourists; and in the same way tho higher they climbed tlie less they became recognisable. They were right at the top; on the topmost tier against tho skyline; very small figures. Then Bertoli, who was out of breath, laughed in his throat. " Trust Bertoli, the vanished, to outwit those numskulls!" he told Paul. Bertoli's Last Boast Tie boast was his last. Two cars had parked near the arena, from which grim men and a young gondolier had alighted, and a grey-eyed girl, with a jackdaw perched on her shoulder. They had entered the arena, and cast a glance around, tho policemen impatient t,n be off to Bertoli's known lair. " There is no one here," they uttered. " excepting these tourists." But Grnndo knew much better. His keen eyes were gleaming as he flew from Mary's shoulder and soared up and up. Ho alighted by Paul. He had found his dear master at last.

Bertoli aimed a furious kick at the bird, but Paul sprang at him, and, flinging his arms round his knees, brought him down to those knees; they swayed and staggered, then fell together, but downwards. Ah, ignominious plight for the valiant Bertoli to go bumping in the grip of a boy down those stone tiers. But Guiseppo and the police had rushed up to meet them, though Mar.v it was who got there first and freed Paul. "Oh, Paul!" she was breathing. " Oh, Paul!" And on their way back: " What will happen to Bertoli?" she asked Guiseppe. " He'll get his deserts," the young gondolier replied sternly. (The End.)