overlooking the principal piazza, which is as big as Trafalgar Square,
and much more picturesque. The legend painted upon the door, "Office
hours, 10 to 3," and the green persiennes closed against the scorching
sun give one the idea of an easy appointment, but such is certainly not
the case, for a Consul's life at a port of discharge must necessarily
be a very active one, and his duties never-ending.

Carducci had left me to the correspondence for half an hour or so, and I
confess I was in no mood to write replies in that stifling heat,
therefore I sat at the Consul's big table, smoking a cigarette and
stretched lazily in my friend's chair, resolving to escape to the cool
of England as soon as he returned in the following week. Italy is all
very well for nine months in the year, but Leghorn is no place for the
Englishman in mid-July. My thoughts were wandering toward the English
lakes, and a bit of grouse-shooting with my uncle up in Scotland, when
the faithful Francesco re-entered, saying--

"I've sent the captain and his madman away till this afternoon, signore.
But there is an English signore waiting to see you."

"Who is he?"

"I don't know him. He will give no name, but wants to see the Signor
Console."

"All right, show him in," I said lazily, and a few moments later a tall,
smartly-dressed, middle-aged Englishman, in a navy serge yachting suit,
entered, and bowing, enquired whether I was the British Consul.

When he had seated himself I explained my position, whereupon he said--