them.

The long-nosed youth was something of an enigma. From the scraps of
conversation which, during the repast, fell principally on the subject of
food, or the lack of food, during the tramp, I gathered that they had
relied principally on his skill and daring in the matter of foraging to
keep themselves from actually dying of hunger on their journey. Yet there
was about him such a prudent and circumspect air that he might well have
hesitated to pick up a pin that "wasn't his'n." He was evidently of an
acquisitive turn, however, for over his shoulder was slung a bag which
appeared to contain a collection of the most heterogeneous and
unserviceable rubbish conceivable. "_Eh!... possono servire!_" ...
was all he would volunteer on the subject when I once chaffed him on the
subject of his findings. "They may serve yet!..."

Somehow this youth struck me at once as a man who had made a mistake. At
home as he appeared to be among his comrades, there was yet something
about him which suggested that he was out of his proper sphere in the
midst of the Anarchists, that he was _desoriente_. He was cut out for
an industrious working-man, one that would rise and thrive in his business
by hard work and thrift; he was destined by nature to rear a large family
and to shine in the ranks of excellent family men. He was moulded for the
threshold, poor boy, neither for the revolutionary camp nor for the
scaffold, and it was thwarted domestic instinct which led him to steal.
There was good nature in his face and weakness; it was the face of a youth
easily led, easily influenced for good or bad. As a revolutioniser of his
species he was predestined to failure, for years would certainly show him
the error of his ways. Old age seemed to be his proper state, and youth in
him was altogether a blunder and a mistake. I found myself vainly
speculating what on earth could have led him among the Anarchists.