The dinner gong, a welcome diversion, summoned us below to lights and
warmth. At one table the young Italian entertained his relatives, and at
another the captain, a short, swart-faced, taciturn being, had grouped
his officers and various officials of the steamship company at a
farewell feast. The little sharp-faced passenger was throned elsewhere
in lonely splendor, but when I selected a fourth table, he jumped up,
crossed over and installed himself as my vis-a-vis. Passing me the salt,
which I did not require, he supplied with it some personal data of which
I felt no greater need. His name was McGuntrie, he announced; he was
sales agent for the famous Phillipson Rifles and was being dispatched to
secure a gigantic contract on the other side.
"And if inside six months you don't see three hundred thousand Italian
soldiers carrying Phillipson's best," he informed me, "I'll take a back
seat and let young Jim Furman, who thinks I'm a has-been and he's the
one white hope, begin to draw my pay. You can't beat those rifles. When
the boys get to carrying them, old Francis Joseph's ghost'll weep.
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