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My Brother Agostino
(Lubin)
By VICTORI MIRIELLO
Not a customer graced the tables of that popular establishment, the Ristorante di Filippo, and Tomasino, the waiter, resumed his occupation of enticing an errant fly from the throat of a vinegar-cruet. In the kitchen, behind a screen, the voices of the cook and the fat padrone were raised unnaturally over a game of tarocchi.
"Matto!" said the cook.
"Bagatto!" growled the padrone.
The chink of coins changing hands followed, and Tomasino wondered if the cook's wages had been squandered thereby. The grease-spots on the tablecloths were of more consequence, however, and he meditated doubtfully if they would do for the evening rush. By a dexterous rearrangement of the castors and tortoni bread-holders, he contrived to ambush most of them.
1 ' Mondo ! ' ' announced the cook.
"Matto!" grumbled the padrone, and then a shrill voice exclaimed, "Te chi, te chi! the risotto is scorching !" The quick scraping of chairlegs, and many endearing phrases, betokened the rescue of the favorite dish by the cook.
Tomasino emptied a sugar-bowl, and refilled it again with the broken lumps beneath. Such occurrences were common with that gambler of a cook in the kitchen, but, empty-head ! he did not have to take the insults from the customers.
A spasm of violent coughing overtook him, and he leaned wearily against the window-casing while it lasted. It had bothered him only at nights, until recently, when the coughing would sometimes almost shake a patron's proffered overcoat from his hands. Yes, he would go to Dottore Macchi about it tomorrow.
The padrone came out from the kitchen, yawning, and, selecting a re
galia from the cigar case, puffed contemptuously at the items in a wine bill on his desk. Tomasino hovered over him an instant, as if he would speak of something, but a glance at the column of unheard-of figures terrified him, and he retreated noiselessly.
The next day, when the tables were to be set and napkins pleated in pleasing shapes in glasses, Tomasino did not come to the Ristorante di Filippo. In his place came Luisa, his wife, very slim and good-looking, with a note .from the Dottore. The overbusy padrone scarce glanced at its incredulous news. Tomasino sick? Come! he hadn't noticed it; but his head was above his stomach, that swift fellow! He would hold his place open — a week, maybe. Diavolo! Why were good waiters always getting sick, or else setting up an opposition place to him?
His complaining voice whined outof-doors as she left.
Dottore Macchi 's note had said that his patient was run down with a bad cold and needed rest. He did not add, as he could have, that the poor fellow's lungs were badly affected, and that he might never flourish again so captivatingly those longnecked bottles of Spumante, which were thrown in gratis with a dinner.
Luisa, tho, knew something dreadful must have fastened upon her husband, for the drug-clerk at the f armaria had given her scant change from the bill, which stood for Tomasino's wages at the restaurant. It was the first time, too, she had ever seen him lying in bed in the daytime, and his white face in repose had frightened her.
When she came in, the medicines had arrived, and Tomasino lay awake, looking at their array. He was too weak to sit up, but his long