Diary of a Drug Fiend

124 The Diary of a Drug Fiend “ Inglese? ’”’ he asked. ‘ Inglese?” and I forcibly echoed ‘ Inglese, Signore Inglese,” as if that settled the whole matter. English people on the Continent have an illusion that the mere fact of their nationality permits them to do anything soever. And there is a great deal of truth in this, after all, because the inhabitants of Europe have a settled conviction that we are all harmless lunatics. So we are allowed to act in all sorts of ways which they would not tolerate for a moment in any supposedly rational person. In the present instance, I have little doubt that, if we had been dressed as ourselves, we should have been politely conducted to our hotel or put into an automobile, without any more fuss, perhaps, than a few perfunctory questions intended to impress the sergeant’s men with his importance. But as it was, he shook his head doubtfully. “ Arme vietate,” he said solemnly, pointing to the revolvers which were still in our hands. I tried to explain the affair in broken Italian. Lou did what was really a much more sensible thing by taking the affair as a stupendous joke, and going off into shrieks of hysterical laughter. But as for me, my blood was up. I wasn’t going to stand any nonsense from these damned Italians. Despite the Roman blood that is legitimately the supreme pride of our oldest families, we always some- how instinctively think of the Italian as a nigger. We don’t call them ‘‘ dagos’”’ and “wops,’’ as they do in the United States, with the invariable epithet of “ dirty ’’; but we have the same feeling. _ I began to take the high hand with the sergeant; and that, of course, was quite sufficient to turn the balance against us. We found ourselves pinioned. He said in a very short tone that we should have to go to the Commissario. I had two conflicting impulses. One to shoot the dogs down and get away; the other to wish, like a