“What has happened?” he inquired, only half awake.

“By the grace of God we have eaten, we have drunk and we have slept,” said Ruggiero by way of answer.

Both got up, shook themselves and stood with their hands in their pockets, looking at the sea.  They were barefooted and barelegged, with torn breeches, coarse white shirts much patched about the shoulders, and ragged woollen caps.  Presently they turned as by a common instinct and went and stood before the open door, peering in at the guests.  Don Antonino was behind his black counter measuring wine.  His wife was with him now and helping him, a cheerful, clean woman having a fair complexion, grey hair and round sharp eyes with red lids—­a stranger in Calabria like her husband.  She held the neck of a great pear-shaped demijohn, covered with straw, of which the lower part rested on the counter.  Antonino held a quart jug to be filled while she lowered the mouth, and he poured the measure each time into a barrel through a black tin funnel.  They both counted the measures in audible tones, checking each other as it were.  The wine was very dark and strong and the smell filled the low room and came out through the door.  Half-a-dozen men sat at the tables, mostly eating ship biscuit of their own and goat’s-milk cheese which they bought with their wine.  They were rough-looking fellows, generally in checked flannel shirts, and home-spun trousers.  But they all wore boots or shoes, which are in the south a distinctive sign of a certain degree of prosperity.  Most of them had black beards and smart woollen caps.  They were men who got their living principally by the sea in one way or another, but none of them looked thorough seamen.  They talked loud and with a certain air of boasting, they were rough, indeed, but not strongly built nor naturally easy in their movements as sailors are.  Their eyes were restless and fiery, but the glance was neither keen nor direct.  Altogether they contrasted oddly with Don Antonino, the old boatswain.  This part of Calabria does not breed genuine sea folk.

Antonino took no notice of the boys as they stood outside the door, but went quietly on with his work, measuring quart after quart of wine and pouring it into the barrel.

“If it were a keg, I could carry it for him,” said Ruggiero, “but I cannot lift a barrel yet.”

“We could roll it, together,” suggested Sebastiano thoughtfully.

Presently Don Antonino finished his job and bunged the barrel with a cork and a bit of old sailcloth.  Then he looked up and stood still.  The boys were not quite sure whether he was watching them or not, for it was already dusk.  His wife lit a small German petroleum lamp and hung it in the middle of the room, and then went to the fireplace in the dark corner where something was cooking.  One of the guests shouted to Antonino.

“There is a martingane at San Nicola,” he bawled.

Antonino turned his head slowly to the speaker and waited for more.