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T might have been said of us that our city was the iron pot, we in it the broth, and the edict of Egidio Mazzaleone the stick with which to stir the broth. It was a fine, big stick with a point at the end of it, as we found out, though at first sight it had a harmless look beside the naked sword which was what we had expected. As the stick stirred and the broth boiled and bubbled over the blue fire of his insolence, many a strange thing was cast to the top—things good and things bad—that none had guessed were simmering and cooking at the bottom of the broth, flavoring the whole of it.

I shall go on to tell you of the wry faces that the town of San Moglio made as it cooked slowly over the insolence of Egidio Mazzaleone. I have found out that it is always so in this world. You may call any handful, if you will, a city, for among them you will have in little the picture of