But the name of the craft herself had been given
in a way to puzzle all the proficients in Saxon English that Porto
Ferrajo could produce. It had been distinctly enough pronounced by some
one on board, and, at the request of the quarantine department, had been
three times slowly repeated, very much after the following form; viz.:
"_Come chiamate il vostro bastimento?_"
"The Wing-and-Wing."
"_Come!_"
"The Wing-and-Wing."
A long pause, during which the officials put their heads together, first
to compare the sounds of each with those of his companions' ears, and
then to inquire of one who professed to understand English, but whose
knowledge was such as is generally met with in a linguist of a
little-frequented port, the meaning of the term.
"Ving-y-ving!" growled this functionary, not a little puzzled "what ze
devil sort of name is zat! Ask zem again."
"_Come si chiama la vostra barca, Signori Inglesi?_" repeated he who
hailed.
"_Diable!_" growled one back, in French; "she is called ze
Wing-and-Wing--'Ala e Ala,'" giving a very literal translation of the
name, in Italian.
'"_Ala e ala!_" repeated they of the quarantine, first looking at each
other in surprise, and then laughing, though in a perplexed and doubtful
manner; "Ving-y-Ving!"
This passed just as the lugger anchored and the crowd had begun to
disperse. It caused some merriment, and it was soon spread in the little
town that a craft had just arrived from Inghilterra, whose name, in the
dialect of that island, was "Ving-y-Ving," which meant "_Ala e ala_" in
Italian, a cognomen that struck the listeners as sufficiently absurd.
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