The Italian’s disgust was plain and he ejaculated, “Sacre da-be damn! Eesa mak George-a Golda fetch eem back. Garibaldi geeve eet-a ma fadder.”
Without further question, Sam proceeded on his way to Simm’s office. That Giuseppe was not the man Sam was after, appeared certain, but that he was well acquainted with the fellow, there seemed no doubt.
Giuseppe must be watched, for he would find Golda to get the medal back, as it was evident Giuseppe treasured it as an heirloom.
While deeply engrossed on this line of thought, Sam was starting down Third street on his way to Detective Simms’ office, and had nearly reached Alder street when his reverie was interrupted by a familiar voice, exclaiming, “Good marnin’, sor!”
“How are you?” responded Sam, recognizing Smith.
“Sure, I’m failin’ foine, axcipt”—and a wistful look came into his eyes—“axcipt for a sore spot in me heart. God shield her!” and he bent his head reverently.
Sam knew full well the object of Smith’s allusion, and said sympathetically, “You share in the sorrow of your house?”
“Indade: I do, sor! Tin years ave I known her swate disposition. Sure, didn’t I drive her coach to the church whin she married him? And she was kind to my poor wife, too, whin she suffered betimes wid brankites. God rest her soule! She’s wid the angels now! But I see yeese do be hurted!”
“A bruise! An accident last night, but it’s nothing, I guess! Are you out for a bracer this morning?”
“Just a little sthrole, wid me eye open for signs.”