“Mother Mary in heaven!” The policeman sprang up. “What are you going to do?”
“What am I going to do?” shrilled the other, the light of a monstrous pride in his little eyes. “I'm goin' to quarantine them Dagoes fer fourteen days. They'll learn some politics before I git through with 'em. Maybe they'll know enough United States language to foller their leader next time!”
“By all that's mighty, Pixley,” said the policeman, with an admiration that was almost reverence, “you are a schemer!”
“Mein Gott!” screeched Bertha's uncle, snapping his teeth fiercely on his pipe-stem, as he flung open the door of the girl's room. “You want to disgraze me mit der whole neighbourhoot, 'lection night? Quid ut! Stob ut! Beoples in der streed stant owidside und litzen to dod grying. You voult goin' to marry mit a Dago mens, voult you! Ha, ha! Soife you right! He run away!” The old man laughed unamiably. “Ha, ha! Dago mens foolt dod smard Bertha. Dod's pooty tough. But, bei Gott, you stop dod noise und ect lige a detzent voomans, or you goin' haf droubles mit your uncle Louie Gratz!”
But Bertha, an undistinguishable heap on the floor of the unlit room, only gasped brokenly for breath and wept on.
“Ach, ach, ach, lieber Gott in Himmel!” sobbed Bertha. “Why didn't Toby come for me? Ach, ach! What iss happened mit Toby? Somedings iss happened—I know ut!”
“Ya, ya!” jibed Gratz; “somedings iss heppened, I bet you! Brop'ly he's got anoder vife, dod's vot heppened! Brop'ly leffing ad you mit anoder voomans! Vot for dit he nefer tolt you vere he lif? So you voultn't ketch him; dod's der reason! You're a pooty vun, you are! Runnin' efter a doity Dago mens! Bei Gott! you bedder git oop und back your glo'es, und stob dod gryin'. I'm goin' to mofe owid to-morrow; und you kin go verefer you blease. I ain'd goin' to sday anoder day in sitch a neighbourhoot. Fife more smallpox lanterns yoost oop der streed. I'm goin' mofe glean to der oder ent of der city. Und you can come by me or you can run efter your Dago mens und his voomans! Dod's why he dittn't come to marry you, you grazy—ut's a voomans!”
“No, no,” screamed Bertha, stopping her ears with her forefingers. “Lies, lies, lies!”
A slatternly negro woman dawdled down the street the following afternoon, and, encountering a friend of like description near the cottage which had been tenanted by Louie Gratz and his niece, paused for conversation.
“Howdy, honey,” she began, leaning restfully against the gate-post. “How's you ma?”