Outside the tent Spaghetti kissed his fingers with a fierce smack, made a noise like a buzz saw through his teeth while drawing a forefinger across his throat.
It was the high sign that in matters of terrible vengeance the Black Hand never muffs.
“Gott in Himmel!” he snarled under his breath. “Joost wait teel da padrone, da boss, de beega da fel’ geet back! You catcha sometang. See like maybe you, sapristi, don’t!”
Despite his feelings, however, he hot-footed a return with the cigarettes and it was to be noticed that when he bowed low and handed them to her he said:
“Here, Queen.”
Well aware was he that he would remember that hatpin at meals for days to come and, expert chef that he was, he regarded with horror the idea of a future in which he would figure as Spaghetti enbrochette.
But—aha! let the big fellow handle her! The padrone, the grand demon, him, the goldo fellow, Monseigneur, he’d mighty quick show her who was the real frito misto of that establishment!
Though why in the world the boss wanted to dally with a donna that looked and acted more like wallyo, presented a mystery Spaghetti sadly admitted to himself was too much for him to un-ravioli. So he stirred himself in her behalf for the nonce and fetched her some cous cous into which he let go the red pepper with a lavish, fine Italian hand.
For if she strangled to death he could always pretend he had got mixed and thought it was the cinnamon.