Producing a worn paper from his breast pocket, the small boss flourished it.
“Sure. Show me.”
“It’s O. K., else I wouldn’t have the navvies at work.”
“Likely it is,” countered Pape, “but show me just the same.”
With somewhat less of a flourish the paper was presented. Pape saw at a glance that it was written on an official form of the Department of Parks, then scanned it closer.
“What—” his demand was louder, gruffer, more combative than before—“what you say you’re doing?”
“Just like the paper says—digging for a drain.” The sharp-faced boss also grew more combative.
It is to be remarked that the Italian laborers had stopped work on the instant of interference. They always do. A shovel wasted—Fortunately the stream of cars on the roadway below flowed on without a ripple of curiosity as to the party on the hillock. The pedestrian paths were further away and, at this hour, preëmpted by the inevitable babies, mothers and nurse-maids. In the great, green mixing-bowl of all races within the world’s most democratic city, no man concerned himself with the by-play near the boundary except those directly involved.
Pape scowled over the operation, with never a glance toward the stone wall, from over the top of which a pair of black-irised blue eyes probably were watching him—a pair of rose-lobed ears were listening. To make “learning” easier he pulled another loud stop in his voice.
“What you going to drain to where?”