“No,” replied Ristofalo, still smiling; “ought offer justice first.”
“Mr. Preacher,” asked the young Irishman, bringing both legs to the front, and swinging them under the table, “d’ye vote?”
“Yes; I vote.”
“D’ye call yerself a cidizen—with a cidizen’s rights an’ djuties?”
“That’s right.” There was a deep sea of insolence in the smooth-faced, red-eyed smile that accompanied the commendation. “And how manny times have ye bean in this prison?”
“I don’t know; eight or ten times. That rather beats you, doesn’t it?”
Ristofalo smiled, the youth uttered a high rasping cackle, and the Irishman laughed the heartiest of all.
“A little,” he said; “a little. But nivver mind. Ye say ye’ve bin here eight or tin times; yes. Well, now, will I tell ye what I’d do afore and iver I’d kim back here ag’in,—if I was you now? Will I tell ye?”
“Well, yes,” replied the visitor, amiably; “I’d like to know.”