"Aha!" snarls Tony. "I know you never hit with your feest sooch a punch! Don't got funny with me any more! I wanna tella you, you keepa up knock it down Tony every fiva, tena, fifteen minootes and some time Tony he'sa got mad! When Tony he'sa got mad—" He stops and makes a terrible face at me and the Kid, "—when Tony he'sa got mad, something she'sa gotta fall!—dat'sa all!"
"Well, you been doin' all the fallin' so far," I says, "and—"
"Ah—I say!" butts in Van Ness—and Tony sees him for the first time, I guess, because he shivered and got pale. "I say," he goes on, takin' a slant at Tony through the trick eyeglass, "just what does this mean, Antonio? Why are you walking about with this extraordinary collection of weapons on your person?" He points his finger at the munitions on the ground, and Tony's eyes follows his. At the same time he makes a little clickin' noise in his throat and jumps for the pile.
"Where is she the gooda carbolic acid?" he snarls. "And whosa taka my eleven incha stiletto?"
"How dare you ignore my question!" thunders Van Ness. "What are you doing with all those weapons? Answer me!"
"'Scuse a me!" says Tony, makin' a bow and takin' off his hat. "I getta them for my brudda!"
"Where's your brother?" asks the Kid. "In Russia?"
"'Sno use you talka to me!" growls Tony, "I no talka back. Sometime Tony he'sa getta mad and then—"
"Come, come!" interrupts Van Ness, kinda sharp. "The weapons—what of them?"
"'Scuse a me!" bows Tony with another smile. "My brudda he'sa live in Santa Francisco. He'sa fina fel'—my brudda. He'sa name Joe. He'sa come this countree five years ago, no fren's, no spika da Engleesh, no nothing! They putta heem in the basement of the sheepa wit' coupla thousand other fel' from seventy-six other countree. One fel' say my Joe he'sa no be able to leava the sheepa at—at—what you call? I don't know—I teenk maybe Chicago, Pennsylvania, Coney Island—I don't know joosta now! Anyhow thisa fel' say Joe he'sa no be able to leava the sheepa wherever he'sa wanna go—eef he'sa got no money, you 'stanna me? Joe he'sa tank dis kinda fel', say coupla nica prayer for heem and then everybody she'sa a maka sleepa. Joe he'sa get up and taka four hundred dollar from thisa nica fel'—whosa sleepa lika he'sa dead—so Joe he'sa be able to leeva the sheepa! He'sa a smarta fel', eh? That'sa Joe. He'sa my brudda!"