With a step almost frisky Carolina took leave of her brother, well content with the first fruit of her wooing. She had won the consent of her husband elect to wait for her bride, and the rest of the courtship seemed a matter of plain sailing; wherefore she hastened across the Park to the steamship office and bank of Signor Tomato to secure her passage for Genoa. The glow of triumph was upon her. She felt it a certainty now that her will would prevail in match-making as it had so many times in match-breaking; and this desirable condition, she reflected, was merely as it should be—only the reward that the just had a right to count upon receiving. Had she not eaten salted fish in Lent and kept all fast days, while her brother had devoured flesh in open shame and Angelica had been detected munching garlic salame even on Good Friday?
She paused before the mutilated but heroic figure of an American Jack Tar who stood in wooden repose at the door of Signor Tomato. In their palmy days the banks of Mulberry—then more numerous than the colony’s midwives—had a trick of closing their doors when the amount of deposits made it worth while, to the increase of the suicide rate and the encouragement of stiletto practice upon the bankers who got caught. After a while the Legislature did a little closing, and Signor Tomato, one of the poor but honest caste, had to take his gruel along with the others. He could not take any more deposits, but he kept on with his money-exchange business, and when to this he decided to add an agency for Mediterranean steamships he admitted the Jack Tar as a silent partner. At the time they joined forces the sailor was young and handsome. The tobacconist with whom he began his career had failed after less than a year of ill fortune. But his youth and hardy physique were no match for the climate of Mulberry, which soon proved as ruinous to his manly beauty as it had to Signor Di Bello’s real bananas. First one of his weather eyes disappeared, then the fine Greek nose took leave, and in quick order both ears vanished; at length an arm and a half melted away, soon followed by a whole foot. It all came of his lounging on the sidewalk at hours when not even a respectable wooden Indian is found out of doors. Signor Tomato would have insisted on his coming in of nights, but there was not an inch of room to spare within the bank, with his wife and three little Tomatoes all living there, not to speak of the counter, the large dry-goods box that served for a safe, the family chair, and the cook stove. Once he wheeled his silent partner into the countingroom—just after the loss of his left ear—but the door could not be closed, and out he had to go again into the ravaging night.
It was not the long-suffering Jack Tar that arrested Carolina’s steps, but this placard pendent from his neck:
Per Genova Juno 1,
Piroscafo Spartan King,
Qui si Vendono Biglietti di
Passaggio a Prezzi d’Occasione.
(For Genoa June 1, the Spartan King. Passage Tickets for sale here at Bargain Prices.)
“Good-morning, Signorina Di Bello! You do me great honour to read my poor placard.” It was the high-keyed voice of Signor Tomato, a little Neapolitan of eagle beak and long brown whiskers. As he stepped lightly from the bank, Bridget, his stout Irish wife, was behind him. She, too, gave Carolina a loud greeting, but in a brogue that was touched with Neapolitan dialect, and took up her stand in the narrow doorway. At the same time three black, curly heads and bright faces peeped from behind her gingham skirts. These intent observers were Pat, Mike, and Biddy, small but weighty factors of the Tomato establishment. At the sound of her husband’s voice the mother and her brood had come from a mysterious corner at the back of the bank, which a nankeen sail concealed from the eye. Carolina gave cold return to Signor Tomato’s salute, but his face did not fall. “Perhaps the signorina is planning a voyage?” he said, smiling broadly.
“Yes, I go to Genoa. What company is this?”
“What company!” he exclaimed, his face an image of deepest amazement. “But pardon me, signorina; there is only one company in the Mediterranean service, the Great Imperial International General Navigation Company, which I have the honour to represent.”
“Father Nicodemo went last week on some other line—the Duke? That’s it—the Duke Line.”
“O signorina!” All his faculties of expression united in a show of disgust. “You remember the proverb, ‘Do what the priest says and not what the priest does.’ My word of honour, those Duke boats, they are for the beasts. But the Great Imperial International General Navigation Company’s ships are extraordinary, stupendous! Every one is a floating paradise. Shall I speak frankly and tell you what they are? Well, they are boats for ladies and gentlemen. There now, you have it.”