The more his eager fancy played about the bust the bigger grew the fortune to which it seemed the stepping stone. From its siren lips there flowed a far-off subtile song, which bade him do and dare, go forth and possess, and by that token end his long night of poverty in a glorious dawn of riches. And with gaining allure came the oft-sung refrain: “The devil cast out, an angel descends; the devil cast out, an angel descends.” Surely it was a fulfilment of that fine proverb, so wise with the wisdom of Naples’s centuries. No eye could see, no ear catch, a plainer truth. The Jack Tar, devil of bad luck, not only cast out, but, grace to the strong arm and inspired axe of Bridget, dead for evermore. And the bust was the descending angel. Yes; he would obey the voice of Heaven’s courier and take the Presidentessa from the customhouse, though it asked every soldo in the window. La Presidentessa! The First Lady of the Land? Dio magnifico! And to him, Domenico Tomato, had fallen the matchless honour of presenting this great work of art to the American people! Not an hour must be lost. To the Dogana at once and release the angel of wealth.
Bridget had the best of reasons for lacking faith in her husband’s business projects, so she set her face and tongue stoutly against this proposed adventure into the field of fine art. To her bread-and-butter view it meant a leap into starvation. She knew he could not meet the customs demand of a hundred and forty dollars save by paying out every piece of money that was on exhibition in the window—by parting with the bank’s entire capital. In stirring figures she pictured the distress and ruin that he was going to court. But to no purpose. From the outset it was clear that her Hibernian substance would not prevail against his Italian shadow. Even while she begged him for the sake of the “childer” to desist, he went about gathering up the money. He untied the sham packages, and from the top of each picked off the one real bank note and threw the sheaf of blank slips under the little counter. Then into a chamois bag he swept the large heaps of coppers, the small heap of silver, and the very few gold coins that were in the collection. “Who nothing dares, nothing does,” he quoted grandly, as he pocketed the money, and made for the door.
“The howly Patrick forgive ye,” said Bridget, following him to the street. “Ivry cint betune yer family and the wolf! Worra, worra, Dominick Tomah-toe, ye’ll rue this day whin they’re singin’ at yer wake.”
“Oh, ees-a better you goin’ shut up,” returned the banker, in a tone meant to be gentle and reassuring. “Ees-a whad for you mague so moocha troub? I’m tell-a you ees-a better you goin’ shut up. Why? ’Cause you not understand de beautiful art-a. Good-a by, my dear wife. When I’m com-a back I’m show you sometheen var fine.”
He went to a rival banker and turned all his Italian money into American. Then he borrowed a push-cart and worked his way at great peril among the trucks and cable cars to the seat of customs. It took all day to unwind the red tape that bound the bust, and the clerks counted it a capital joke to watch the half-frantic little Italian tearing from one window to another in search of the proper authority. Darkness had fallen when, with the big case on his cart, he pushed into Mulberry and stopped before the broken bank. At the door sat Bridget with her knitting, and Pat, Mike, and Biddy were romping on the sidewalk.
“Ees-a var heavy de Presidentessa,” he said, tapping the box. Bridget sprang up and lent him the aid of her sinewy arms. Full of wonder, the children followed them with their burden into the bank. With a finger on his lip, Signor Tomato turned the key in the lock and covered the window so that outsiders might not look in.
“Ees-a grand secret-a,” he whispered; “moost-a see nobodee.”
By the dim light of an oil lamp he set to work with cold chisel and hammer ripping off the lid of the case. When he had lifted out the precious one, removed the wrapping paper from her face, and set her up on the counter, he stepped back to feast his eyes.
In the first moment of the awful disillusion, it seemed to Bridget that her little man had lost his reason. He had seen portraits of the President’s wife, and after looking steadily a moment the desolate truth darted upon his consciousness that the bust was not of her. It possessed not a single point of likeness. To the turn-up nose of Juno the sculptor had granted no touch of poetry, and it stood forth in all the cruel realism of coldest marble. While the terrified children clung to their mother’s skirts, Signor Tomato thrashed about the shop, beating his temples with loosely closed fists and crying, “Woe is me, woe is me!” He would not be comforted, nor could Bridget quiet him to the degree of telling her the cause of his mad goings-on until she caught him by the arm and commanded that he be a man and tell her his trouble. God had gone back on him, he said, and the world had reached its end. To-morrow there would be no Domenico Tomato.
“Look-a, look-a!” he cried, pointing to the bust tragically. “Dat-a face! O, for God sague! Dat ees-a not de Presidentessa!”