“De villa Tomato. Ees-a var fine. You not see?”
“Upon me sowl I see nothin’ but two big black things that do look like whales.”
Domenico put on a grin and said:
“Ah, my dear wife, moosta tell you de trut honesta. I’m been mague lill fun. Deesa villa she no ees-a joosta der same lika de housa. Ees-a not mague of wood; but you wait-a, some time I’m show you how ees-a nice and cool-a de iron when ees-a cover wit leaves. Pietro Sardoni he been liv-a here, and he lik-a var mooch, I’m blief.”
“Phat d’yer mane at all at all? Is it not a house ye’re takin’ us to, thin? What is it, annyway? Howly wafer! Pipes!”
They had drawn near enough for her to distinguish two black iron pipes of the largest size used for underground conduits. Though they seemed much smaller from that distance, each was twelve feet long with an interior diameter of five feet. They lay side by side, as they had been left by the builders of the aqueduct.
“Moosha, moosha,” she went on, but not relaxing her effort at the shafts, “it’s far down in the worruld y’are now, Bridget O’Kelly, and yer father’s own third cousin coachman to the Lord Mayor iv Dublin!”
“My dear wife, moosta forgive your husband; ees-a got northeen better. De proverbio he say: One who is contented has enough.”
The strip of green that crowned the margin of the railroad cut was spangled with bright yellow, and, his eye lighting on it, Signor Tomato said, by way of a comforting crumb to Bridget:
“Look! Guess-a we goin’ mague plenta mon here pickin’ dandelion salad.”