One of the youngsters had heard the talk about the pipes, and, telling the others, all three ran ahead to investigate. After a peep into one of the huge tubes they came trooping back in a state of fright.
“Somebody in our pipe, pah!” said Mike.
“A big man; guess he’s dead,” from Pat.
It had never struck Domenico’s fancy that the water pipes whereon he had counted for a final refuge might become a château in Spain because of some rival claimant to their shelter.
“Gran Dio! More trouble!” he whined, and bundled through the grass to see for himself, while Bridget trudged on with the cart, the children close at her heels. Stooping, he peered into one of the pipes, rose again quickly, threw up his arms, brandished his open hands, bent again, and put his head into the mouth of the iron cavern. Then he sprang up and shrieked:
“It is he! By the blood of St. Januarius, his blood shall pay!”
From the deep pocket of his threadbare coat he drew a heavy-bladed clasp knife, jerked it open, and the next instant would have tried its steel on the awakened figure in the pipe but for Bridget, who caught both his arms from behind and pinioned them in able style.
“Is it bloody murther yer’d be addin’ to all the rest, Dominick Tomah-toe,” said she, tightening her grip, while the little man struggled and profaned the canonized host. “Phat the divil’s the manin’ iv it, annyhow?”
“Let-a go! You hear? Let-a go, I’m tell-a you! Look in de pipa and you see ees-a what for. Guess-a you goin’ want kill too.”
At this point a well-thatched head stuck out of the pipe, and the drowsy eyes of a man on his knees looked up wonderingly at the group of Tomatoes. It was the face of Bertino Manconi.