“Ah-ha! Now you see what for I’m go kill. Let-a go, I’m tell-a you!”
“Aisy now, me darlint. No, no; I’ll not lave you go yit awhile; not till that ghinny fire in ye has burnt out a bit. Will ye give me the knife? Here, lave go iv it—there y’are. Now ye can use yer fists in Donnybrook shtyle, and not a worrud from Bridget O’Kelly.”
She had captured the knife. Bertino was on his feet. Tomato moved toward him with claws outspread.
“See what you have done,” he snarled in the Naples patter. “Famous joke, neh? To rob a poor man of his last cent, that you might have a bust of your amorosa—some good-for-naught of a woman! A-h-h! A famous joke! But you shall pay. Oh, woman, give me that knife.”
“Phat ails yer fists?”
“You are a fool,” broke out Bertino, and the banker jumped at him, but did not strike. “A fool, I say. You talk much and say nothing. What is it about the bust? Tell me. Can’t you see I am hungry to know? What has become of it? Is it a fine likeness of the Presidentessa?”
“Presidentessa!” sneered the banker, and Bridget echoed the word in like contempt.
“Yes. Beautiful, neh?”
The banker waved the back of his hand beneath his chin in token that he was not to be fooled. “You are a great innocent. Yes; but you can’t play off on me. You know it is not the First Lady of the Land.”
“Not the Presidentessa?”