With a ’phew, shew, Wodolincon; listen to me, Bobolincon!”
At length they dropped in the high grass not many yards away, and began laying the foundation for their house, undaunted by the trio of natural nest burglars whose wondering eyes and ears had taken them in. But Mike, Pat, and Biddy never discovered the pale-blue egg that soon lay there; and in the days that followed, when the other Tomatoes and Bertino were afield gathering dandelion leaves, and Bridget sat with her knitting at the kitchen door, the rollicking song of these trustful neighbours was often the only sound that enlivened the desolate moor.
When Saturday morning came, and the push-cart was heaped high with the esculent herbs, Signor Tomato said to Bridget:
“Guess ees-a better I’m goin’ to de cit for sell-a de salata. See how moocha! Moosta have tree dollar for dat.”
“Sure,” said Bridget, and away he started with their first load of produce for market. Bertino helped him push as far as Jamaica; then he went to the post office to inquire for the letter that Juno had promised to write telling him the result of his uncle’s wound. There was no letter for him. He had made up his mind to get away from America somehow should the death of Signor Di Bello make him a murderer, but he thirsted for an accounting with Juno in the matter of the bust. His wife had deceived him, and the canons of vendetta left him only one course. At the same time he saw that he was in Juno’s power, and for the present must do naught to fan her wrath. She knew his hiding place, and could deliver him to the man-hunters of the Central Office. What a simpleton he had been to tell her! Had his heart not warned him all along that she did not love him? Well, he was blind no more. He would wait, and if his uncle died, Australia or any other land would do for a refuge, but he would not quit America until he had collected from Juno the debt she owed him and the poor sculptor whom her treachery would be sure to send to a madhouse.
As he trudged back to the pipes it occurred to him that there would be fine lyric justice in a measure of vitriol well thrown at the face that poor Armando’s marble so faithfully depicted. But to this form of payment he quickly said no; smooth, lean steel, tried and true, was the best friend of the vendetta.
When Signor Tomato reached Mulberry the day was spent, and the market minstrels had begun their songs. It was no easy work for him to find a place at the curbstone wherein he could squeeze and join the long line of Saturday-night venders who filled the air with their ditties. In the weary solitude of his journey from Jamaica he had had ample time to plagiarize an ancient market couplet, so that when he began to offer his wares he was able to do so in the manner of a veteran:
“Dandelion, tra-la-la, dandelion, tra-la-lee;
Buy him and eat him, and lusty you’ll be!”
The people marvelled at beholding the banker in his new rôle, but they bought of his stock, and the first venture of Villa Tomato in the world of commerce was a resplendent success.