She took from her sink near by a large, long-handled tin dipper, and filled it full of warm suds from the tub. Then stealing to the window, she opened it suddenly, and as Pietro looked up, suddenly launched the contents in his face, calling forth a volley of imprecations, which I would rather not transfer to my page. Being in Italian, Bridget did not exactly understand their meaning, but guessed it.
“Is it there ye are?” she said, in affected surprise.
“Why did you do that?” demanded Pietro, finding enough English to express his indignation.
“Why did I do it?” repeated Bridget. “How would I know that you were crapin’ under my windy? It serves ye right, anyhow. I don’t want you here.”
“Send out my brother, then,” said Pietro.
“There’s no brother of yours inside,” said Mrs. McGuire.
“It’s a lie!” said Pietro, angrily stamping his foot.
“Do you want it ag’in?” asked Bridget, filling her dipper once more from the tub, causing Pietro to withdraw hastily to a greater distance. “Don’t you tell Bridget McGuire that she lies.”
“My brother is in the house,” reiterated Pietro, doggedly.
“He is no brother of yours—he says so.”