Pietro told the story, as we know it. It will not be necessary to repeat it. When he had finished, his uncle said, with a sneer, “So you were afraid of a woman. I am ashamed of you.”
“What could I do?” pleaded Pietro.
“What could you do?” repeated the padrone, furiously; “you could push her aside, run into the house, and secure the boy. You are a coward—afraid of a woman!”
“It was her house,” said Pietro. “She would call the police.”
“So could you. You could say it was your brother you sought. There was no difficulty. Do you think Filippo is there yet?”
“I do not know.”
“To-morrow I will go with you myself,” said the padrone. “I see I cannot trust you alone. You shall show me the house, and I will take the boy.”
Pietro was glad to hear this. It shifted the responsibility from his shoulders, and he was privately convinced that Mrs. McGuire would prove a more formidable antagonist than the padrone imagined. Whichever way it turned out, he would experience a feeling of satisfaction. If the padrone got worsted, it would show that he, Pietro, need not be ashamed of his defeat. If Mrs. McGuire had to surrender at discretion, he would rejoice in her discomfiture. So, in spite of his reprimand, he went to bed with better spirits than he came home.
The next morning Pietro and the padrone proceeded to Newark, as proposed. Arrived there, the former led his uncle at once to the house of the redoubtable Mrs. McGuire. It will be necessary for us to precede them.
Patrick McGuire was a laborer, and for some months past had had steady work. But, as luck would have it, work ceased for him on the day in which his wife had proved so powerful a protector to Phil. When he came home at night he announced this.