“Won’t you tell me what reason Joe had for doing such a thing—if he did it?” Dorothy persisted, repeating: “He must have had some reason.”
“Aw, I dunno,” returned the lad uneasily. “He had a fight with ole man Haskell, that’s all.”
“What about?” asked Dorothy patiently. “You must know what it was about, Jack.”
“The ole man short-changed him, if you want to know,” the lad burst out as though her persistence irritated him past bearing. “We was buyin’ some toys with a two-dollar bill Joe had an’ the ole man wouldn’t give him the right change. Joe tole him about it an’ the ole man got mad. Then Joe got mad an’ they had a reg’lar fight.”
“Must have been an unequal struggle,” murmured Tavia. “I imagine Joe got the worst of it.”
“Aw, it wasn’t that kind of a scrap,” retorted the Italian lad, favoring Tavia with a pitying glance that caused her to choke and search frantically for her handkerchief. “Joe knows better than to pitch into a big feller like ole man Haskell. They just yelled at each other, that’s all.”
“And Joe set fire to a store because of a little thing like that!” said Dorothy, in a dazed tone, as though she were repeating something she had heard in a dream. “I don’t believe it!”
“Believe it or not, lady,” retorted Jack Popella, with a return of his insolent air now that suspicion had been shifted from him. “It’s the trut’. So long!” And with another of his eel-like movements he dodged past Dorothy and disappeared around the corner.
Dorothy watched him go apathetically. What did it matter to her what happened to Jack Popella now?
“The slimy little toad!” cried Tavia, disgustedly. “Ugh! I should think you would want to wash your hands, Doro. They must feel greasy.”