“Behold!” The angry man pointed to a lemon grove that bordered the track. “What a beautiful picture!”
The trees were bowed down with the weight of lemons; the ground beneath was yellow with the precious fruit that would lie there till it had turned black with decay.
“We have to thank America for that,” said the angry man.
“Say something to that rude person,” I whispered to Patsy.
“There’s nothing to say; he has us on the hip.”
“What does it mean?”
“How can you expect a waif of the universe, just back from the Argentine, to know the ins and outs? It’s some beastly log rolling. The lemon-growers in Florida, California,—how do I know what States have swapped votes with some of the big fellows,—you protect me, I’ll protect you!”
“Politics, all politics,” roared the father of Teodoro. “Una porcheria, mud, mud! I know; my son here has just been defeated at the election by an animal! This one gave each voter five francs. ‘Elect me,’ he said; ‘when I am elected, come back; I will give you five francs more.’ This piggery all comes to us from America. The Signori can tell us. Is there not bribery and rioting at your elections?”
“As to bribery,” said Patsy, “I suppose that has existed since the beginning of time. Rioting? The elections go off quietly enough in our town.”
“Quietly, per Dio! Last night I was at the Café Greco when Z., who writes the articles signed Piff Paff, was there. Tale came in and said to him: ‘So it is you who please yourself in writing lies about me?’ This one took a chair, that one a bench—pim poom! Mirrors were smashed, bottles broken, a farce—piggery—me spiego?”