“Some people,” he might have been heard to grumble to himself, “talk too much.”
“The battle of Maxwell Street!” exclaimed Merry at his elbow. Her eyes shone. “And we won!”
“I am sure of it!” Angelo agreed heartily. “However, I am out four dollars and sixty-five cents for fish and tomatoes.”
“But look!” Merry pointed to the battered little Irishman with the Cross of Honor. “He is taking up a collection. You will be paid.”
“No, no! That cannot be!” True distress was in the Italian boy’s eyes. “Stop him.”
“No. We must not!” Merry’s tone was tense with emotion. “You are their hero. You stood up for their rights. Would you be so mean as to rob them of the right to do homage to their hero?”
“Ah, me!” Angelo rubbed his eyes. “This is a very strange world.”
In the end he departed with a heavy sack of nickels and pennies, while the crowd shouted their approval of the “brave little Dago.” And for once Angelo did not hate this name they had given his people.
They had gone another block before Angelo spoke again. What he said both puzzled and troubled the little French girl. “That whole affair,” he said quietly, “was a faux pas.”
“How could it be!” she exclaimed. “I thought it quite wonderful. What right have those big, bluffing bullies to run down poor people on Maxwell Street?”