Billy was not so frightened as he might have been, had he known less of their ways, these hotheaded Latins that live in America, but not of it till a second generation binds them to the soil. He knew their allegiance to hates and friendships rooted in the land they had left; and perhaps what he had heard was only a scheme to “even up” somewhere, and concerned Mr. Smith only so far as the fact that the money they earned came from him.
The men went by slowly, halting once or twice, and Billy crept cautiously out and followed them at a distance till they came under one of the park lamps that revealed them perfectly. Billy knew them; one was the man who had chaffed him about May Nell.
He hurried around by the gate on the other side and took a car for home, where he called up Mr. Smith at Tuk-wil-la.
“It sounds important, Billy. Out with it.”
“It’s not to be told over the wire. But please don’t leave your house to-night—”
“To-night? It’s twelve o’clock. You’ve got me out of bed.”
“Well, let me see you in the morning before you leave the house, then; it may be nothing,—what I have to tell,—and it may be a good deal.”
“All right, boy. Don’t worry yourself. Nothing is as bad in the morning as it seems at night. Good-night.”
But in spite of that bit of truth Billy went to bed to dream of swarthy banditti, Italian caves, beautiful maids held for ransom, and hair-breadth escapes known only to dreams.