The boys had reached the shop and were still alone. Bill forgot his loved problems in trying to comprehend this state of affairs.
“But I can’t understand how such a thing could really be,” he said. “We have the black hand, it is true, but——”
“Ah, no, this the black hand is never!” declared Tony. “This is of families—not to rob, though maybe they do rob in time and ask of ransoms. Such was done by some Malatesta of my mother’s cousin and he was lost to us, never returning.”
“But, confound it, Tony, here he wouldn’t dare——”
“Here he will dare more than in Italy, because there all who make family wars are suspect and many such quit and have become friends when time goes, but other forgetta never. This Luigi he forgetta never, and maybe you will see. We—my father thought we had left behind this fighting, but to this country also come Malatesta, for small is the world and large is hate.”
Bill pondered this and turned to his work, but dropped his tools in a moment, explaining to Tony that there were other figures they must have for calculating the strength of the battery and he would go back and tell Gus.
Bill reached the basement stairs, and in an alcove, alone, as though seeking to hide, was the fellow Luigi. He turned sharply, facing Bill and glaring in evident resentment at the latter’s broad, curious stare. Then the Sicilian spoke:
“Well, you see me. I it is, freshman. Stare at me some more as if I were something to step on and I will give you more reason to stare.”
“What’s the matter with you, you, you—” demanded Bill, stopping short and much incensed.
“Ah! Wop? Guinea? Dago? Sphagett—so I am insulta—is it? And by a short-leg!”