She had left no part of the structure intact save the platform and wheels. These she kept for Pat to play with. “It’ll do him for a wagon,” she reflected; “then Mike can have the shkate all to himsilf.” The banker’s spirit was utterly broken, else he would never have permitted without verbal protest at least this outrage upon his old silent partner. “Ees-a one old friend no more,” he mused sadly, looking at his wife and shaking his head. “I’m don’ know eef-a you do right.” Then in his native patter he quoted the Neapolitan saw: “Who breaks pays, but the fragments are his.” [Illustration: Jack Tar’s ignoble end.] “Glory be!” shouted Bridget. “Sure ye’re betther already. It’s the furst provairb I’m afther havin’ from yer this day. Arrah, don’t bother about that owld divvil iv a wooden man. No friend iv the family was he, Dominick dear, and it’s mesilf that knows it. Not a sup iv good luck had we from him in the five year he stood forninst the dure. Wisht now, lave us look for betther toimes now that his bones bes blazin’ under the black pot.” Scarcely had she finished speaking when the postman stepped up and put a letter in Signor Tomato’s hand--a message that heralded an instant change of fortunes. The banker’s eyes bulged and he grew more and more excited as he read. “Phat is it, annyhow?” asked Bridget, but he was too absorbed to answer. Not till he had come to the end did he tell her the contents. The letter bore the postmark of Jamaica, Long Island, and was dated two days after Bertino’s flight and a week before the day set for the wedding of Juno and Signor Di Bello: EMINENT SIGNOR TOMATO: You remember what I told you touching the bust of the Presidentessa. Well, it is still in Dogana [customhouse]. I send another letter in this, the letter of my friend the sculptor. Oh, I am so sorry! On his letter I have written that they shall give it to you. This will make them give it to you if you want it. I can not pay the tax, and my friend must not wait so long for nothing, because I think it will be a long time before I shall take it, and I have so much trouble, such grand disturbances. He is as fine a sculptor as any in Italy, my word of honour. Now, you take the bust from Dogana and you make money with it, to become his agent in America, like I intended. You do right by my friend and you will not lose. He will make more busts and you can sell them. He is Armando Corrini, of Cardinali, province of Genoa. If you do not reclaim the bust from Dogana, write it to him, because I will not write again to you, and neither you nor any one else will know where I am. BERTINO MANCONI. “_Bravissimo!_” cried Signor Tomato, the grand possibilities of the writer’s suggestion unfolding before his mind. “My dear wife, I’m blief you right for chop-a de Jack-a Tar. You know de proverbio: When ees-a cast out de devil ees-a come down de angelo.” “And where’s the angel, I dunno?” asked Bridget.