Bridget had the best of reasons for lacking faith in her husband’s business projects, so she set her face and tongue stoutly against this proposed adventure into the field of fine art. To her bread-and-butter view it meant a leap into starvation. She knew he could not meet the customs demand of a hundred and forty dollars save by paying out every piece of money that was on exhibition in the window--by parting with the bank’s entire capital. In stirring figures she pictured the distress and ruin that he was going to court. But to no purpose. From the outset it was clear that her Hibernian substance would not prevail against his Italian shadow. Even while she begged him for the sake of the “childer” to desist, he went about gathering up the money. He untied the sham packages, and from the top of each picked off the one real bank note and threw the sheaf of blank slips under the little counter. Then into a chamois bag he swept the large heaps of coppers, the small heap of silver, and the very few gold coins that were in the collection. “Who nothing dares, nothing does,” he quoted grandly, as he pocketed the money, and made for the door. “The howly Patrick forgive ye,” said Bridget, following him to the street. “Ivry cint betune yer family and the wolf! Worra, worra, Dominick Tomah-toe, ye’ll rue this day whin they’re singin’ at yer wake.” “Oh, ees-a better you goin’ shut up,” returned the banker, in a tone meant to be gentle and reassuring. “Ees-a whad for you mague so moocha troub? I’m tell-a you ees-a better you goin’ shut up. Why? ’Cause you not understand de beautiful art-a. Good-a by, my dear wife. When I’m com-a back I’m show you sometheen var fine.” He went to a rival banker and turned all his Italian money into American. Then he borrowed a push-cart and worked his way at great peril among the trucks and cable cars to the seat of customs. It took all day to unwind the red tape that bound the bust, and the clerks counted it a capital joke to watch the half-frantic little Italian tearing from one window to another in search of the proper authority. Darkness had fallen when, with the big case on his cart, he pushed into Mulberry and stopped before the broken bank. At the door sat Bridget with her knitting, and Pat, Mike, and Biddy were romping on the sidewalk. “Ees-a var heavy de Presidentessa,” he said, tapping the box. Bridget sprang up and lent him the aid of her sinewy arms. Full of wonder, the children followed them with their burden into the bank. With a finger on his lip, Signor Tomato turned the key in the lock and covered the window so that outsiders might not look in. “Ees-a grand secret-a,” he whispered; “moost-a see nobodee.” By the dim light of an oil lamp he set to work with cold chisel and hammer ripping off the lid of the case. When he had lifted out the precious one, removed the wrapping paper from her face, and set her up on the counter, he stepped back to feast his eyes.