“Ah, my dear wife, moosta tell you de trut honesta. I’m been mague lill fun. Deesa villa she no ees-a joosta der same lika de housa. Ees-a not mague of wood; but you wait-a, some time I’m show you how ees-a nice and cool-a de iron when ees-a cover wit leaves. Pietro Sardoni he been liv-a here, and he lik-a var mooch, I’m blief.” “Phat d’yer mane at all at all? Is it not a house ye’re takin’ us to, thin? What is it, annyway? Howly wafer! Pipes!” They had drawn near enough for her to distinguish two black iron pipes of the largest size used for underground conduits. Though they seemed much smaller from that distance, each was twelve feet long with an interior diameter of five feet. They lay side by side, as they had been left by the builders of the aqueduct. “Moosha, moosha,” she went on, but not relaxing her effort at the shafts, “it’s far down in the worruld y’are now, Bridget O’Kelly, and yer father’s own third cousin coachman to the Lord Mayor iv Dublin!” “My dear wife, moosta forgive your husband; ees-a got northeen better. De proverbio he say: One who is contented has enough.” The strip of green that crowned the margin of the railroad cut was spangled with bright yellow, and, his eye lighting on it, Signor Tomato said, by way of a comforting crumb to Bridget: “Look! Guess-a we goin’ mague plenta mon here pickin’ dandelion salad.” One of the youngsters had heard the talk about the pipes, and, telling the others, all three ran ahead to investigate. After a peep into one of the huge tubes they came trooping back in a state of fright. “Somebody in our pipe, pah!” said Mike. “A big man; guess he’s dead,” from Pat. It had never struck Domenico’s fancy that the water pipes whereon he had counted for a final refuge might become a château in Spain because of some rival claimant to their shelter. “_Gran Dio!_ More trouble!” he whined, and bundled through the grass to see for himself, while Bridget trudged on with the cart, the children close at her heels. Stooping, he peered into one of the pipes, rose again quickly, threw up his arms, brandished his open hands, bent again, and put his head into the mouth of the iron cavern. Then he sprang up and shrieked: “It is he! By the blood of St. Januarius, _his_ blood shall pay!” From the deep pocket of his threadbare coat he drew a heavy-bladed clasp knife, jerked it open, and the next instant would have tried its steel on the awakened figure in the pipe but for Bridget, who caught both his arms from behind and pinioned them in able style. “Is it bloody murther yer’d be addin’ to all the rest, Dominick Tomah-toe,” said she, tightening her grip, while the little man struggled and profaned the canonized host. “Phat the divil’s the manin’ iv it, annyhow?” “Let-a go! You hear? Let-a go, I’m tell-a you! Look in de pipa and you see ees-a what for. Guess-a you goin’ want kill too.”