At this point a well-thatched head stuck out of the pipe, and the drowsy eyes of a man on his knees looked up wonderingly at the group of Tomatoes. It was the face of Bertino Manconi. “Ah-ha! Now you see what for I’m go kill. Let-a go, I’m tell-a you!” “Aisy now, me darlint. No, no; I’ll not lave you go yit awhile; not till that ghinny fire in ye has burnt out a bit. Will ye give me the knife? Here, lave go iv it--there y’are. Now ye can use yer fists in Donnybrook shtyle, and not a worrud from Bridget O’Kelly.” She had captured the knife. Bertino was on his feet. Tomato moved toward him with claws outspread. “See what you have done,” he snarled in the Naples patter. “Famous joke, _neh_? To rob a poor man of his last cent, that you might have a bust of your _amorosa_--some good-for-naught of a woman! A-h-h! A famous joke! But you shall pay. Oh, woman, give me that knife.” “Phat ails yer fists?” “You are a fool,” broke out Bertino, and the banker jumped at him, but did not strike. “A fool, I say. You talk much and say nothing. What is it about the bust? Tell me. Can’t you see I am hungry to know? What has become of it? Is it a fine likeness of the Presidentessa?” “Presidentessa!” sneered the banker, and Bridget echoed the word in like contempt. “Yes. Beautiful, _neh_?” The banker waved the back of his hand beneath his chin in token that he was not to be fooled. “You are a great innocent. Yes; but you can’t play off on me. You know it is not the First Lady of the Land.” “Not the Presidentessa?” “No, you thief!” “For the love of the bright Saints, who is it?” “Bah! You know.” “I swear I do not. It was a picture of the Presidentessa that I sent to the sculptor. Maria! Has Armando made the wrong woman? Where is it?” “Here.” In a jiffy the furniture atop of it was removed and the boxed marble set on the ground. When the paper had been torn off and the face of Juno stood revealed in the morning’s first flush Bertino was on hands and knees before it. “Holy Madonna of Grace!” he shrieked, and got up covering his eyes and turning away. “It is too much, too much!” “Who is it?” asked Bridget and Domenico in concert. “My wife!” “Arrah, now I know the mug iv it!” cried Bridget in triumph. “Sure that pug nose has been dancin’ in me brain like a nightmare since iver I seen it in the bank. She’s noane other than the singer I seen in the Caffè of the Bella Siciliana the day ye was writin’ at the table. Do ye moind?” She spoke in Signor Tomato’s jargon, tinctured freely with dashes of her mother brogue. “Yes,” Bertino answered; “it was on that day she promised to be my wife, and that day I wrote the letter to Armando and put in a picture of the First Lady.”