A FLUTTER IN THE TOMATO BANK
WITH a step almost frisky Carolina took leave of her brother, well
content with the first fruit of her wooing. She had won the consent of
her husband elect to wait for her bride, and the rest of the courtship
seemed a matter of plain sailing; wherefore she hastened across the
Park to the steamship office and bank of Signor Tomato to secure her
passage for Genoa. The glow of triumph was upon her. She felt it a
certainty now that her will would prevail in match-making as it had
so many times in match-breaking; and this desirable condition, she
reflected, was merely as it should be--only the reward that the just
had a right to count upon receiving. Had she not eaten salted fish in
Lent and kept all fast days, while her brother had devoured flesh in
open shame and Angelica had been detected munching garlic _salame_ even
on Good Friday?
She paused before the mutilated but heroic figure of an American
Jack Tar who stood in wooden repose at the door of Signor Tomato. In
their palmy days the banks of Mulberry--then more numerous than the
colony’s midwives--had a trick of closing their doors when the amount
of deposits made it worth while, to the increase of the suicide rate
and the encouragement of stiletto practice upon the bankers who got
caught. After a while the Legislature did a little closing, and Signor
Tomato, one of the poor but honest caste, had to take his gruel along
with the others. He could not take any more deposits, but he kept on
with his money-exchange business, and when to this he decided to add
an agency for Mediterranean steamships he admitted the Jack Tar as a
silent partner. At the time they joined forces the sailor was young
and handsome. The tobacconist with whom he began his career had failed
after less than a year of ill fortune. But his youth and hardy physique
were no match for the climate of Mulberry, which soon proved as ruinous
to his manly beauty as it had to Signor Di Bello’s real bananas. First
one of his weather eyes disappeared, then the fine Greek nose took
leave, and in quick order both ears vanished; at length an arm and a
half melted away, soon followed by a whole foot. It all came of his
lounging on the sidewalk at hours when not even a respectable wooden
Indian is found out of doors. Signor Tomato would have insisted on his
coming in of nights, but there was not an inch of room to spare within
the bank, with his wife and three little Tomatoes all living there,
not to speak of the counter, the large dry-goods box that served for a
safe, the family chair, and the cook stove. Once he wheeled his silent
partner into the countingroom--just after the loss of his left ear--but
the door could not be closed, and out he had to go again into the
ravaging night.
It was not the long-suffering Jack Tar that arrested Carolina’s steps,
but this placard pendent from his neck:
+---------------------------------+
| Per Genova Juno 1, |
| Piroscafo Spartan King, |
| Qui si Vendono Biglietti di |
| Passaggio a Prezzi d’Occasione. |
+---------------------------------+
(For Genoa June 1, the Spartan King. Passage Tickets for sale here at
Bargain Prices.)
“Good-morning, Signorina Di Bello! You do me great honour to read my
poor placard.” It was the high-keyed voice of Signor Tomato, a little
Neapolitan of eagle beak and long brown whiskers. As he stepped lightly
from the bank, Bridget, his stout Irish wife, was behind him. She, too,
gave Carolina a loud greeting, but in a brogue that was touched with
Neapolitan dialect, and took up her stand in the narrow doorway. At the
same time three black, curly heads and bright faces peeped from behind
her gingham skirts. These intent observers were Pat, Mike, and Biddy,
small but weighty factors of the Tomato establishment. At the sound of
her husband’s voice the mother and her brood had come from a mysterious
corner at the back of the bank, which a nankeen sail concealed from the
eye. Carolina gave cold return to Signor Tomato’s salute, but his face
did not fall. “Perhaps the signorina is planning a voyage?” he said,
smiling broadly.
“Yes, I go to Genoa. What company is this?”
“What company!” he exclaimed, his face an image of deepest
amazement. “But pardon me, signorina; there is only one company in
the Mediterranean service, the Great Imperial International General
Navigation Company, which I have the honour to represent.”
“Father Nicodemo went last week on some other line--the Duke? That’s
it--the Duke Line.”
“O signorina!” All his faculties of expression united in a show of
disgust. “You remember the proverb, ‘Do what the priest says and not
what the priest does.’ My word of honour, those Duke boats, they are
for the beasts. But the Great Imperial International General Navigation
Company’s ships are extraordinary, stupendous! Every one is a floating
paradise. Shall I speak frankly and tell you what they are? Well, they
are boats for ladies and gentlemen. There now, you have it.”
“Arrah, _si_; for signorinies like yersilf and signories, sure.” In
business matters Bridget always aided her husband with a corroborant
note.
“Do you know what happened to a friend of mine who went on that other
line?” the banker continued. “He caught the grip. Why? Now, signorina,
your attention, and I will tell you. The Duke Line is not Italian, eh?
Well, what kind of food do you suppose he got from those Englishmen?
Bifsoup, bifsoup, bifsoup; rosbif, rosbif, rosbif. And not a grain of
cheese for the soup! For eighteen days he saw macaroni only once, and
then it was cooked without oil and had not even the tail of an anchovy
or a piece of kidney to flavour it. For eighteen long days he had not
so much as a smell of garlic or the sight of a pepper pod. Do you
wonder that he caught the grip?”
Carolina was impressed, and Bridget clinched the argument with “Arrah,
divvil a wonder!”
“Besides,” Signor Tomato went on, “that line is what we navigators call
uncertain, lame ships. The signorina will recall the proverb, ‘If you
go with the lame you learn to limp.’”
“I wish to sail to-morrow. Give me a second-class ticket.”
“To-morrow! Boiling blood of San Gennaro! But I will do it, signorina;
I will get the ticket.”
Instantly Banca Tomato became a scene of bustle and excitement. The
padrone sprang for the door, pushing aside Bridget and scattering her
brood. He darted behind the curtain and reappeared in a second with his
coat and hat.
“In ten minutes you shall know,” he said, making off in the direction
of Broadway, where there was a real agency of the line.
“Will ye sit down?” said Bridget, placing the family chair near
Carolina, at the foot of the Jack Tar. “Wisha! Black toimes it is for
bankers, and no babies comin’ to kape the wolf from the dure. It’s
mesilf that remimbers this day four years come Patrick’s mornin’ when
me Biddy first saw the light. Arrah, manny’s the family wanted me
thin for a wet nurse, and a fine pinny had they to pay, thim that got
Bridget Tomah-toe. Thin it was meat in the soup ivry day. And now phat
is it? Cabbage in a sup iv water, and secondhand cabbage, too, manny’s
the toime. But I’m after raisin’ the little darlints as good as anny
in Mulberry, and much better, should anny wan ax ye.”
“Who ask-a me? I’m know northeen ’bout dat,” said Carolina, whose
English scholarship had few equals in the colony.
“Iv coorse ye don’t. Sure the signorinies are not expected to, and they
be ould enough to vote ivry hour on ’lection day. It’s lucky y’are to
be goin’ back to the ould country. How long is it y’re out?”
“Ees twelf year dat I’m in deesa countree.”
“Twelve years! Howly Mother! And ye’re not married yet! Troth I was
Signory Tomah-toe the first year I landed.”
“What I’m care?” retorted Carolina. “You mague too moocha noise from de
mout. Ees better you goin’ keep-a still.”
Luckily for the cash interests of the bank, Signor Tomato appeared at
this point, for Bridget was not a woman to adopt any one’s suggestion
that she hold her tongue. Carolina got her steamship ticket, and the
banker pocketed the first commission he had received in a week.
There was meat in the Tomato soup that night, and on the way from the
butcher’s Bridget, with Pat, Mike, and Biddy at her apron hem, stopped
in the Caffè of the Beautiful Sicilian and bought each of them a green
cake out of the chromatic display in the window. While the youngsters
were all eyes and hands for the pastry, Bridget was all sight and mind
for a certain living picture that she beheld in the half gloom of the
_caffè’s_ innermost depth. Seated at a table were Bertino and Juno the
Superb. She was tipping pensively a glass of red wine, and he, with
paper and ink before him, writhed in the throes of pen-wielding.
“Ho, ho, me beauty!” said Bridget to herself on the way home. “I’m
thinkin’ the ould wan ud have a worrud to say about that. So the
nephew is afther her along wid the uncle, and she afther both fish
wid the wan hook. Well, I hope the gossoon gets her, and it’ll do him
anny good. Di Belly ought to be cut out, the ould divvil, wid his
winkin’ and blinkin’ and collyfoxin’ afther young gerruls. But it’s
noane iv my potaties, and I’ll not disgrace mesilf talkin’ iv it. If
who’s-this--Sara the Pepper Pod--iver got hold iv it though, wouldn’t
there be a whillihu in Mulberry! Thim ghinny wimmin do be good for
nothin’ but makin’ trouble wid their tongues. And phat am I sayin’,
annyway? Talkin’ iv the ghinnies! Faith I’m half ghinny mesilf.” When
she reached the bank she said to Signor Tomato, “There’s trouble
brewin’ in the Di Belly family.”
“Troub in de fam! Ees what for?” He took an ancient black pipe from
his mouth and stood up, all attention. She told him what she had seen
in the gloom of the _caffè_. “Ha, ha!” he cried, placing a forefinger
wisely beside his nose, as he always did when quoting his Neapolitan
saws, “the mouse dances a _tarantella_ when the cat takes a _siesta_.”
“True for ye, Dominick; and a jewel iv a dance ’twill be agin the ould
maid’s comin’ from Italy. Bad ’cess to her annyhow, and may the divvil
fly away wid her back hair! Tellin’ me to hould me tongue!”
When the boiling pot had filled the bank with its savour, she went to
the door and looked with pride on her raven-curled trio in the roadway
playing “duck on a tomato can.”
“Here, Pat, Mike, Biddy!” she called. “Come in and ate your soup.”
They romped in, playing tag on the way.