Beppo had not, however, dressed himself for professional purposes. The coming occasion was more solemn and his toilette an act of the purest piety. Perhaps that was why, when Mrs. Pascoe turned her contempt on him again, he was no longer amused.
The old woman, as she set out the jugs, was saying, "Fetch up them bottles, M'ree. An' Becky or whatever your name is--"
She turned and beheld the basin of dirty water. "You take that right down stairs!" cried she, in outrage. "An' the rest o' yer trash with yeh! When I clean a place, I want it left clean!"
He said something, sulkily, about emptying it herself.
"Well, when I come to emptyin' swill, 't won't be no Dago swill! Here--"
For he had furiously snatched the basin above his head to dash it on the floor.
She caught at and somehow prevented him, but not from whirling it through the window into the back yard. He was smiling again at this assuagement to his dignity when he suddenly perceived that the struggle had sprinkled his vest; spots appeared also upon his scarf's cerulean blue! He became, on the instant, a maniac, not human; he raved, he shrieked, his delicate skin flamed, tears suffused his eyes, he ran up and down scattering prayers, howls and curses. Until, one of these voyages bringing him close to Mrs. Pascoe's small disgusted figure, he seized her by the wrist and with the deliberate, systematic skill of custom began to wrench her arm.
Mrs. Pascoe very promptly kicked him in the shins. "If my son Nick was here he'd take the buckle-end o' one o' those straps an' spank the life out o' yeh! Yeh wax-face! Yeh--" For once stooping to Italian she shot forth the word, "Ricondoterro!"
It was his calling and he should not have objected to it. None the less, pursing his soft lips he spat a fine spray over her face. She jumped at him in such a fury that Maria threw protecting arms about her playfellow; then they were all parted by the tall Sicilian, Mr. Gumama.
This imposing person had, with dramatic quiet, brought up the wine; and now, holding Beppo by one wrist, he listened to Mrs. Pascoe's angry cluckings. Then he seemed merely to put out one fist. The boy fell on his back without even a cry and lay as he fell. "Why, you beast, you!" cried Mrs. Pascoe. "Mebbe you've killed him!"