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Updated: June 19, 2025
"Officerr," she panted, for instantly there was a crowd, and a man with the silver-crescent badge was switching the assemblage on the legs with his cane to make room, "Officerr," she gasped, levelling her tremulous finger at Narcisse, "arrist that man!" "Mrs. Ristofalo!" exclaimed Richling, "don't do that! It was all an accident! Why, don't you see it's Narcisse, my friend?"
"No, I'm coming back," said the smiling clergyman, and the laugh came. "That's right! But" as if the thought was a sudden one "I'll be dead by thin, willn't I? Of coorse I will." "Yes?" rejoined the clergyman. "How's that?" The Irishman turned to the Italian. "Mr. Ristofalo, we're a-goin to the pinitintiary, aint we?" Ristofalo nodded. "Of coorse we air! Ah! Mr. Preechur, that's the place!"
The hand of Kate Ristofalo had removed some of its unsightly conditions and disguised others; but the bounds of the room, walls, ceiling, windows, floor, still displayed, with official unconcern, the grime and decay that is commonly thought good enough for men charged, rightly or wrongly, with crime. The clergyman's chair was in the centre of the floor.
The question now was where to get a dollar. Richling passed, looked in, seemed to hesitate, went on, turned, and passed again, the other way. Ristofalo saw him all the time and recognized him at once, but appeared not to observe him. "He will do," thought the Italian. "Be back few minute'," he said, glancing behind him.
His hearer lifted his head, better pleased, but not without some betrayal of the distrust which a lower nature feels toward the condescensions of a higher. The preacher went on: "Would you try to believe what I have to add to that?" "Yes, I'd try," replied the Irishman, looking facetiously from the youth to Ristofalo.
The light of her face seemed to spread clear into her locks. "Well, I knew you'd say so! John blames himself; he can make money, you know, Doctor, but he blames himself because he hasn't that natural gift for it that Mr. Ristofalo has. Why, Mr. Ristofalo is simply wonderful!" She smiled upon her fan in amused reminiscence. "John is always wishing he had his gift." "My dear madam, don't covet it!
The offer would have been rejected with rude scorn but for one thing: it was spoken in Italian. The man looked at him with pleased surprise, and made the concession. The porter of the store, in a red worsted cap, had drawn near. Ristofalo bade him roll the barrel on its chine to the rear and stand it by the hydrant. "I will come back pretty soon," he said, in Italian, and went away.
When Ristofalo returned to his cell, its inmate, after many upstartings from terrible dreams, that seemed to guard the threshold of slumber, had fallen asleep. The Italian touched him gently, but he roused with a wild start and stare. "Ristofalo," he said, and fell a-staring again. "You had some sleep," said the Italian. "It's worse than being awake," said Richling.
But Richling slipped away. Mrs. Riley shook her finger: "Ah, ye're a wicket joker, Mr. Richlin'. I didn't think that o' the likes of a gintleman like you, anyhow!" She shook her finger again as she withdrew into the house, smiling broadly all the way in to the cradle, where she kissed and kissed again her ruddy, chubby, sleeping boy. Ristofalo came often.
"No," replied Ristofalo, still smiling; "ought offer justice first." "Mr. Preacher," asked the young Irishman, bringing both legs to the front, and swinging them under the table, "d'ye vote?" "Yes; I vote." "D'ye call yerself a cidizen with a cidizen's rights an' djuties?" "I do." "That's right."
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