Part 6 (1/2)
Git!”
With muttered imprecation the peddlers pushed on their carts to make place for a noisy, tuneless hurdy-gurdy. On the pavement at its side a dozen children congregated--none over ten--to dance the turkey trot and the ”n.i.g.g.e.r,” according to the most approved Bowery artistry of ”spieling.”
”Lord, no wonder they fall into the gutter when they grow up,” thought Bobbie. ”They're sitting in it from the time they get out of their swaddling rags.”
Bobbie walked up to the nearby fruit merchant.
”How much is this apple, Tony?”
The Italian looked at him warily, and then smirked.
”Eet's nothing toa you, signor. I'ma da policeman's friend. You taka him.”
Bobbie laughed, as he fished out a nickel from his pocket. He shook his head, as he replied.
”No, Tony, I don't get my apples from the 'policeman's friend.' I can pay for them. You know all of us policemen aren't grafters--even on the line of apples and peanuts.”
The Italian's eyes grew big.
”Well, you'ra de first one dat offer to maka me de pay, justa de same.
Eet's a two centa, eef you insist.”
He gave Bobbie his change, and the young man munched away on the fresh fruit with relish. The Italian gave him a sunny grin, and then volunteered:
”Youa de new policeman, eh?”
”I have been in the hospital for more than a month, so that's why you haven't seen me. How long have you been on this corner? There was another man here when I came this way last.”
”Si, signor. That my cousin Beppo. But he's gone back to It'. He had some money--he wanta to keep eet, so he go while he can.”
”What do you mean by that?”
”I don'ta wanta talk about eet, signor,” said the Italian, with a strange look. ”Eet'sa bad to say I was his cousin even.”
The dealer looked worried, and naturally Bobbie became curious and more insistent.
”You can tell me, if it's some trouble. Maybe I can help you some time if you're afraid of any one.”
The Italian shook his head, pessimistically.
”No, signor. Eet'sa better I keep what you call de mum.”
”Did he blow up somebody with a bomb? Or was it stiletto work?” asked Bobbie, as he threw away the core of the apple, to observe it greedily captured by a small, dirty-faced urchin by the curb.
The fruit merchant looked into Officer Burke's face, and, as others had done, was inspired by its honesty and candor. He felt that here might be a friend in time of trouble. Most of the policemen he knew were austere and cynical. He leaned toward Burke and spoke in a subdued tone.
”Poor Beppo, he have de broken heart. He was no Black Hand--he woulda no usa de stiletto on a cheecken, he so kinda, gooda man. He justa leave disa country to keepa from de suicide.”
”Why, that's strange! Tell me about it. Poor fellow!”