Carmella Commands
Mr. Barrington turned and regarded Tommaso. The latter, with an instinct that might have been inherited from his daughter, had lighted a cigarette and was regarding the architecture of nearby buildings. He did not know what Dixon was saying, but with the canny receptivity of the alien he was guiding his ideas by the tone of voice and such few words as he caught. Dixon, having finished his testimonial, shivered and hoped to high heaven that there was a foundation for it.
Mr. Barrington opened the door and leaned out.
“Hello, Mr. Coletta,” he said. “My chauffeur here tells me you’re a wiz at getting cellars dug. Hop in and drive out to Greendale with me and talk it over.”
Tommaso, understanding the one word ‘“Greendale,” hesitated.
“Get in, you dummy,” said Dixon. “In! Get me? Talk digga cellar. Get me?”
He half pulled Tommaso into the car beside Mr. Barrington, slammed the door, and jumped back into his driver’s seat. Dodging traffic and watching signals, he kept an ear turned back.
“Now see here,” began Mr. Barrington. “My chauffeur tells me you can dig cellars. Can you bust a strike? Can you dig cellars with non-union diggers? Can you slam into a job and pull it through doublequick, regardless of damn Bolsheviks and strikers? How about it? How about it in dollars and cents?”
“Non parlo Inglese!” said Tommaso mildly.
[144]
