“He no can do!” shrieked Rocco. “My price is da low.” Then, angered by this reflection on the prices of his wares, he burst into a lengthy explanation of the struggles confronting a poor Italian trying to get along in a new country. He grabbed Chet by the coat collar, dragged him to a corner of the fruit stall, bade him inspect the fruit, gabbled off prices, and generally worked himself into a state of high indignation. In the meantime, Tony Prito made good use of his time to shove the mysterious package under the front of the stall. Then he joined the other boys who had screened his movements by gathering about Rocco.

“You’ll have the Black Hand after you if you keep on charging such high prices⁠—that’s all I can say!” declared Chet, as the boys moved away.

“Poof! W’at do I care for da Blacka Hand. No frighten me!” said Rocco bravely, but he gulped when he said it and there was no doubt that the shot had gone home.