“I am Pietro Moresco,” he boasted, many times, as if the very name should awe the world.  Then, impressively:  “I am no common emigrant.  Not a common emigrant, as all may learn, in time.  In New York none are too proud to dance with me.  It is not a land for the aristocrat—­the aristocrat who travels steerage!”

He gazed at the old man fixedly, with that malevolent look of which none but an Italian really is capable.  Vanderlyn saw, also, with amazement, that there were those among his countrymen—­men evidently knowing him—­who were as much impressed by what he said as, evidently, he believed the whole world ought to be.  It almost seemed, indeed, that these folk took his boastings seriously and thought the old man and his daughter really had cause to fear the man’s reprisals.

The old man paid no heed to him, however.  He only drew his daughter closer to his side.  John noted that her cheeks were hotly flushed with anger, combined, perhaps, with fear, and felt the blood of wrath flood to his own and out again, leaving them, he knew, quite ghastly pale.  He always flushed, then paled, when he was very angry, and when that pallor clung, as it did now, dire things inevitably impended.  He was astonished at the strength of cold resentment in his heart toward the Italian.  He did not for an instant hesitate in deciding to protect the little girl from her tormentor, if need arose, at any hazard.  It did not once occur to him that this was not his work, that the ship’s officers would doubtless maintain order and, themselves, protect her as a matter of mere discipline on board.  Indeed, it seemed to him that for some reason the Italian received more than ordinary courtesy from them.  As the episode developed, they appeared to edge away, leaving the swarthy bully wholly undisturbed.

He did not fail to take advantage of this situation, but, after glancing somewhat cautiously around, followed his declaration of his own importance and resentment with an angry dive, and, an instant later, had the girl by the right arm, while his countrymen called loudly in approval.  Another instant and the man was dragging Anna to the center of the open space where dancing had been going on.

She screamed, her father rose, amazed, resentful, lurching with fierce but futile rage toward their tormentor as the ship rolled, and the slight push which the Italian gave him as he advanced upon him, was all that was required to throw him heavily.  Dazed by the fall he lay there, for a moment, helpless, and by the time he rose the girl, shrieking with alarm, was being whirled in the Italian’s arms in a crude dance.  With a short laugh the man with the accordeon had started up a faster waltz, and there were dozens who, applauding their bold leader, looked on with delight.

[Illustration:  Almost instantly the Italian bully was sprawling in the scuppers and Vanderlyn had raised the old man to his feet]