XII

At the main entrance to the marble works Richard nearly walked over a man who was coming out, intently mopping his forehead with a very dirty calico handkerchief.  It was an English stone-dresser named Denyven.  Richard did not recognize him at first.

“That you, Denyven! . . . what has happened!”

“I’ve ’ad a bit of a scrimmage, sir.”

“A scrimmage in the yard, in work hours!”

The man nodded.

“With whom?”

“Torrini, sir,—­he’s awful bad this day.”

“Torrini,—­it is always Torrini!  It seems odd that one man should be everlastingly at the bottom of everything wrong.  How did it happen?  Give it to me straight, Denyven; I don’t want a crooked story.  This thing has got to stop in Slocum’s Yard.”

“The way of it was this, sir:  Torrini wasn’t at the shop this morning.  He ’ad a day off.”

“I know.”

“But about one o’clock, sir, he come in the yard.  He ’ad been at the public ‘ouse, sir, and he was hummin’.  First he went among the carvers, talking Hitalian to ’em and making ’em laugh, though he was in a precious bad humor hisself.  By and by he come over to where me and my mates was, and began chaffin’ us, which we didn’t mind it, seeing he was ’eavy in the ’ead.  He was as clear as a fog ’orn all the same.  But when he took to banging the tools on the blocks, I sings out, ‘’Ands off!’ and then he fetched me a clip.  I was never looking for nothing less than that he’d hit me.  I was a smiling at the hinstant.”

“He must be drunker than usual.”

“Hevidently, sir.  I went down between two slabs as soft as you please.  When I got on my pins, I was for choking him a bit, but my mates hauled us apart.  That’s the ’ole of it, sir.  They’ll tell you the same within.”

“Are you hurt, Denyven?”

“Only a bit of a scratch over the heye, sir,—­and the nose,” and the man began mopping his brow tenderly.  “I’d like to ’ave that Hitalian for about ten minutes, some day when he’s sober, over yonder on the green.”

“I’m afraid he would make the ten minutes seem long to you.”

“Well, sir, I’d willingly let him try his ’and.”

“How is it, Denyven,” said Richard, “that you and sensible workingmen like you, have permitted such a quarrelsome and irresponsible fellow to become a leader in the Association?  He’s secretary, or something, isn’t he?”

“Well, sir, he writes an uncommonly clean fist, and then he’s a born horator.  He’s up to all the parli’mentary dodges.  Must ’ave ’ad no end of hexperience in them sort of things on the other side.”

“No doubt,—­and that accounts for him being over here.”

“As for horganizing a meeting, sir”—­