had tried to induce Anna to drink with him, had eyed the pair askance,
resentfully.

Young Vanderlyn observed that he was oftener and oftener, as he drank
and danced with women of his own race, turning envious and longing
eyes toward the beautiful young German girl, throwing resentful,
scowling glances at her father, who, on that previous occasion, had so
notably rebuffed him. It became quite plain, ere long, that the man
had worked up a great wrath against the flute-player.

"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