the noon hour at the quarry.
He had his father's love for mechanics. He had his father's love for law
and order making, the gift to both of their unmixed Anglo-Saxon
ancestry. When Big Jim did talk at the noon hour, it was usually to try
to educate his Italian and Polish fellow workmen to his New England
viewpoint. Little Jim never missed a word. He adored his father. He was
profoundly influenced by the dimly felt, not understood tragedy of his
father's life and of the old New England town in which he lived.

Big Jim spread a white napkin over his knee and poured a cup of steaming
soup from the thermos bottle. Tomasso broke off a chunk of bread and
took an onion from one pocket and a piece of cheese from another. Big
Jim and 'Masso, as he was called, working shoulder to shoulder, day by
day, had developed a sort of liking for each other in spite of the fact
that Big Jim held foreigners in utter contempt.

"Why did you come to America, anyhow, 'Masso?" drawled Big Jim, waiting
for his soup to cool.

'Masso gnawed his onion and bread thoughtfully. "Maka da mon' quick,
here; go backa da old countra rich."

"What else?" urged Big Jim.

'Masso looked blank. "I mean," said Big Jim, "did you like our laws
better'n yours? Did you like our ways better?"

'Masso shrugged his shoulders. "Don' care 'bout countra if maka da mon'.
Why you come desa countra?"

Big Jim's drawl seemed to bite like the slow gouge of a stone chisel.

"I was born here, you Wop! This very dirt made the food that made me,
understand? I'm a part of this country, same as the trees are. My
forefathers left comfort and friends behind them and came to this
country when it was full of Indians to be free. Free! Can you get that?
And what good did it do them? They larded the soil with their good sweat
to make a place for fellows like you. And what do you care?"

'Masso, who was quick and eager, shook his head. "I work all da time. I
maka da mon. I go home to old countra. That 'nough. Work alla da time."

Big Jim ate his beef sandwich slowly. Little Jim, chin in palm, sat
listening, turning the matter over in his mind. His father tried another
angle.

"What started you over here, 'Masso? How'd you happen to think of
coming?"

'Masso understood this. "Homa, mucha talk 'bout desa landa. How
ever'boda getta da mon over here. I heara da talk but it like a dream,
see? I lika da talk but I lika my own Italia, see? But in olda countra
many men work for steams