money
without security and who had abused his confidence. Finding that the
debtor intended to cheat him out of the money, although he could easily
have raised the amount of the debt had he so wished, the importer sent
for a Camorrist and told him the story.

"You shall be paid," said the Camorrist.

Two weeks later the importer was summoned to a cellar on Mott Street.
The Camorrist conducted him down the stairs and opened the door.
A candle-end flaring on a barrel showed the room crowded with
rough-looking Italians and the debtor crouching in a corner. The
Camorrist motioned to the terrified victim to seat himself by the
barrel. No word was spoken and amid deathly silence the man obeyed. At
last the Camorrist turned to the importer and said:

"This man owes you three thousand dollars, I believe."

The importer nodded.

"Pay what you justly owe," ordered the Camorrist.

Slowly the reluctant debtor produced a roll of bills and counted them
out upon the barrel-head. At five hundred he stopped and looked at the
Camorrist.

"Go on!" directed the latter.

So the other, with beads of sweat on his brow, continued until he
reached the two thousand-dollar mark. Here the bills seemed exhausted.
The importer by this time began to feel a certain reticence about his
part in the matter--there might be some widows and orphans somewhere.
The bad man looked inquiringly at him, and the importer mumbled
something to the effect that he "would let it go at that." But the bad
man misunderstood what his client had said and ordered the bankrupt to
proceed. So he did proceed to pull out another thousand dollars from an
inside pocket and add it to the pile on the barrel-head.

The Camorrist nodded, picked up the money, recounted it, and removed
three hundred dollars, handing the rest to the importer.

"I have deducted the camorra," said he.

The bravos formed a line along the cellar to the door, and, as the
importer passed on his way out, each removed his hat and wished him
a buona sera. That importer certainly will never contribute toward a
society for the purpose of eradicating the "Black Hand" from the city of
New York. He says it is the greatest thing he knows.

But the genuine Camorrist or Mafius' would be highly indignant at being
called a "Black Hander." His is an ancient and honorable profession;
he is no common criminal, but a "man peculiarly sensitive in matters
of honor," who for a consideration will see that others keep