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Title: Phil the Fiddler
Author: Horatio Alger, Jr.
Release Date: March 18, 2006 [EBook #671]
Language: English
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*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PHIL THE FIDDLER ***
Produced by Charles Keller and David Widger
PHIL, THE FIDDLER
By Horatio Alger, Jr.
PREFACE
Among the most interesting and picturesque classes of street children in
New York are the young Italian musicians, who wander about our streets
with harps, violins, or tambourines, playing wherever they can secure
an audience. They become Americanized less easily than children of other
nationalities, and both in dress and outward appearance retain their
foreign look, while few, even after several years' residence, acquire
even a passable knowledge of the English language.
In undertaking, therefore, to describe this phase of street life, I
found, at the outset, unusual difficulty on account of my inadequate
information. But I was fortunate enough to make the acquaintance of
two prominent Italian gentlemen, long resident in New York--Mr. A. E.
Cerqua, superintendent of the Italian school at the Five Points, and
through his introduction, of Mr. G. F. Secchi de Casale, editor of
the well-known Eco d'Italia--from whom I obtained full and trustworthy
information. A series of articles contributed by Mr. De Casale to
his paper, on the Italian street children, in whom he has long felt a
patriotic and sympathetic interest, I have found of great service, and I
freely acknowledge that, but for the information thus acquired, I should
have been unable to write the present volume.
My readers will learn with surprise, probably, of the hard life led by
these children, and the inhuman treatment which they receive from the
speculators who buy them from their parents in Italy. It is not without
reason that Mr. De Casale speaks of them as the "White Slaves" of New
York. I may add, in passing, that they are quite distinct from the
Italian bootblacks and newsboys who are to be found in Chatham Street
and the vicinity of the City Hall Park. These last are the children of
resident Italians of the poorer class, and are much better off than
the musicians. It is from their ranks that the Italian school, before
referred to, draws its pupils.
If the story of "Phil the Fiddler," in revealing for the first time to
the American public the hardships and ill treatment of these wandering
musicians shall excite an active sympathy in their behalf, the author
will feel abundantly repaid for his labors.
NEW YORK, APRIL 2, 1872.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. PHIL THE FIDDLER
II. PHIL AND HIS PROTECTOR
III. GIACOMO
IV. AN INVITATION TO SUPPER
V. ON THE FERRY BOAT
VI. THE BARROOM
VII. THE HOME OF THE BOYS
VIII. A COLD DAY
IX. PIETRO THE SPY
X. FRENCH'S HOTEL
XI. THE BOYS RECEPTION
XII. GIACOMO'S PRESENTIMENTS
XIII. PHIL FINDS A CAPITALIST
XIV. THE TAMBOURINE GIRL
XV. PHIL'S NEW PLANS
XVI. THE FASHIONABLE PARTY
XVII. THE PADRONE IS ANXIOUS
XVIII. PHIL ELUDES HIS PURSUER
XIX. PIETRO'S PURSUIT
XX. PIETRO'S DISAPPOINTMENT
XXI. THE SIEGE
XXII. THE SIEGE IS RAISED
XXIII. A PITCHED BATTLE
XXIV. THE DEATH OF GIACOMO
XXV. PHIL FINDS A FRIEND
XXVI. CONCLUSION
PHIL THE FIDDLER
CHAPTER I
PHIL THE FIDDLER
"Viva Garibaldi!" sang a young Italian boy in an uptown street,
accompanying himself on a violin which, from its battered appearance,
seemed to have met with hard usage.
As the young singer is to be the hero of my story, I will pause to
describe him. He was twelve years old, but small of his age. His
complexion was a brilliant olive, with the dark eyes peculiar to his
race, and his hair black. In spite of the dirt, his face was strikingly
handsome, especially when lighted up by a smile, as was often the case,
for in spite of the hardships of his lot, and these were neither few nor
light, Filippo was naturally merry and light-hearted.
He wore a velveteen jacket, and pantaloons which atoned, by their extra
length, for the holes resulting from hard usage and antiquity. His
shoes, which appeared to be wholly unacquainted with blacking, were,
like his pantaloons, two or three sizes too large for him, making it
necessary for him to shuffle along ungracefully.
It was now ten o'clock in the morning. Two hours had elapsed since
Filippo, or Phil, as I shall call him, for the benefit of my readers
unfamiliar with Italian names, had left the miserable home in Crosby
Street, where he and forty other boys lived in charge of a middle-aged
Italian, known as the padrone. Of this person, and the relations between
him and the boys, I shall hereafter speak. At present I propose to
accompany Phil.
Though he had wandered about, singing and playing, for two hours, Phil
had not yet received a penny. This made him somewhat uneasy, for he knew
that at night he must carry home a satisfactory sum to the padrone, or
he would be brutally beaten; and poor Phil knew from sad experience that
this hard taskmaster had no mercy in such cases.
The block in which he stood was adjacent to Fifth Avenue, and was lined
on either side with brown-stone houses. It was quiet, and but few passed
through it during the busy hours of the day. But Phil's hope was that
some money might be thrown him from a window of some of the fine houses
before which he played, but he seemed likely to be disappointed, for he
played ten minutes without apparently attracting any attention. He
was about to change his position, when the basement door of one of the
houses opened, and a servant came out, bareheaded, and approached him.
Phil regarded her with distrust, for he was often ordered away as a
nuisance. He stopped playing, and, hugging his violin closely, regarded
her watchfully.
"You're to come in," said the girl abruptly.
"Che cosa volete?"(1) said Phil, suspiciously.
(1) "What do you want?"
"I don't understand your Italian rubbish," said the girl. "You're to
come into the house."
In general, boys of Phil's class are slow in learning English. After
months, and even years sometimes, their knowledge is limited to a few
words or phrases. On the other hand, they pick up French readily, and as
many of them, en route for America, spend some weeks, or months, in the
French metropolis, it is common to find them able to speak the language
somewhat. Phil, however, was an exception, and could manage to speak
English a little, though not as well as he could understand it.
"What for I go?" he asked, a little distrustfully.
"My young master wants to hear you play on your fiddle," said the
servant. "He's sick, and can't come out."
"All right!" said Phil, using one of the first English phrases he had
caught. "I will go."
"Come along, then."
Phil followed his guide into the basement, thence up two flight of
stairs, and along a handsome hall into a chamber. The little fiddler,
who had never before been invited into a fine house, looked with
admiration at the handsome furniture, and especially at the pictures
upon the wall, for, like most of his nation, he had a love for whatever
was beautiful, whether in nature or art.
The chamber had two occupants. One, a boy of twelve years, was lying
in a bed, propped up by pillows. His thin, pale face spoke of long
sickness, and contrasted vividly with the brilliant brown face of the
little Italian boy, who seemed the perfect picture of health. Sitting
beside the bed was a lady of middle age and pleasant expression. It was
easy to see by the resemblance that she was the mother of the sick boy.
Phil looked from one to the other, uncertain what was required of him.
"Can you speak English?" asked Mrs. Leigh.
"Si, signora, a little," answered our hero.
"My son is sick, and would like to hear you play a little."
"And sing, too," added the sick boy, from the bed.
Phil struck up the song he had been singing in the street, a song well
known to all who have stopped to listen to the boys of his class, with
the refrain, "Viva Garibaldi." His voice was clear and melodious, and
in spite of the poor quality of his instrument, he sang with so much
feeling that the effect was agreeable.
The sick boy listened with evident pleasure, for he, too, had a taste
for music.
"I wish I could understand Italian," he said, "I think it must be a good
song."
"Perhaps he can sing some English song," suggested Mrs. Leigh.
"Can you sing in English?" she asked.
Phil hesitated a moment, and then broke into the common street ditty,
"Shoe fly, don't bouder me," giving a quaint sound to the words by his
Italian accent.
"Do you know any more?" asked Henry Leigh, when our hero had finished.
"Not English," said Phil, shaking his head.
"You ought to learn more."
"I can play more," said Phil, "but I know not the words."
"Then play some tunes."
Thereupon the little Italian struck up "Yankee Doodle," which he played
with spirit and evident enjoyment.
"Do you know the name of that?" asked Henry.
Phil shook his head.
"It is 'Yankee Doodle.'"
Phil tried to pronounce it, but the words in his mouth had a droll
sound, and made them laugh.
"How old are you?" asked Henry.
"Twelve years."
"Then you are quite as old as I am."
"I wish you were as well and strong as he seems to be," said Mrs. Leigh,
sighing, as she looked at Henry's pale face.
That was little likely to be. Always a delicate child, Henry had a
year previous contracted a cold, which had attacked his lungs, and had
gradually increased until there seemed little doubt that in the long
struggle with disease nature must succumb, and early death ensue.
"How long have you been in this country?"
"Un anno."
"How long is that?"
"A year," said Henry. "I know that, because 'annus' means a year in
Latin."
"Si, signor, a year," said Phil.
"And where do you come from?"
"Da Napoli."
"That means from Naples, I suppose."
"Si, signor."
Most of the little Italian musicians to be found in our streets are
brought from Calabria, the southern portion of Italy, where they
are purchased from their parents, for a fixed sum, or rate of annual
payment. But it is usual for them when questioned, to say that they come
from Naples, that being the principal city in that portion of Italy, or
indeed in the entire kingdom.
"Who do you live with," continued Henry.
"With the padrone."
"And who is the padrone?"
"He take care of me--he bring me from Italy."
"Is he kind to you?"
Phil shrugged his shoulders.
"He beat me sometimes," he answered.
"Beats you? What for?"
"If I bring little money."
"Does he beat you hard?"
"Si, signor, with a stick."
"He must be a bad man," said Henry, indignantly.
"How much money must you carry home?"
"Two dollars."
"But it isn't your fault, if people will not give you money."
"Non importa. He beat me."
"He ought to be beaten himself."
Phil shrugged his shoulders. Like most boys of his class, to him the
padrone seemed all-powerful. The idea that his oppressive taskmaster
should be punished for his cruelty had never dawned upon him. Knowing
nothing of any law that would protect him, he submitted to it as a
necessity, from which there was no escape except by running away. He
had not come to that yet, but some of his companions had done so, and he
might some day.
After this conversation he played another tune. Mrs. Leigh drew out her
purse, and gave him fifty cents. Phil took his fiddle under his arm,
and, following the servant, who now reappeared, emerged into the street,
and moved onward.
CHAPTER II
PHIL AND HIS PROTECTOR
To a certain extent Phil was his own master; that is, he was at liberty
to wander where he liked, provided he did not neglect his business, and
returned to the lodging-house at night with the required sum of money.
But woe to him if he were caught holding back any of the money for his
own use. In that case, he would be beaten, and sent to bed without his
supper, while the padrone, according to the terms of his contract with
the distant parent would withhold from the amount due the latter ten
times the sum kept by the boy. In the middle of the day he was allowed
to spend three cents for bread, which was the only dinner allowed him.
Of course, the boys were tempted to regale themselves more luxuriously,
but they incurred a great risk in doing so. Sometimes the padrone
followed them secretly, or employed others to do so, and so was able to
detect them. Besides, they traveled, in general, by twos and threes,
and the system of espionage was encouraged by the padrone. So mutual
distrust was inspired, and the fear of being reported made the boys
honest.
Phil left the house of Mr. Leigh in good spirits. Though he had earned
nothing before, the fifty cents he had just received made a good
beginning, and inspired in him the hope of getting together enough to
save him a beating, for one night at least.
He walked down toward Sixth Avenue, and turning the corner walked down
town. At length he paused in front of a tobacconist's shop, and began to
play. But he had chosen an unfortunate time and place. The tobacconist
had just discovered a deficiency in his money account, which he
suspected to be occasioned by the dishonesty of his assistant. In
addition to this he had risen with a headache, so that he was in a
decidedly bad humor. Music had no charms for him at that moment, and he
no sooner heard the first strains of Phil's violin than he rushed from
the shop bareheaded, and dashed impetuously at the young fiddler.
"Get away from my shop, you little vagabond!" he cried. "If I had my
way, you should all be sent out of the country."
Phil was quick to take a hint. He saw the menace in the shopkeeper's
eyes, and, stopping abruptly, ran farther down the street, hugging his
fiddle, which he was afraid the angry tobacconist might seize and break.
This, to him, would be an irreparable misfortune and subject him to a
severe punishment, though the fault would not be his.
Next he strolled into a side street, and began to play in front of some
dwelling-houses. Two or three young children, who had been playing in
the street, gathered about him, and one of them gave him a penny. They
were clamorous for another tune, but Phil could not afford to work for
nothing, and, seeing no prospects of additional pay, took his violin,
and walked away, much to the regret of his young auditors, who, though
not rich, were appreciative. They followed him to the end of the block,
hoping that he would play again, but they were disappointed.
Phil played two or three times more, managing to obtain in all
twenty-five cents additional. He reached the corner of Thirteenth Street
just as the large public school, known as the Thirteenth Street School,
was dismissed for its noon intermission.
"Give us a tune, Johnny," cried Edward Eustis, one of the oldest boys.
"Yes, a tune," joined in several others.
This was an invitation to which Phil was always willing to respond.
Besides, he knew from experience that boys were more generous, in
proportion to their means, than those of larger growth, and he hoped to
get enough from the crowd around him to increase his store to a dollar.
The boys gathered around the little minstrel, who struck up an Italian
tune, but without the words.
"Sing, sing!" cried the boys.
Phil began to sing. His clear, fresh voice produced a favorable
impression upon the boys.
"He's a bully singer," said one. "I can't sing much better myself."
"You sing! Your singing would be enough to scare a dozen tom cats."
"Then we should be well matched. Look here, Johnny, can't you sing
something in English?"
Phil, in response to this request, played and sang "Shoo Fly!" which
suiting the boys' taste, he was called upon to repeat.
The song being finished, Edward Eustis took off his cap, and went around
the circle.
"Now, boys, you have a chance to show your liberality," he said. "I'll
start the collection with five cents."
"That's ahead of me," said James Marcus. "Justice to a large and
expensive family will prevent me contributing anything more than two
cents."
"The smallest favors thankfully received," said Edward.
"Then take that, and be thankful," said Tom Lane, dropping in a penny.
"I haven't got any money," said Frank Gaylord, "but here's an apple;"
and he dropped a large red apple into the cap.
Phil; watching with interest the various contributions, was best pleased
with the last. The money he must carry to the padrone. The apple he
might keep for himself, and it would vary agreeably his usual meager
fare.
"The biggest contribution yet," said Edward.
"Here, Sprague, you are liberal. What'll you give?"
"My note at ninety days."
"You might fail before it comes due."
"Then take three cents. 'Tis all I have; 'I can no more, though poor the
offering be.'"
"Oh, don't quote Shakespeare."
"It isn't Shakespeare; it's Milton."
"Just as much one as the other."
"Here, Johnny," said Edward, after going the rounds, "hold your hands,
and I'll pour out the money. You can retire from business now on a
fortune."
Phil was accustomed to be addressed as Johnny, that being the generic
name for boy in New York. He deposited the money in his pocket, and,
taking his fiddle, played once more in acknowledgment of the donation.
The boys now dispersed, leaving Phil to go on his way. He took out the
apple with the intention of eating it, when a rude boy snatched it from
his hand.
"Give it back," said Phil, angrily.
"Don't you wish you may get it?" said the other, holding it out of his
reach.
The young musician had little chance of redress, his antagonist was a
head taller than himself, and, besides, he would not have dared lay down
his fiddle to fight, lest it might be broken.
"Give it to me," he said, stamping his foot.
"I mean to eat it myself," said the other, coolly. "It's too good for
the likes of you."
"You're a thief."
"Don't you call me names, you little Italian ragamuffin, or I'll hit
you," said the other, menacingly.
"It is my apple."
"I'm going to eat it."
But the speaker was mistaken. As he held the apple above his head, it
was suddenly snatched from him. He looked around angrily, and confronted
Edward Eustis, who, seeing Phil's trouble from a little distance, had at
once come to his rescue.
"What did you do that for?" demanded the thief.
"What did you take the boy's apple for?"
"Because I felt like it."
"Then I took it from you for the same reason."
"Do you want to fight?" blustered the rowdy.
"Not particularly."
"Then hand me back that apple," returned the other.
"Thank you; I shall only hand it to the rightful owner--that little
Italian boy. Are you not ashamed to rob him?"
"Do you want to get hit?"
"I wouldn't advise you to do it."
The rowdy looked at the boy who confronted him. Edward was slightly
smaller, but there was a determined look in his eye which the bully,
who, like those of his class generally, was a coward at heart, did not
like. He mentally decided that it would be safer not to provoke him.
"Come here, Johnny, and take your apple," said Edward.
Phil advanced, and received back his property with satisfaction.
"You'd better eat it now. I'll see that he doesn't disturb you."
Phil followed the advice of his new friend promptly. He had eaten
nothing since seven o'clock, and then only a piece of dry bread and
cheese, and the apple, a rare luxury, he did not fail to relish. His
would-be robber scowled at him meanwhile, for he had promised himself
the pleasure of dispatching the fruit. Edward stood by till the apple
was eaten, and then turned away. The rowdy made a movement as if to
follow Phil, but Edward quickly detected him, and came back.
"Don't you dare touch him," he said, significantly, "or you'll have to
settle accounts with me. Do you see that policeman? I am going to ask
him to have an eye on you. You'd better look out for yourself."
The other turned at the caution, and seeing the approach of one of the
Metropolitan police quickly vanished. He had a wholesome fear of
these guardians of the public peace, and did not care to court their
attention.
Edward turned away, but in a moment felt a hand tugging at his coat.
Looking around, he saw that it was Phil.
"Grazia, signore," said Phil, gratefully.
"I suppose that means 'Thank you'?"
Phil nodded.
"All right, Johnny! I am glad I was by to save you from that bully."
CHAPTER III
GIACOMO
After eating the apple Phil decided to buy his frugal dinner. He,
therefore, went into a baker's shop, and bought two penny rolls and a
piece of cheese. It was not a very luxurious repast, but with the apple
it was better than usual. A few steps from the shop door he met another
Italian boy, who was bound to the same padrone.
"How much money have you, Giacomo?" asked Phil, speaking, of course, in
his native tongue.
"Forty cents. How much have you?"
"A dollar and twenty cents."
"You are very lucky, Filippo."
"A rich signora gave me fifty cents for playing to her sick boy. Then I
sang for some schoolboys, and they gave me some money."
"I am afraid the padrone will beat me to-night."
"He has not beat me for a week."
"Have you had dinner, Filippo?"
"Yes, I had some bread and cheese, and an apple."
"Did you buy the apple?"
"No; one of the schoolboys gave it to me. It was very good," said Phil,
in a tone of enjoyment. "I had not eaten one for a long time."
"Nor I. Do you remember, Filippo, the oranges we had in Italy?"
"I remember them well."
"I was happy then," said Giacomo, sighing. "There was no padrone to beat
me, and I could run about and play. Now I have to sing and play all day.
I am so tired sometimes,--so tired, Filippo."
"You are not so strong as I, Giacomo," said Phil, looking with some
complacency at his own stout limbs.
"Don't you get tired, Filippo?"
"Yes, often; but I don't care so much for that. But I don't like the
winter."
"I thought I should die with cold sometimes last winter," said Giacomo,
shuddering. "Do you ever expect to go back to Italy, Filippo?"
"Sometime."
"I wish I could go now. I should like to see my dear mother and my
sisters."
"And your father?"
"I don't want to see him," said Giacomo, bitterly. "He sold me to the
padrone. My mother wept bitterly when I went away, but my father only
thought of the money."
Filippo and Giacomo were from the same town in Calabria. They were the
sons of Italian peasants who had been unable to resist the offers of the
padrone, and for less than a hundred dollars each had sold his son into
the cruelest slavery. The boys were torn from their native hills, from
their families, and in a foreign land were doomed to walk the streets
from fourteen to sixteen hours in every twenty-four, gathering money
from which they received small benefit. Many times, as they trudged
through the streets, weary and hungry, sometimes cold, they thought with
homesick sadness of the sunny fields in which their earliest years had
been passed, but the hard realities of the life they were now leading
soon demanded their attention.
Naturally light-hearted, Filippo, or Phil, bore his hard lot more
cheerfully than some of his comrades. But Giacomo was more delicate, and
less able to bear want and fatigue. His livelier comrade cheered him up,
and Giacomo always felt better after talking with Phil.
As the two boys were walking together, a heavy hand was laid on the
shoulder of each, and a harsh voice said: "Is this the way you waste
your time, little rascals?"
Both boys started, and looking up, recognized the padrone. He was a
short man, very dark with fierce black eyes and a sinister countenance.
It was his habit to walk about the streets from time to time, and keep a
watch, unobserved, upon his young apprentices, if they may be so called.
If he found them loitering about, or neglecting their work, they were
liable to receive a sharp reminder.
The boys were both startled at his sudden appearance, but after
the first start, Phil, who was naturally courageous, recovered his
self-possession. Not so with Giacomo, who was the more afraid because he
knew he had gained but little money thus far.
"We are not wasting our time, padrone," said Phil, looking up
fearlessly.
"We will see about that. How long have you been together?"
"Only five minutes."
"How much money have you, Filippo?"
"A dollar and twenty cents."
"Good; you have done well. And how is it with you, Giacomo?"
"I have forty cents."
"Then you have been idle," said the padrone, frowning.
"No, signore," said the boy, trembling. "I have played, but they did not
give me much money."
"It is not his fault," said Phil, coming boldly to the defense of his
friend.
"Attend to your own affairs, little scrape-grace," said the padrone,
roughly. "He might have got as much as you."
"No, padrone; I was lucky. A kind lady gave me fifty cents."
"That is not my affair. I don't care where you get the money. But if you
don't bring home all I expect, you shall feel the stick."
These last words were addressed to Giacomo, who understood their import
only too well. In the miserable lodging where he herded with thirty or
forty others scarcely a night passed without the brutal punishment of
one or more unfortunate boys, who had been unsuccessful in bringing home
enough to satisfy the rapacity of the padrone. But of this an account
will hereafter be given.
"Now, go to work, both of you," said the padrone, harshly.
The two boys separated. Giacomo went uptown, while Phil kept on his way
toward the Astor House. The padrone made his way to the nearest liquor
shop, where he invested a portion of the money wrung from the hard
earnings of his young apprentices.
Toward the close of the afternoon Phil found himself in front of the
Astor House. He had played several times, but was not fortunate in
finding liberal auditors. He had secured but ten cents during this time,
and it seemed doubtful whether he would reach the sum he wanted. He
crossed over to the City Hall Park, and, feeling tired, sat down on one
of the benches. Two bootblacks were already seated upon it.
"Play us a tune, Johnny," said one.
"Will you give me pennies?" asked Phil doubtfully, for he did not care,
with such a severe taskmaster, to work for nothing.
"Yes, we'll give you pennies."
Upon this, Phil struck up a tune.
"Where's your monkey?" asked one of the boys.
"I have no monkey."
"If you want a monkey, here's one for you," said Tim Rafferty, putting
his hand on his companion's shoulder.
"He's too big," said Phil, laughing.
"Hould yer gab, Tim Rafferty," said the other. "It's you that'll make a
better monkey nor I. Say, Johnny, do you pay your monkeys well?"
"Give me my pennies," said Phil, with an eye to business.
"Play another tune, then."
Phil obeyed directions. When he had finished, a contribution was taken
up, but it only amounted to seven cents. However, considering the
character of the audience, this was as much as could be expected.
"How much have you made to-day, Johnny?" asked Tim.
"A dollar," said Phil.
"A dollar! That's more nor I have made. I tell you what, boys, I think
I'll buy a fiddle myself. I'll make more money that way than blackin'
boots."
"A great fiddler you'd make, Tim Rafferty."
"Can't I play, then? Lend me your fiddle, Johnny, till I try it a
little."
Phil shook his head.
"Give it to me now; I won't be hurtin' it."
"You'll break it."
"Then I'll pay for it."
"It isn't mine."
"Whose is it, then?"
"The padrone's."
"And who's the padrone?"
"The man I live with. If the fiddle is broken, he will beat me."
"Then he's an ould haythen, and you may tell him so, with Tim Rafferty's
compliments. But I won't hurt it."
Phil, however, feared to trust the violin in unskillful hands. He knew
the penalty if any harm befell it, and he had no mind to run the
risk. So he rose from the seat, and withdrew to a little distance, Tim
Rafferty following, for, though he cared little at first, he now felt
determined to try the fiddle.
"If you don't give it to me I'll put a head on you," he said.
"You shall not have it," said Phil, firmly, for he, too, could be
determined.
"The little chap's showing fight," said Tim's companion. "Look out, Tim;
he'll mash you."
"I can fight him wid one hand," said Tim.
He advanced upon our young hero, who, being much smaller, would probably
have been compelled to yield to superior force but for an interference
entirely unexpected by Tim.
CHAPTER IV
AN INVITATION TO SUPPER
Tim had raised his fist to strike the young fiddler, when he was
suddenly pushed aside with considerable force, and came near measuring
his length on the ground.
"Who did that?" he cried, angrily, recovering his equilibrium.
"I did it," said a calm voice.
Tim recognized in the speaker Paul Hoffman, whom some of my readers will
remember as "Paul the Peddler." Paul was proprietor of a necktie stand
below the Astor House, and was just returning home to supper.
He was a brave and manly boy, and his sympathies were always in favor of
the oppressed. He had met Phil before, and talked with him, and seeing
him in danger came to his assistance.
"What made you push me?" demanded Tim, fiercely.
"What were you going to do to him?" rejoined Paul, indicating the
Italian boy.
"I was only goin' to borrer his fiddle."
"He would have broken it," said Phil.
"You don't know how to play," said Paul. "You would have broken his
fiddle, and then he would be beaten."
"I would pay for it if I did," said Tim.
"You say so, but you wouldn't. Even if you did, it would take time, and
the boy would have suffered."
"What business is that of yours?" demanded Tim, angrily.
"It is always my business when I see a big boy teasing a little one."
"You'll get hurt some day," said Tim, suddenly.
"Not by you," returned Paul, not particularly alarmed.
Tim would have gladly have punished Paul on the spot for his
interference, but he did not consider it prudent to provoke hostilities.
Paul was as tall as himself, and considerably stronger. He therefore
wisely confined himself to threatening words.
"Come along with me, Phil," said Paul, kindly, to the little fiddler.
"Thank you for saving me," said Phil, gratefully. "The padrone would
beat me if the fiddle was broke."
"Never mind about thanks, Phil. Tim is a bully with small boys, but he
is a coward among large ones. Have you had any supper?"
"No," said Phil.
"Won't you come home and take supper with me?"
Phil hesitated.
"You are kind," he said, "but I fear the padrone."
"What will he do to you?"
"He will beat me if I don't bring home enough money."
"How much more must you get?"
"Sixty cents."
"You can play better after a good supper. Come along; I won't keep you
long."
Phil made no more objection. He was a healthy boy, and his wanderings
had given him a good appetite. So he thanked Paul, and walked along by
his side. One object Paul had in inviting him was, the fear that Tim
Rafferty might take advantage of his absence to renew his assault upon
Phil, and with better success than before.
"How old are you, Phil?" he asked.
"Twelve years."
"And who taught you to play?"
"No one. I heard the other boys play, and so I learned."
"Do you like it?"
"Sometimes; but I get tired of it."
"I don't wonder. I should think playing day after day might tire you.
What are you going to do when you become a man?"
Phil shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't know," he said. "I think I'll go back to Italy."
"Have you any relations there?"
"I have a mother and two sisters."
"And a father?"
"Yes, a father."
"Why did they let you come away?"
"The padrone gave my father money."
"Don't you hear anything from home?"
"No, signore."
"I am not a signore," said Paul, smiling. "You may call me Paul. Is that
an Italian name?"
"Me call it Paolo."
"That sounds queer to me. What's James in Italian?"
"Giacomo."
"Then I have a little brother Giacomo."
"How old is he?"
"Eight years old."
"My sister Bettina is eight years. I wish I could see her."
"You will see her again some day, Phil. You will get rich in America,
and go back to sunny Italy."
"The padrone takes all my money."
"You'll get away from the old rascal some day. Keep up good courage,
Phil, and all will come right. But here we are. Follow me upstairs, and
I will introduce you to my mother and Giacomo," said Paul, laughing at
the Italian name he had given his little brother.
Mrs. Hoffman and Jimmy looked with some surprise at the little fiddler
as he entered with Paul.
"Mother," said Paul, "this is one of my friends, whom I have invited to
take supper with us."
"He is welcome," said Mrs. Hoffman, kindly. "Have you ever spoken to us
of him?"
"I am not sure. His name is Phil--Phil the fiddler, we call him."
"Filippo," said the young musician.
"We will call you Phil; it is easier to speak," said Paul. "This is my
little brother Jimmy. He is a great artist."
"Now you are laughing at me, Paul," said the little boy.
"Well, he is going to be a great artist some day, if he isn't one yet.
Do you think, Jimmy, you could draw Phil, here, with his fiddle?"
"I think I could," said the little boy, slowly, looking carefully at
their young guest; "but it would take some time."
"Perhaps Phil will come some day, and give you a sitting."
"Will you come?" asked Jimmy.
"I will come some day."
Meanwhile Mrs. Hoffman was preparing supper. Since Paul had become
proprietor of the necktie stand, as described in the last volume, they
were able to live with less regard to economy than before. So, when the
table was spread, it presented quite a tempting appearance. Beefsteak,
rolls, fried potatoes, coffee, and preserves graced the board.
"Supper is ready, Paul," said his mother, when all was finished.
"Here, Phil, you may sit here at my right hand," said Paul. "I will put
your violin where it will not be injured."
Phil sat down as directed, not without feeling a little awkward, yet
with a sense of anticipated pleasure. Accustomed to bread and cheese
alone, the modest repast before him seemed like a royal feast. The meat
especially attracted him, for he had not tasted any for months, indeed
seldom in his life, for in Italy it is seldom eaten by the class to
which Phil's parents belonged.
"Let me give you some meat, Phil," said Paul. "Now, shall we drink the
health of the padrone in coffee?"
"I will not drink his health," said Phil. "He is a bad man."
"Who is the padrone?" asked Jimmy, curiously.
"He is my master. He sends me out to play for money."
"And must you give all the money you make to him?"
"Yes; if I do not bring much money, he will beat me."
"Then he must be a bad man. Why do you live with him?"
"He bought me from my father."
"He bought you?" repeated Jimmy, puzzled.
"He hires him for so much money," explained Paul.
"But why did your father let you go with a bad man?" asked Jimmy.
"He wanted the money," said Phil. "He cared more for money than for me."
What wonder that the boys sold into such cruel slavery should be
estranged from the fathers who for a few paltry ducats sell the liberty
and happiness of their children. Even where the contract is for a
limited terms of years, the boys in five cases out of ten are not
returned at the appointed time. A part, unable to bear the hardships and
privations of the life upon which they enter, are swept off by death,
while of those that survive, a part are weaned from their homes, or are
not permitted to go back.
"You must not ask too many questions, Jimmy." said Mrs. Hoffman, fearing
that he might awaken sad thoughts in the little musician.
She was glad to see that Phil ate with a good appetite. In truth he
relished the supper, which was the best he remembered to have tasted for
many a long day.
"Is Italy like America?" asked Jimmy, whose curiosity was excited to
learn something of Phil's birthplace.
"It is much nicer," said Phil, with a natural love of country. "There
are olive trees and orange trees, and grapes--very many."
"Are there really orange trees? Have you seen them grow?"
"I have picked them from the trees many times."
"I should like that, but I don't care for olives."
"They are good, too."
"I should like the grapes."
"There are other things in Italy which you would like better, Jimmy,"
said Paul.
"What do you mean, Paul?"
"The galleries of fine paintings."
"Yes, I should like to see them. Have you seen them?"
Phil shook his head. The picture galleries are in the cities, and not in
the country district where he was born.
"Sometime, when I am rich, we will all go to Italy, Jimmy; then, if Phil
is at home, we will go and see him."
"I should like that, Paul."
Though Jimmy was not yet eight years old, he had already exhibited
a remarkable taste for drawing, and without having received any
instruction, could copy any ordinary picture with great exactness. It
was the little boy's ambition to become an artist, and in this ambition
he was encouraged by Paul, who intended, as soon as he could afford it,
to engage an instructor for Jimmy.
CHAPTER V
ON THE FERRY BOAT
When supper was over, Phil bethought himself that his day's work was not
yet over. He had still a considerable sum to obtain before he dared go
home, if such a name can be given to the miserable tenement in Crosby
Street where he herded with his companions. But before going he wished
to show his gratitude to Paul for his protection and the supper which he
had so much and so unexpectedly enjoyed.
"Shall I play for you?" he asked, taking his violin from the top of the
bureau, where Paul had placed it.
"Will you?" asked Jimmy, his eyes lighting up with pleasure.
"We should be very glad to hear you," said Mrs. Hoffman.
Phil played his best, for he felt that he was playing for friends. After
a short prelude, he struck into an Italian song. Though the words were
unintelligible, the little party enjoyed the song.
"Bravo, Phil!" said Paul. "You sing almost as well as I do."
Jimmy laughed.
"You sing about as well as you draw," said the little boy.
"There you go again with your envy and jealousy," said Paul, in an
injured tone. "Others appreciate me better."
"Sing something, and we will judge of your merits," said his mother.
"Not now," said Paul, shaking his head. "My feelings are too deeply
injured. But if he has time, Phil will favor us with another song."
So the little fiddler once more touched the strings of his violin, and
sang the hymn of Garibaldi.
"He has a beautiful voice," said Mrs. Hoffman to Paul.
"Yes, Phil sings much better than most of his class. Shall I bring him
up here again?"
"Any time, Paul. We shall always be glad to see him."
Here Phil took his cap and prepared to depart.
"Good-by," he said in English. "I thank you all for your kindness."
"Will you come again?" said Mrs. Hoffman. "We shall be glad to have
you."
"Do come," pleaded Jimmy, who had taken a fancy to the dark-eyed Italian
boy, whose brilliant brown complexion contrasted strongly with his own
pale face and blue eyes.
These words gave Phil a strange pleasure. Since his arrival in America
he had become accustomed to harsh words and blows; but words of kindness
were strangers to his ears. For an hour he forgot the street and his
uninviting home, and felt himself surrounded by a true home atmosphere.
He almost fancied himself in his Calabrian home, with his mother and
sisters about him--in his home as it was before cupidity entered his
father's heart and impelled him to sell his own flesh and blood into
slavery in a foreign land. Phil could not analyze his own emotions,
but these were the feelings which rose in his heart, and filed it with
transient sadness.
"I thank you much," he said. "I will come again some day."
"Come soon, Phil," said Paul. "You know where my necktie stand is. Come
there any afternoon between four and five, and I will take you home to
supper. Do you know the way out, or shall I go with you?"
"I know the way," said Phil.
He went downstairs and once more found himself on the sidewalk. It was
but six o'clock, and five or six hours were still before him before he
could feel at liberty to go home. Should he return too early, he would
be punished for losing the possible gains of the hour he had lost, even
if the sum he brought home were otherwise satisfactory. So, whatever may
be his fatigue, or however inclement the weather, the poor Italian boy
is compelled to stay out till near midnight, before he is permitted to
return to the hard pallet on which only he can sleep off his fatigues.
Again in the street, Phil felt that he must make up for lost time. Now
six o'clock is not a very favorable time for street music; citizens who
do business downtown have mostly gone home to dinner. Those who have
not started are in haste, and little disposed to heed the appeal of
the young minstrel. Later the saloons will be well frequented, and not
seldom the young fiddlers may pick up a few, sometimes a considerable
number of pennies, by playing at the doors of these places, or within,
if they should be invited to enter; but at six there is not much to be
done.
After a little reflection, Phil determined to go down to Fulton Ferry
and got on board the Brooklyn steamboat. He might get a chance to play
to the passengers, and some, no doubt, would give him something. At any
rate, the investment would be small, since for one fare, or two cents,
he might ride back and forward several times, as long as he did not step
off the boat. He, therefore, directed his steps toward the ferry, and
arrived just in time to go on board the boat.
The boat was very full. So large a number of the people in Brooklyn are
drawn to New York by business and pleasure, that the boats, particularly
in the morning from seven to nine, and in the afternoon, from five to
seven, go loaded down with foot passengers and carriages.
Phil entered the ladies' cabin. Though ostensibly confined to ladies'
use, it was largely occupied also by gentlemen who did not enjoy the
smoke which usually affects disagreeably the atmosphere of the cabin
appropriated to their own sex. Our young musician knew that to children
the hearts and purses of ladies are more likely to open than those of
gentlemen, and this guided him.
Entering, he found every seat taken. He waited till the boat had
started, and then, taking his position in the center of the rear
cabin, he began to play and sing, fixing at once the attention of the
passengers upon himself.
"That boy's a nuisance; he ought not to be allowed to play on the boat,"
muttered an old gentleman, looking up from the columns of the Evening
Post.
"Now, papa," said a young lady at his side, "why need you object to the
poor boy? I am sure he sings very nicely. I like to hear him."
"I don't."
"You know, papa, you have no taste for music. Why, you went to sleep at
the opera the other evening."
"I tried to," said her father, in whom musical taste had a very limited
development. "It was all nonsense to me."
"He is singing the Hymn of Garibaldi. What a sweet voice he has! Such a
handsome little fellow, too!"
"He has a dirty face, and his clothes are quite ragged."
"But he has beautiful eyes; see how brilliant they are. No wonder he is
dirty and ragged; it isn't his fault, poor boy. I have no doubt he has a
miserable home. I'm going to give him something."
"Just as you like, Florence; as I am not a romantic young damsel, I
shall not follow your example."'
By this time the song was finished, and Phil, taking off his cap, went
the rounds. None of the contributions were larger than five cents,
until he came to the young lady of whom we have spoken above. She drew
a twenty-five-cent piece from her portemonnaie, and put it into Phil's
hand, with a gracious smile, which pleased the young fiddler as much as
the gift, welcome though that undoubtedly was.
"Thank you, lady," he said.
"You sing very nicely," she replied.
Phil smiled, and dirty though his face was, the smile lighted it up with
rare beauty.
"Do you often come on these boats?" asked the young lady.
"Sometimes, but they do not always let me play," said Phil.
"I hope I shall hear you again. You have a good voice."
"Thank you, signorina."
"You can speak English. I tried to speak with one of you the other day,
but he could only speak Italian."
"I know a few words, signorina."
"I hope I shall see you again," and the young lady, prompted by a
natural impulse of kindness, held out her hand to the little musician.
He took it respectfully, and bending over, touched it with his lips.
The young lady, to whom this was quite unexpected, smiled and blushed,
by no means offended, but she glanced round her to see whether it was
observed by others.
"Upon my word, Florence," said her father, as Phil moved away, "you have
got up quite a scene with this little ragged musician. I am rather
glad he is not ten or twelve years older, or there might be a romantic
elopement."
"Now, papa, you are too bad," said Florence. "Just because I choose to
be kind to a poor, neglected child, you fancy all sorts of improbable
things."
"I don't know where you get all your foolish romance from--not from me,
I am sure."
"I should think not," said Florence, laughing merrily. "Your worst enemy
won't charge you with being romantic, papa."
"I hope not," said her father, shrugging his shoulders. "But the boat
has touched the pier. Shall we go on shore, or have you any further
business with your young Italian friend?"
"Not to-day, papa."
The passengers vacated the boat, and were replaced by a smaller number,
on their way from Brooklyn to New York.
CHAPTER VI
THE BARROOM
Phil did not leave the boat. He lingered in the cabin until the
passengers were seated, and after the boat was again under way began to
play. This time, however, he was not as fortunate as before. While in
the midst of a tune one of the men employed on the boat entered the
cabin. At times he would not have interfered with him, but he happened
to be in ill humor, and this proved unfortunate for Phil.
"Stop your noise, boy," he said.
Phil looked up.
"May I not play?"
"No; nobody wants to hear you."
The young fiddler did not dare to disobey. He saw that for the present
his gains were at an end. However, he had enough to satisfy the rapacity
of the padrone, and could afford to stop. He took a seat, and waited
quietly till the boat landed. One of the lady passengers, as she passed
him on her way out of the cabin, placed ten cents in his hand. This
led him to count up his gains. He found they amounted to precisely two
dollars and fifty cents.
"I need not play any more," he thought. "I shall not be beaten
to-night."
He found his seat so comfortable, especially after wandering about the
streets all day, that he remained on the boat for two more trips. Then,
taking his violin under his arm, he went out on the pier.
It was half-past seven o'clock. He would like to have gone to his
lodging, but knew that it would not be permitted. In this respect the
Italian fiddler is not as well off as those who ply other street trades.
Newsboys and bootblacks are their own masters, and, whether their
earnings are little or great, reap the benefit of them themselves. They
can stop work at six if they like, or earlier; but the little Italian
musician must remain in the street till near midnight, and then, after
a long and fatiguing day, he is liable to be beaten and sent to bed
without his supper, unless he brings home a satisfactory sum of money.
Phil walked about here and there in the lower part of the city. As he
was passing a barroom he was called in by the barkeeper.
"Give us a tune, boy," he said.
It was a low barroom, frequented by sailors and a rough set of customers
of similar character. The red face of the barkeeper showed that he drank
very liberally, and the atmosphere was filled with the fumes of bad
cigars and bad liquor. The men were ready for a good time, as they
called it, and it was at the suggestion of one of them that Phil had
been invited in.
"Play a tune on your fiddle, you little ragamuffin," said one.
Phil cared little how he was addressed. He was at the service of the
public, and what he chiefly cared for was that he be paid for his
services.
"What shall I play?" he asked.
"Anything," hiccoughed one. "It's all the same to me. I don't know one
tune from another."
The young fiddler played one of the popular airs of the day. He did not
undertake to sing, for the atmosphere was so bad that he could hardly
avoid coughing. He was anxious to get out into the street, but he did
not wish to refuse playing. When he had finished his tune, one of
those present, a sailor, cried, "That's good. Step up, boys, and have a
drink."
The invitation was readily accepted by all except Phil. Noticing that
the boy kept his place, the sailor said, "Step up, boy, and wet your
whistle."
Phil liked the weak wines of his native land, but he did not care for
the poisonous decoctions of be found in such places.
"I am not thirsty," he said.
"Yes, you are; here, give this boy a glass of brandy."
"I do not want it," said Phil.
"You won't drink with us," exclaimed the sailor, who had then enough to
be quarrelsome. "Then I'll make you;" and he brought down his fist so
heavily upon the counter as to make the glasses rattle. "Then I'll make
you. Here, give me a glass, and I'll pour it down his throat."
The fiddler was frightened at his vehemence, and darted to the door. But
the sailor was too quick for him. Overtaking Phil, he dragged him
back with a rough grasp, and held out his hand for the glass. But an
unexpected friend now turned up.
"Oh, let the boy go, Jack," said a fellow sailor. "If he don't want to
drink, don't force him."
But his persecutor was made ugly by his potations, and swore that Phil
should drink before he left the barroom.
"That he shall not," said his new friend.
"Who is to prevent it?" demanded Jack, fiercely.
"I will."
"Then I'll pour a glass down your throat, too," returned Jack,
menacingly.
"No need of that. I am ready enough to drink. But the boy shan't drink,
if he don't want to."
"He shall!" retorted the first sailor, with an oath.
Still holding Phil by the shoulder with one hand, with the other he took
a glass which had just been filled with brandy; he was about to pour it
down his throat, when the glass was suddenly dashed from his hand and
broke upon the floor.
With a fresh oath Jack released his hold on Phil, and, maddened with
rage, threw himself upon the other. Instantly there was a general melee.
Phil did not wait to see the result. He ran to the door, and, emerging
into the street, ran away till he had placed a considerable distance
between himself and the disorderly and drunken party in the barroom. The
fight there continued until the police, attracted by the noise, forced
an entrance and carried away the whole party to the station-house, where
they had a chance to sleep off their potations.
Freed from immediate danger, the young fiddler kept on his way. He had
witnessed such scenes before, as he had often been into barrooms to
play in the evening. He had not been paid for his trouble, but he cared
little for that, as the money would have done him no good. He would only
have been compelled to pass it over to the padrone. These boys, even
at a tender age, are necessarily made familiar with the darker side of
metropolitan life. Vice and crime are displayed before their young eyes,
and if they do not themselves become vicious, it is not for the want of
knowledge and example.
It would be tedious to follow Phil in his wanderings. We have already
had a glimpse of the manner in which the days passed with him; only
it is to be said that this was a favorable specimen. He had been more
fortunate in collecting money than usual. Besides, he had had a better
dinner than usual, thanks to the apple, and a supper such as he had not
tasted for months.
About ten o'clock, as he was walking on the Bowery, he met Giacomo, his
companion of the morning.
The little boy was dragging one foot after the other wearily. There was
a sad look on his young face, for he had not been successful, and he
knew too well how he would be received by the padrone. Yet his face
lighted up as he saw Phil. Often before Phil had encouraged him when he
was despondent. He looked upon our young hero as his only friend; for
there was no other of the boys who seemed to care for him or able to
help him.
"Is it you, Filippo?" he said.
"Yes, Giacomo. What luck have you had?"
"Not much. I have only a little more than a dollar. I am so tired; but I
don't dare go back. The padrone will beat me."
An idea came to Phil. He did not know how much money he had; but he was
sure it must be considerably more than two dollars, Why should he not
give some to his friend to make up his deficiencies, and so perhaps save
him from punishment?
"I have had better luck," he said. "I have almost three dollars."
"You are always luckier than I, Filippo."
"I am stronger, Giacomo. It does not tire me so much to walk about."
"You can sing, too. I cannot sing very much, and I do not get so much
money."
"Tell me just how much money you have, Giacomo."
"I have a dollar and thirty cents," said Giacomo, after counting the
contents of his pockets.
Meanwhile Phil had been doing the same thing. The result of his count
was that he found he had two dollars and eighty cents.
"Listen, Giacomo," he said. "I will give you enough to make two
dollars."
"But then you will be beaten."
"No; I shall have two dollars and five cents left. Then neither of us
will get beaten."
"How kind you are, Filippo!"
"Oh, it is nothing. Besides, I do not want to carry too much, or the
padrone will expect me to bring as much every day, and that I cannot do.
So it will be better for us both."
The transfer was quickly made, and the two boys kept together until they
heard the clock strike eleven. It was now so late that they determined
to return to their miserable lodging, for both were tired and longed for
sleep.
CHAPTER VII
THE HOME OF THE BOYS
It was a quarter-past eleven when Phil and Giacomo entered the shabby
brick house which they called home, for want of a better. From fifteen
to twenty of their companions had already arrived, and the padrone was
occupied in receiving their several contributions. The apartment was
a mean one, miserably furnished, but seemed befitting the principal
occupant, whose dark face was marked by an expression of greed, and
alternately showed satisfaction or disappointment as the contents of the
boys' pockets were satisfactory or otherwise. Those who had done badly
were set apart for punishment.
He looked up as the two boys entered.
"Well, Filippo," he said, harshly, "how much have you got?"
Phil handed over his earnings. They were up to the required limit, but
the padrone looked only half satisfied.
"Is that all you have?" he asked, suspiciously.
"It is all, signore."
"You have not done well this afternoon, then. When I met you at twelve
o'clock you had more than a dollar."
"It was because a good signora gave me fifty cents."
The padrone, still suspicious, plunging his hands into Phil's pockets,
but in vain. He could not find another penny.
"Take off your shoes and stockings," he said, still unsatisfied.
Phil obediently removed his shoes and stockings, but no money was found
concealed, as the padrone half suspected. Sometimes these poor boys,
beset by a natural temptation, secrete a portion of their daily
earnings. Whenever they are detected, woe betide them. The padrone makes
an example of them, inflicting a cruel punishment, in order to deter
other boys from imitating them.
Having discovered nothing, he took Phil's violin, and proceeded to
Giacomo.
"Now for you," he said.
Giacomo handed over his money. The padrone was surprised in turn, but
his surprise was of a different nature. He had expected to find him
deficient, knowing that he was less enterprising than Phil. He was glad
to get more money than he expected, but a little disappointed that he
had no good excuse for beating him; for he had one of those hard, cruel
natures that delight in inflicting pain and anguish upon others.
"Take care that you do as well to-morrow," he said. "Go and get your
supper."
One of the larger boys was distributing bread and cheese to the hungry
boys. Nearly all ate as if famished, plain and uninviting as was the
supper, for they had been many hours without food. But Phil, who, as
we know, had eaten a good supper at Mrs. Hoffman's, felt very little
appetite. He slyly gave his bread to one of the boys, who, on account of
the small sum he brought home, had been sentenced to go without. But the
sharp eyes of the padrone, which, despite his occupation, managed to see
all that was going on, detected this action, and he became suspicious
that Phil had bought supper out of his earnings.
"Why did you give your bread to Giuseppe?" he demanded.
"Because I was not hungry," answered Phil.
"Why were you not hungry? Did you buy some supper?"
"No, signore."
"Then you should be hungry."
"A kind lady gave me some supper."
"How did it happen?"
"I knew her son. His name is Paolo. He asked me to go home with him.
Then he gave me a good supper."
"How long were you there? You might have been playing and brought me
some more money," said the padrone, who, with characteristic meanness,
grudged the young fiddler time to eat the meal that cost him nothing.
"It was not long, signore."
"You can eat what is given you, but you must not waste too much time."
A boy entered next, who showed by his hesitating manner that he did
not anticipate a good reception. The padrone, accustomed to judge by
appearances, instantly divined this.
"Well, Ludovico," he said, sharply, "what do you bring me?"
"Pardon, padrone," said Ludovico, producing a small sum of money.
"I could not help it."
"Seventy-five cents," repeated the padrone, indignantly. "You have been
idle, you little wretch!"
"No, padrone. Indeed, I did my best. The people would not give me
money."
"Where did you go?"
"I was in Brooklyn."
"You have spent some of the money."
"No, padrone."
"You have been idle, then. No supper to-night. Pietro, my stick!"
Pietro was one of the older boys. He was ugly physically, and his
disposition corresponded with his appearance. He could have few good
traits, or he would not have possessed the confidence of the padrone.
He was an efficient assistant of the latter, and co-operated with him in
oppressing the other boys. Indeed, he was a nephew of the padrone's,
and for this reason, as well as his similarity of disposition, he was
treated with unusual indulgence. Whenever the padrone felt suspicious
of any of the boys, he usually sent them out in company with Pietro, who
acted as a spy, faithfully reporting all that happened to his principal.
Pietro responded with alacrity to the command of the padrone, and
produced a stout stick, which he handed to his uncle.
"Now strip off your jacket," said the padrone, harshly.
"Spare me, padrone! Do not beat me! It was not my fault," said the
unhappy Ludovico, imploringly.
"Take off your jacket!" repeated the padrone, pitilessly.
One look of that hard face might have taught Ludovico, even if he had
not witnessed the punishment so often inflicted on other boys, that
there was no hope for him.
"Help him, Pietro," said the padrone.
Pietro seized Ludovico's jacket, and pulled it off roughly. Then he drew
off the ragged shirt which the boy wore underneath, and his bare back
was exposed to view.
"Hold him, Pietro!"
In Pietro's firm grasp, the boy was unable to stir. The padrone whirled
the stick aloft, and brought it down upon the naked flesh, leaving
behind a fearful wheal.
Ludovico shrieked aloud, and again implored mercy, but in vain, for the
stick descended again and again.
Meanwhile the other boys looked on, helpless to interfere. The more
selfish were glad that they had escaped, though not at all sure but it
would be their turn next evening. There were others who felt a passive
sympathy for their unlucky comrade. Others were filled with indignation
at the padrone, knowing how cruel and unjust were his exactions. Among
these was Phil. Possessed of a warm and sympathetic heart, he never
witnessed these cruel punishments without feeling that he would like to
see the padrone suffering such pain as he inflicted upon others.
"If I were only a man," he often thought, "I would wrench the stick from
his hand, and give him a chance to feel it."
But he knew too well the danger of permitting his real sentiments to be
reflected in his face. It would only bring upon him a share of the same
punishment, without benefiting those who were unfortunate enough to
receive it.
When Ludovico's punishment was ended, he was permitted to go to bed,
but without his supper. Nor was his the only case. Five other boys were
subjected to the same punishment. The stick had no want of exercise
on that evening. Here were nearly forty boys, subjected to excessive
fatigue, privation, and brutal treatment daily, on account of the greed
of one man. The hours that should been given in part to instruction, and
partly to such recreation as the youthful heart craves, were devoted to
a pursuit that did nothing to prepare them for the duties of life. And
this white slavery--for it merits no better name--is permitted by the
law of two great nations. Italy is in fault in suffering this traffic
in her children of tender years, and America is guilty as well in not
interfering, as she might, at all events, to abridge the long hours of
labor required of these boys, and forcing their cruel guardians to give
them some instruction.
One by one the boys straggled in. By midnight all had returned, and the
boys were permitted to retire to their beds, which were poor enough.
This, however, was the least of their troubles. Sound are the slumbers
of young however hard the couch on which it rests, especially when, as
with all the young Italian boys, the day has been one of fatigue.
CHAPTER VIII
A COLD DAY
The events thus far recorded in the life of our young hero took place
on a day toward the middle of October, when the temperature was
sufficiently mild to produce no particular discomfort in those exposed
to it. We advance our story two months, and behold Phil setting out for
his day's wandering on a morning in December, when the keen blasts swept
through the streets, sending a shiver through the frames even of those
who were well protected. How much more, then, must it be felt by the
young street musician, who, with the exception of a woolen tippet, wore
nothing more or warmer than in the warmer months! Yet, Phil, with his
natural vigorous frame, was better able to bear the rigor of the winter
weather than some of his comrades, as Giacomo, to whom the long hours
spent in the streets were laden with suffering and misery.
The two boys went about together when they dared to do so, though the
padrone objected, but for what reason it did not seem manifest, unless
because he suspected that two would plan something prejudicial to his
interests. Phil, who was generally more successful than Giacomo, often
made up his smaller comrade's deficiencies by giving him a portion of
his own gains.
It was a raw day. Only those who felt absolutely obliged to be out were
to be seen in the streets; but among these were our two little fiddlers.
Whatever might be the weather, they were compelled to expose themselves
to its severity. However the boys might suffer, they must bring home
the usual amount. But at eleven o'clock the prospects seemed rather
discouraging. They had but twenty-five cents between them, nor would
anyone stop to listen to their playing.
"I wish it were night, Filippo," said Giacomo, shivering with cold.
"So do I, Giacomo. Are you very cold?"
"Yes," said the little boy, his teeth chattering. "I wish I were back in
Italy. It is never so cold there."
"No, Giacomo; you are right. But I would not mind the cold so much, if
I had a warm overcoat like that boy," pointing out a boy clad in a thick
overcoat, and a fur cap drawn over his ears, while his hands were snugly
incased in warm gloves.
He, too, looked at the two fiddlers, and he could not help noticing how
cold they looked.
"Look here, you little chaps, are you cold? You look as if you had just
come from Greenland."
"Yes," said Phil. "We are cold."
"Your hands look red enough. Here is an old pair of gloves for one of
you. I wish I had another pair. They are not very thick, but they are
better than none."
He drew a pair of worsted gloves from his pocket, and handed them to
Phil.
"Thank you," said Phil; but having received them, he gave them to
Giacomo.
"You are colder than I am, Giacomo," he said. "Take them."
"But you are cold, too, Filippo."
"I will put my hands in my pockets. Don't mind me."
Of course this conversation took place in Italian; for, though Phil had
learned considerable English, Giacomo understood but a few words of it.
The gloves afforded some protection, but still both boys were very cold.
They were in Brooklyn, having crossed the ferry in the morning. They had
wandered to a part not closely built up, where they were less sheltered,
and experienced greater discomfort.
"Can't we go in somewhere and get warm? pleaded Giacomo.
"Here is a grocery store. We will go in there."
Phil opened the door and entered. The shopkeeper, a peevish-looking man,
with lightish hair, stood behind the counter weighing out a pound of tea
for a customer.
"What do you want here, you little vagabonds?" he exclaimed, harshly, as
he saw the two boys enter.
"We are cold," said Phil. "May we stand by your stove and get warm?"
"Do you think I provide a fire for all the vagabonds in the city?" said
the grocer, with a brutal disregard of their evident suffering.
Phil hesitated, not knowing whether he was ordered out or not.
"Clear out of my store, I say!" said the grocer, harshly. "I don't want
you in here. Do you understand?"
At this moment a gentleman of prepossessing appearance entered the
store. He heard the grocer's last words, and their inhumanity made him
indignant.
"What do these boys want, Mr. Perkins?" he said.
"They want to spend their time in my shop. I have no room for such
vagabonds."
"We are cold," said Phil. "We only want to warm ourselves by the fire."
"I don't want you here," said the grocer, irritably.
"Mr. Perkins," said the gentleman, sharply, "have you no humanity? What
harm can it do you to let these poor boys get warm by your fire? It will
cost you nothing; it will not diminish your personal comfort; yet you
drive them out into the cold."
The grocer began to perceive that he was on the wrong tack. The
gentleman who addressed him was a regular and profitable customer, and
he did not like to incur his ill will, which would entail loss.
"They can stay, Mr. Pomeroy," he said, with an ill grace, "since you ask
it."
"I do not ask it. I will not accept, as a personal favor, what you
should have granted from a motive of humanity, more especially as, after
this exhibition of your spirit, I shall not trade here any longer."
By this time the grocer perceived that he had made a mistake.
"I hope you will reconsider that, Mr. Pomeroy," he said, abjectly. "The
fact is, I had no objections to the boys warming themselves, but they
are mostly thieves, and I could not keep my eyes on them all the time."
"I think you are mistaken. They don't look like thieves. Did you ever
have anything stolen by one of this class of boys?"
"Not that I know of," said the grocer, hesitatingly; "but it is likely
they would steal if they got a chance."
"We have no right to say that of anyone without good cause."
"We never steal," said Phil, indignantly; for he understood what was
said.
"Of course he says so," sneered the grocer. "Come and warm yourselves,
if you want to."
The boys accepted this grudging invitation, and drew near the stove.
They spread out their hands, and returning warmth proved very grateful
to them.
"Have you been out long?" asked the gentleman who had interceded in
their behalf, also drawing near the stove.
"Since eight, signore."
"Do you live in Brooklyn?"
"No; in New York."
"And do you go out every day?"
"Si, signore."
"How long since you came from Italy?"
"A year."
"Would you like to go back?"
"He would," said Phil, pointing to his companion. "I would like to stay
here, if I had a good home."
"What kind of a home have you? With whom do you live?"
"With the padrone."
"I suppose that means your guardian?"
"Yes, sir," answered Phil.
"Is he kind to you?"
"He beats us if we do not bring home enough money."
"Your lot is a hard one. What makes you stay with him? Don't the boys
ever run away?"
"Sometimes."
"What does the padrone do in that case?"
"He tries to find them."
"And if he does--what then?"
"He beats them for a long time."
"Evidently your padrone is a brute. Why don't you complain to the
police?"
Phil shrugged his shoulders, and did not answer. He evidently thought
the suggestion an impracticable one. These boys are wont to regard the
padrone as above all law. His power seems to them absolute, and they
never dream of any interference. And, indeed, there is some reason for
their cherishing this opinion. However brutal his treatment, I know of
no case where the law has stepped in to rescue the young victim. This
is partly, no doubt, because the boys, few of whom can speak the
English language, do not know their rights, and seldom complain to
outsiders--never to the authorities. Probably, in some cases, the
treatment is less brutal than I have depicted; but from the best
information I can obtain from trustworthy sources, I fear that the
reality, if anything, exceeds the picture I have drawn.
"I think I should enjoy giving your padrone a horsewhipping," said the
gentleman, impetuously. "Can such things be permitted in the nineteenth
century?"
"I have no doubt the little rascals deserve all they get," said the
grocer, who would probably have found in the Italian padrone a congenial
spirit.
Mr. Pomeroy deigned no reply to this remark.
"Well, boys," he said, consulting his watch, "I must leave you. Here are
twenty-five cents for each of you. I have one piece of advice for you.
If your padrone beats you badly, run away from him. I would if I were in
your place."
"Addio, signore," said the two boys.
"I suppose that means 'good-by.' Well, good-by, and better luck."
CHAPTER IX
PIETRO THE SPY
Though from motives of policy the grocer had permitted the boys to warm
themselves by his fire, he felt only the more incensed against them on
this account, and when Mr. Pomeroy had gone determined to get rid of
them.
"Haven't you got warm yet?" he asked. "I can't have you in my way all
day."
"We will go," said Phil. "Come, Giacomo."
He did not thank the grocer, knowing how grudgingly permission had been
given.
So they went out again into the chill air, but they had got thoroughly
warmed, and were better able to bear it.
"Where shall we go, Filippo?" asked the younger boy.
"We will go back to New York. It is not so cold there."
Giacomo unhesitatingly assented to whatever Phil proposed. He was not
self-reliant, like our hero, but always liked to have someone to lean
upon.
They made their way back to Fulton Ferry in a leisurely manner, stopping
here and there to play; but it was a bad day for business. The cold was
such that no one stopped to give them anything, except that one young
man dropped ten cents in Phil's hand as he hurried by, on his way home.
At length they reached the ferry. The passengers were not so many
in number as usual. The cabin was so warm and comfortable that they
remained on board for two or three trips, playing each time. In this way
they obtained about thirty cents more. They would have remained longer,
but that one of the deck hands asked, "How many times are you going
across for two cents?" and this made them think it prudent to go.
When six o'clock came Giacomo asked Phil, who acted as treasurer, how
much money they had.
"Two dollars," answered Phil.
"That is only one dollar for each."
"Yes, Giacomo."
"Then we shall be beaten," said the little boy, with a sigh.
"I am afraid so."
"And get no supper."
"Yes," said Phil; "unless," he added, "we get some supper now."
"With this money?" asked Giacomo, startled at the boldness of the
suggestion.
"Yes; we shall be beaten at any rate. It will be no worse for us if we
get some supper."
"Will you buy some bread?"
"No," said Phil, daringly. "I am going to buy some meat."
"What will the padrone say?"
"I shall not tell the padrone."
"Do you think he will find out?"
"No. Besides, we ought to have some supper after walking about all day."
Evidently Phil had begun to think, and the essential injustice of
laboring without proper compensation had impressed his youthful mind.
Giacomo was more timid. He had not advanced as far as Phil, nor was he
as daring. But I have already said that he was guided in a great measure
by Phil, and so it proved in this case.
Phil, having made up his mind, set about carrying his plan into
execution. Only a block distant was a cheap restaurant, where plates of
meat were supplied to a poor class of customers at ten cents per plate.
"Let us go in here," he said.
Giacomo followed, but not without trepidation. He knew that what they
were about to do would be a heinous crime in the eyes of the padrone.
Even Phil had never ventured upon such direct rebellion before. But Mr.
Pomeroy's suggestion that he should run away was beginning to bear fruit
in his mind. He had not come to that yet, but he might. Why should he
not earn money for his own benefit, as well as for the padrone? True, he
was bound to the latter by a legal contract entered into by his father,
but Phil, without knowing much about law, had an indistinct idea that
the contract was a one-sided one, and was wholly for the advantage of
the other party. The tyrant is always in danger of losing his hold upon
the victim when the latter begins to think.
They entered the restaurant, and sat down at a table.
The tables were greasy. The floor was strewed with sawdust. The waiters
were dirty, and the entire establishment was neither neat nor inviting.
But it was democratic. No customers were sent away because they were
unfashionably attired. The only requisite was money enough to defray
their bills. Nevertheless Giacomo felt a little in awe even of the dirty
waiters. His frugal meals were usually bought at the baker's shop, and
eaten standing in the street. Sitting down at a table, even though it
was greasy, seemed a degree of luxury to which he was not entitled. But
Phil more easily adapted himself to circumstances. He knew that he had
as much right there as any other customer.
Presently a waiter presented himself.
"Have you ordered?" he asked.
"Give me some roast beef," said Phil. "What will you have, Giacomo?"
"The same as you, Filippo," said Giacomo, in Italian.
"What's that?" asked the waiter, thinking he had named some dish.
"He will have some roast beef, too. Will you have some coffee, Giacomo?"
"If you have it," answered the smaller boy.
So Phil gave the double order, and very soon the coffee and meat were
placed before them. I suspect that few of my readers would have regarded
these articles with any relish. One need not be fastidious to find fault
with the dark-hued beverage, which was only a poor imitation of coffee,
and the dark fragments of meat, which might have been horseflesh so far
as appearance went. But to the two Italian boys it was indeed a feast.
The coffee, which was hot, warmed their stomachs, and seemed to them
like nectar, while the meat was as palatable as the epicure finds his
choicest dishes. While eating, even Giacomo forgot that he was
engaged in something unlawful, and his face was lighted up with rare
satisfaction.
"It is good," said Phil, briefly, as he laid down his knife and fork,
after disposing of the last morsel upon his plate.
"I wish I could have such a supper every day," said Giacomo.
"I will when I am a man," said Phil.
"I don't think I shall ever be a man," said Giacomo, shaking his head.
"Why not?" asked Phil, regarding him with surprise.
"I do not think I shall live."
"What makes you think so, Giacomo?" said Phil, startled.
"I am not strong, Filippo," said the little boy, "I think I get weaker
every day. I long so much to go back to Italy. If I could see my mother
once more, I would be willing to die then."
"You must not think of such things, Giacomo," said Phil, who, like most
healthy boys, did not like to think of death. "You will get strong when
summer comes. The weather is bad now, of course."
"I don't think I shall, Filippo. Do you remember Matteo?"
"Yes, I remember him."
Matteo was a comrade who had died six months before. He was a young boy,
about the size and age of Giacomo.
"I dreamed of him last night, Filippo. He held out his hand to me."
"Well?"
"I think I am going to die, like him."
"Don't be foolish, Giacomo," said Phil. But, though he said this, even
he was startled by what Giacomo had told him. He was ignorant, and the
ignorant are prone to superstition; so he felt uncomfortable, but did
not like to acknowledge it.
"You must not think of this, Giacomo," he said. "You will be an old man
some day."
"That's for you, Filippo. It isn't for me," said the little boy.
"Come, let us go," said Phil, desirous of dropping the subject.
He went up to the desk, and paid for both, the sum of thirty cents.
"Now, come," he said.
Giacomo followed him out, and they turned down the street, feeling
refreshed by the supper they had eaten. But unfortunately they had been
observed. As they left the restaurant, they attracted the attention
of Pietro, whom chance had brought thither at an unfortunate time. His
sinister face lighted up with joy as he realized the discovery he had
made. But he wished to make sure that it was as he supposed. They might
have gone in only to play and sing.
He crossed the street, unobserved by Phil and Giacomo, and entered the
restaurant.
"Were my two brothers here?" he asked, assuming relationship.
"Two boys with fiddles?"
"Yes; they just went out."
"Did they get supper?"
"Yes; they had some roast beef and coffee."
"Thank you," said Pietro, and he left the restaurant with his suspicions
confirmed.
"I shall tell the padrone," he said to himself.
"They will feel the stick to-night."
CHAPTER X
FRENCH'S HOTEL
Pietro had one of those mean and malignant natures that are best pleased
when they are instrumental in bringing others into trouble. He looked
forward to becoming a padrone himself some time, and seemed admirably
fitted by nature to exercise the inhuman office. He lost no time, on his
return, in making known to his uncle what he had learned.
For the boys to appropriate to their own use money which had been
received for their services was, in the eyes of the padrone, a crime of
the darkest shade. In fact, if the example were generally followed, it
would have made a large diminution of his income, though the boys might
have been benefited. He listened to Pietro with an ominous scowl, and
decided to inflict condign punishment upon the young offenders.
Meanwhile Phil and Giacomo resumed their wanderings. They no longer
hoped to make up the large difference between what they had and the sum
they were expected by the padrone to bring. As the evening advanced the
cold increased, and penetrated through their thin clothing, chilling
them through and through. Giacomo felt it the most. By and by he began
to sob with the cold and fatigue.
"What is the matter, Giacomo?" asked Phil, anxiously.
"I feel so cold, Filippo--so cold and tired. I wish I could rest."
The boys were in Printing House Square, near the spot where now stands
the Franklin statue.
"If you want to rest, Giacomo," said Phil, pityingly, "we will go into
French's Hotel a little while."
"I should like to."
They entered the hotel and sat down near the heater. The grateful warmth
diffused itself through their frames, and Giacomo sank back in his seat
with a sigh of relief.
"Do you feel better, Giacomo?" asked his comrade.
"Yes, Filippo; I wish I could stay here till it is time to go home."
"We will, then. We shall get no more money outside."
"The padrone----"
"Will beat us at any rate. It will be no worse for us. Besides they may
possibly ask us to play here."
"I can play no more to-night, Filippo, I am so tired."
Phil knew very little of sickness, or he might have seen that Giacomo
was going to be ill. Exposure, fatigue, and privation had been too much
for his strength. He had never been robust, and he had been subjected to
trials that would have proved hard for one much stronger to bear.
When he had once determined to remain in the comfortable hotel, Phil
leaned back in his chair also, and decided to enjoy all the comfort
attainable. What though there was a beating in prospect?
He had before him two or three hours of rest and relief from the outside
cold. He was something of a philosopher, and chose not to let future
evil interfere with present good.
Near the two boys sat two young men--merchants from the interior of New
York State, who were making a business visit to the metropolis.
"Well, Gardner," said the first, "where shall we go to-night?"
"Why need we go anywhere?"
"I thought you might like to go to some place of amusement."
"So I would if the weather were less inclement. The most comfortable
place is by the fire."
"You are right as to that, but the evening will be long and stupid."
"Oh, we can worry it through. Here, for instance, are two young
musicians," indicating the little fiddlers. "Suppose we get a tune out
of them?"
"Agreed. Here, boy, can you play on that fiddle?"
"Yes," said Phil.
"Well, give us a tune, then. Is that your brother?"
"No, he is my comrade."
"He can play, too."
"Will you play, Giacomo?"
The younger boy roused himself. The two stood up, and played two or
three tunes successfully. A group of loungers gathered around them and
listened approvingly. When they had finished Phil took off his hat and
went the rounds. Some gave, the two first mentioned contributing most
liberally. The whole sum collected was about fifty cents.
Phil and Giacomo now resumed their seats. They felt now that they were
entitled to rest for the remainder of the evening, since they had gained
quite as much as they would have been likely to earn in wandering about
the streets. The group that had gathered about them dispersed, and they
ceased to be objects of attention. Fatigue and the warmth of the room
gradually affected Giacomo until he leaned back and fell asleep.
"I won't take him till it's time to go back," thought Phil.
So Giacomo slept on, despite the noises in the street outside and the
confusion incident to every large hotel. As he sat asleep, he attracted
the attention of a stout gentleman who was passing, leading by the hand
a boy of ten.
"Is that your brother?" he asked in a low tone of Phil.
"No, signore; it is my comrade."
"So you go about together?"
"Yes, sir," answered Phil, bethinking himself to use English instead of
Italian.
"He seems tired."
"Yes; he is not so strong as I am."
"Do you play about the streets all day?"
"Yes, sir."
"How would you like that, Henry?" asked his father to the boy at his
side.
"I should like to play about the streets all day," said Henry,
roguishly, misinterpreting the word "play."
"I think you would get tired of it. What is your name, my boy?"
"Filippo."
"And what is the name of your friend?"
"Giacomo."
"Did you never go to school?"
Phil shook his head.
"Would you like to go?"
"Yes, sir."
"You would like it better than wandering about the streets all day?"
"Yes, sir."
"Why do you not ask your father to send you to school?"
"My father is in Italy."
"And his father, also?"
"Si, signore," answered Phil, relapsing into Italian.
"What do you think of that, Henry?" asked the gentleman. "How should
you like to leave me, and go to some Italian city to roam about all day,
playing on the violin?"
"I think I would rather go to school."
"I think you would."
"Are you often out so late, Filippo? I think that is the name you gave
me."
Phil shrugged his shoulders
"Always," he answered.
"At what time do you go home?"
"At eleven."
"It is too late for a boy of your age to sit up. Why do you not go home
sooner?"
"The padrone would beat me."
"Who is the padrone?"
"The man who brought me from Italy to America."
"Poor boys!" said the gentleman, compassionately. "Yours is a hard life.
I hope some time you will be in a better position."
Phil fixed his dark eyes upon the stranger, grateful for his words of
sympathy.
"Thank you," he said.
"Good-night," said the stranger, kindly.
"Good-night, signore."
An hour passed. The City Hall clock near by struck eleven. The time had
come for returning to their mercenary guardian. Phil shook the sleeping
form of Giacomo. The little boy stirred in his sleep, and murmured,
"Madre." He had been dreaming of his mother and his far-off Italian
home. He woke to the harsh realities of life, four thousand miles away
from that mother and home.
"Have I slept, Filippo?" he asked, rubbing his eyes, and looking about
him in momentary bewilderment.
"Yes, Giacomo. You have slept for two hours and more. It is eleven
o'clock."
"Then we must go back."
"Yes; take your violin, and we will go."
They passed out into the cold street, which seemed yet colder by
contrast with the warm hotel they just left, and, crossing to the
sidewalk that skirts the park, walked up Centre street.
Giacomo was seized with a fit of trembling. His teeth chattered with
the cold. A fever was approaching, although neither he nor his companion
knew it.
"Are you cold, Giacomo?" asked Phil, noticing how he trembled.
"I am very cold. I feel sick, Filippo."
"You will feel better to-morrow," said Phil; but the thought of the
beating which his little comrade was sure to receive saddened him more
than the prospect of being treated in the same way himself.
They kept on their way, past the Tombs with its gloomy entrance, through
the ill-lighted street, scarcely noticed by the policeman whom they
passed--for he was accustomed to see boys of their class out late at
night--until at last they reached the dwelling of the padrone, who was
waiting their arrival with the eagerness of a brutal nature, impatient
to inflict pain.
CHAPTER XI
THE BOYS RECEPTION
Phil and Giacomo entered the lodging-house, wholly unconscious of the
threatening storm, The padrone scowled at them as they entered but that
was nothing unusual. Had he greeted them kindly, they would have had
reason to be surprised.
"Well," he said, harshly, "how much do you bring?"
The boys produced two dollars and a half which he pocketed.
"Is this all?" he asked.
"It was cold," said Phil, "and we could not get more."
The padrone listened with an ominous frown.
"Are you hungry?" he asked. "Do you want your supper?"
Phil was puzzled by his manner, for he expected to be deprived of his
supper on account of bringing less money than usual. Why should the
padrone ask him if he wanted his supper? Though he was not hungry, he
thought it best to answer in the affirmative.
"What would you like?" asked the padrone.
Again Phil was puzzled, for the suppers supplied by the padrone never
varied, always consisting of bread and cheese.
"Perhaps," continued the padrone, meeting no answer, "you would like to
have coffee and roast beef."
All was clear now. Phil understood that he had been seen going in or out
of the restaurant, though he could not tell by whom. He knew well enough
what to expect, but a chivalrous feeling of friendship led him to try to
shield his young companion, even at the risk of a more severe punishment
to be inflicted upon himself.
"It was my fault," he said, manfully. "Giacomo would not have gone in
but for me."
"Wicked, ungrateful boy!" exclaimed the padrone, wrathfully. "It was my
money that you spent. You are a thief!"
Phil felt that this was a hard word, which he did not deserve. The money
was earned by himself, though claimed by the padrone. But he did not
venture to say this. It would have been revolutionary. He thought it
prudent to be silent.
"Why do you say nothing?" exclaimed the padrone, stamping his foot. "Why
did you spend my money?"
"I was hungry."
"So you must live like a nobleman! Our supper is not good enough for
you. How much did you spend?"
"Thirty cents."
"For each?"
"No, signore, for both."
"Then you shall have each fifteen blows, one for each penny. I will
teach you to be a thief. Pietro, the stick! Now, strip!"
"Padrone," said Phil, generously, "let me have all the blows. It was my
fault; Giacomo only went because I asked him."
If the padrone had had a heart, this generous request would have touched
it; but he was not troubled in that way.
"He must be whipped, too," he said. "He should not have gone with you."
"He is sick, padrone," persisted Phil. "Excuse him till he is better."
"Not a word more," roared the padrone, irritated at his persistence.
"If he is sick, it is because he has eaten too much," he added, with a
sneer. "Pietro, my stick!"
The two boys began to strip mechanically, knowing that there was no
appeal. Phil stood bare to the waist. The padrone seized the stick and
began to belabor him. Phil's brown face showed by its contortions the
pain he suffered, but he was too proud to cry out. When the punishment
was finished his back was streaked with red, and looked maimed and
bruised.
"Put on your shirt!" commanded the tyrant.
Phil drew it on over his bleeding back and resumed his place among his
comrades.
"Now!" said the padrone, beckoning to Giacomo.
The little boy approached shivering, not so much with cold as with the
fever that had already begun to prey upon him.
Phil turned pale and sick as he looked at the padrone preparing to
inflict punishment. He would gladly have left the room, but he knew that
it would not be permitted.
The first blow descended heavily upon the shrinking form of the little
victim. It was followed by a shriek of pain and terror.
"What are you howling at?" muttered the padrone, between his teeth. "I
will whip you the harder."
Giacomo would have been less able to bear the cruel punishment than Phil
if he had been well, but being sick, it was all the more terrible to
him. The second blow likewise was followed by a shriek of anguish. Phil
looked on with pale face, set teeth, and blazing eyes, as he saw the
barbarous punishment of his comrade. He felt that he hated the padrone
with a fierce hatred. Had his strength been equal to the attempt, he
would have flung himself upon the padrone. As it was, he looked at his
comrades, half wishing that they would combine with him against their
joint oppressor. But there was no hope of that. Some congratulated
themselves that they were not in Giacomo's place; others looked upon his
punishment as a matter of course. There was no dream of interference,
save in the mind of Phil.
The punishment continued amid the groans and prayers for mercy of the
little sufferer. But at the eighth stroke his pain and terror reached
a climax, and nature succumbed. He sank on the floor, fainting. The
padrone thought at first it was a pretense, and was about to repeat
the strokes, when a look at the pallid, colorless face of the little
sufferer alarmed him. It did not excite his compassion, but kindled
the fear that the boy might be dying, in which case the police might
interfere and give him trouble; therefore he desisted, but unwillingly.
"He is sick," said Phil, starting forward.
"He is no more sick than I am," scowled the padrone. "Pietro, some
water!"
Pietro brought a glass of water, which the padrone threw in the face of
the fallen boy. The shock brought him partially to. He opened his eyes,
and looked around vacantly.
"What is the matter with you?" demanded the padrone, harshly.
"Where am I?" asked Giacomo, bewildered. But, as he asked this question,
his eyes met the dark look of his tyrant, and he clasped his hands in
terror.
"Do not beat me!" he pleaded. "I feel sick."
"He is only shamming," said Pietro, who was worthy to be the servant and
nephew of such a master. But the padrone thought it would not be prudent
to continue the punishment.
"Help him put on his clothes, Pietro," he said. "I will let you off this
time, little rascal, but take heed that you never again steal a single
cent of my money."
Giacomo was allowed to seek his uncomfortable bed. His back was so sore
with the beating he had received that he was compelled to lie on his
side. During the night the feverish symptoms increased, and before
morning he was very sick. The padrone was forced to take some measures
for his recovery, not from motives of humanity, but because Giacomo's
death would cut off a source of daily revenue, and this, in the eyes of
the mercenary padrone, was an important consideration.
Phil went to bed in silence. Though he was suffering from the brutal
blows he had received, the thought of the punishment and suffering of
Giacomo affected him more deeply than his own. As I have said, the two
boys came from the same town in southern Italy. They had known each
other almost from infancy, and something of a fraternal feeling had
grown up between them. In Phil's case, since he was the stronger, it was
accompanied by the feeling that he should be a protector to the younger
boy, who, on his side, looked up to Phil as stronger and wiser than
himself. Though only a boy of twelve, what had happened led Phil to
think seriously of his position and prospects. He did not know for how
long his services had been sold to the padrone by his father, but he
felt sure that the letter of the contract would be little regarded as
long as his services were found profitable.
What hope, then, had he of better treatment in the future? There seemed
no prospect except of continued oppression and long days of hardship,
unless--and here the suggestion of Mr. Pomeroy occurred to him--unless
he ran away. He had known of boys doing this before. Some had been
brought back, and, of course, were punished severely for their temerity,
but others had escaped, and had never returned. What had become of them
Phil did not know, but he rightly concluded that they could not be any
worse off than in the service of the padrone. Thinking of all this, Phil
began to think it probable that he, too, would some day break his bonds
and run away. He did not fix upon any time. He had not got as far as
this. But circumstances, as we shall find in our next chapter, hastened
his determination, and this, though he knew it not, was the last night
he would sleep in the house of the padrone.
CHAPTER XII
GIACOMO'S PRESENTIMENTS
Phil woke up the next morning feeling lame and sore. His back bore
traces of the flogging he had received the night before. As his eyes
opened, they rested upon twenty boys lying about him, and also upon the
dark, unsightly walls of the shabby room, and the prospect before him
served to depress even his hopeful temperament. But he was not permitted
to meditate long. Pietro opened the door, and called out in harsh tones:
"Get up, all of you, or the padrone will be here with his stick!"
The invitation was heard and obeyed. The boys got up, yawning and
rubbing their eyes, having a wholesome dread of their tyrant and his
stick, which no tenderness of heart ever made him reluctant to use.
Their toilet did not require long to make. The padrone was quite
indifferent whether they were clean or not, and offered them no
facilities for washing.
When they were dressed they were supplied with a frugal breakfast--a
piece of bread and cheese each; their instruments were given them, and
they were started off for a long day of toil.
Phil looked around for Giacomo, who had slept in a different room, but
he was not to be seen.
"Is Giacomo sick this morning, Pietro?" he asked of the padrone's
nephew.
"He pretends to be sick, little drone!" said Pietro, unfeelingly. "If I
were the padrone, I would let him taste the stick again."
Phil felt that he would like to see the brutal speaker suffering the
punishment he wanted inflicted on him; but he knew Pietro's power and
malice too well to give utterance to the wish. A longing came to him to
see Giacomo before he went out. He might have had a secret presentiment
of what was coming.
"Signor Pietro," he said, "may I see Giacomo before I go out?"
This request would have been refused without doubt, but that Pietro felt
flattered at being addressed as signor, to which his years did not yet
entitle him. Phil knew this, and therefore used the title.
"What do you want to see him for?" he asked, suspiciously.
"I want to ask him how he feels."
"Yes, you can go in. Tell him he must get up to-morrow. The padrone will
not let him spend his time in idleness."
So Phil, having already his fiddle under his arm, entered the room where
Giacomo lay. The other occupants of the room had risen, and the little
boy was lying on a hard pallet in the corner. His eyes lighted up with
joy as he saw Phil enter.
"I am glad it is you, Filippo," he said; "I thought it was the padrone,
come to make me get up."
"How do you feel this morning, Giacomo?"
"I do not feel well, Filippo. My back is sore, and I am so weak."
His eyes were very bright with the fever that had now control, and his
cheeks were hot and flushed. Phil put his hand upon them.
"Your cheeks are very hot, Giacomo," he said. "You are going to be
sick."
"I know it, Filippo," said the little boy. "I may be very sick."
"I hope not, Giacomo."
"Lean over, Filippo," said Giacomo. "I want to tell you something."
Phil leaned over until his ear was close to the mouth of his little
comrade.
"I think I am going to die, Filippo," whispered Giacomo.
Phil started in dismay.
"No, no, Giacomo," he said; "that is nonsense. You will live a great
many years."
"I think you will, Filippo. You are strong. But I have always been weak,
and lately I am tired all the time. I don't care to live--very much. It
is hard to live;" and the little boy sighed as he spoke.
"You are too young to die, Giacomo. It is only because you are sick that
you think of it. You will soon be better."
"I do not think so, Filippo. I should like to live for one thing."
"What is that?" asked Phil, gazing with strange wonder at the patient,
sad face of the little sufferer, who seemed so ready to part with the
life which, in spite of his privations and hardships, seemed so bright
to him.
"I should like to go back to my home in Italy, and see my mother again
before I die. She loved me."
The almost unconscious emphasis which he laid on the word "she" showed
that in his own mind he was comparing her with his father, who had sold
him into such cruel slavery.
"If you live, Giacomo, you will go back and see her some day."
"I shall never see her again, Filippo," said the little boy, sadly. "If
you ever go back to Italy--when you are older--will you go and see her,
and tell her that--that I thought of her when I was sick, and wanted to
see her?"
"Yes, Giacomo," said Phil, affected by his little companion's manner.
"Filippo!" called Pietro, in harsh tones.
"I must go," said Phil, starting to his feet.
"Kiss me before you go," said Giacomo.
Phil bent over and kissed the feverish lips of the little boy, and then
hurried out of the room. He never saw Giacomo again; and this, though he
knew it not, was his last farewell to his little comrade.
So Phil commenced his wanderings. He was free in one way--he could go
where he pleased. The padrone did not care where he picked up his money,
as long as he brought home a satisfactory amount. Phil turned to go up
town, though he had no definite destination in view. He missed Giacomo,
who lately had wandered about in his company, and felt lonely without
him.
"Poor Giacomo!" he thought. "I hope he will be well soon."
"Avast there, boy!" someone called. "Just come to anchor, and give us a
tune."
Phil looked up and saw two sailors bearing down upon him (to use a
nautical phrase) with arms locked, and evidently with more liquor aboard
than they could carry steadily.
"Give us a tune, boy, and we'll pay you," said the second.
Phil had met such customers before, and knew what would please them. He
began playing some lively dancing tunes, with so much effect that the
sailors essayed to dance on the sidewalk, much to the amusement of a
group of boys who collected around them.
"Go it, bluejacket! Go it, boots!" exclaimed the boys, designating them
by certain prominent articles of dress.
The applause appeared to stimulate them to further efforts, and they
danced and jumped high in air, to the hilarious delight of their
juvenile spectators. After a time such a crowd collected that the
attention of a passing policeman was attracted.
"What's all this disturbance?" he demanded, in tones of authority.
"We're stretching our legs a little, shipmate," said the first sailor.
"Then you'd better stretch them somewhere else than in the street."
"I thought this was a free country," hiccoughed the second.
"You'll find it isn't if I get hold of you," said the officer.
"Want to fight?" demanded the second sailor, belligerently.
"Boy, stop playing," said the policeman. "I don't want to arrest these
men unless I am obliged to do it."
Phil stopped playing, and this put a stop to the dance. Finding there
was no more to be seen, the crowd also dispersed. With arms again
interlocked, the sailors were about to resume their walk, forgetting to
"pay the piper." But Phil was not at all bashful about presenting his
claims. He took off his cap, and going up to the jolly pair said, "I
want some pennies."
Sailors are free with their money. Parsimony is not one of their vices.
Both thrust their hands into their pockets, and each drew out a handful
of scrip, which they put into Phil's hands, without looking to see how
much it might be.
"That's all right, boy, isn't it?" inquired the first.
"All right," answered Phil, wondering at their munificence. He only
anticipated a few pennies, and here looked to be as much as he was
generally able to secure in a day. As soon as he got a good chance he
counted it over, and found four half dollars, three quarters, and four
tens--in all, three dollars and fifteen cents. At this rate, probably,
the sailors' money would not last long. However this was none of Phil's
business. It was only nine o'clock in the forenoon, and he had already
secured enough to purchase immunity from blows at night. Still there
was one thing unsatisfactory about it. All this money was to go into
the hands of the padrone. Phil himself would reap none of the benefit,
unless he bought his dinner, as he had purchased supper the evening
before. But for this he had been severely punished, though he could
not feel that he had done very wrong in spending the money he himself
earned. However, it would be at least three hours before the question of
dinner would come up.
He put the money into the pocket of his ragged vest, and walked on.
It was not so cold as the day before. The thermometer had risen
twenty-five degrees during the night--a great change, but not unusual in
our variable climate. Phil rather enjoyed this walk, notwithstanding his
back was a little lame.
He walked up the Bowery to the point where Third and Fourth avenues
converge into it. He kept on the left-hand side, and walked up Fourth
Avenue, passing the Cooper Institute and the Bible House, and, a little
further on, Stewart's magnificent marble store. On the block just above
stood a book and periodical store, kept, as the sign indicated, by
Richard Burnton. Phil paused a moment to look in at the windows, which
were filled with a variety of attractive articles. Suddenly he was
conscious of his violin being forcibly snatched from under his arm.
He turned quickly, and thought he recognized Tim Rafferty, to whom the
reader was introduced in the third chapter of this story.
CHAPTER XIII
PHIL FINDS A CAPITALIST
To account for Phil's unexpected loss, I must explain that Tim Rafferty,
whose ordinary place of business was in or near the City Hall Park, had
been sent uptown on an errand. He was making his way back leisurely,
when, just as he was passing Burnton's bookstore, he saw Phil looking
in at the window. He immediately recognized him as the little Italian
fiddler who had refused to lend him his fiddle, as described in a
previous chapter. In his attempt he was frustrated by Paul Hoffman. His
defeat incensed him, and he determined, if he ever met Phil again, to
"get even with him," as he expressed it. It struck him that this was a
good opportunity to borrow his fiddle without leave.
When Phil discovered his loss, he determined to run after the thief.
"Give me back my fiddle!" he cried.
But this Tim was in no hurry to do. As he had longer legs than Phil, the
chances were that he would escape. But some distance ahead he saw one of
the blue-coated guardians of the public peace, or, in newsboy parlance,
a cop, and saw that Phil could easily prove theft against him, as it
would be impossible to pass himself off as a fiddler. He must get rid of
the violin in some way, and the sooner the better. He threw it into the
middle of the street, just as a heavy cart was coming along. The wheels
of the ponderous vehicle passed over the frail instrument, crushing it
utterly. Phil ran forward to rescue his instrument, but too late. It
was spoiled beyond recovery. Phil picked up the pieces mechanically, and
took them back with him, but he soon realized that he might as well cast
them away again. Meanwhile Tim, satisfied with the mischief he had done,
and feeling revenged for his former mortification, walked up a side
street, and escaped interference.
Phil had come to one of those crises in human experience when it is
necessary to pause and decide what to do next. The fiddle was not a
valuable one--in fact, it was a shabby little instrument--but it was
Phil's stock in trade. Moreover, it belonged to the padrone, and however
innocent Phil might be as regarded its destruction, his tyrannical
master was sure to call him to heavy account for it. He was certain to
be severely punished, more so than the evening before, and this was
not a pleasant prospect to look forward to. The padrone was sure not to
forgive an offense like this.
Thinking over these things, a bold suggestion came into Phil's mind.
Why need he go back at all? Why should he not take this occasion for
breaking his fetters, and starting out into life on his own account?
There was nothing alarming in that prospect. He was not afraid but that
he could earn his own living, and fare better than he did at present,
when out of his earnings and those of his comrades the padrone was
growing rich. Other boys had run away, and though some had been brought
back, others had managed to keep out of the cruel clutches of their
despotic master.
It did not take Phil long to come to a decision. He felt that he should
never have a better chance. He had three dollars in his pocket thanks
to the generosity of the sailors--and this would last him some time.
It would enable him to get out of the city, which would be absolutely
necessary, since, if he remained, the padrone would send Pietro for him
and get him back.
There was only one regret he had at leaving the padrone. It would part
him from his little comrade, Giacomo. Giacomo, at least, would miss
him. He wished the little boy could have gone with him, but this, under
present circumstances, was impossible. By staying he would only incur a
severe punishment, without being able to help his comrade.
It was still but nine o'clock. He had plenty of time before him, as
he would not be missed by the padrone until he failed to make his
appearance at night. Having no further occasion to go uptown, he
decided to turn and walk down into the business portion of the city.
He accordingly made his way leisurely to the City Hall Park, when he
suddenly bethought himself of Paul Hoffman, who had served as his friend
on a former occasion. Besides Giacomo, Paul was the only friend on whom
he could rely in the city. Paul was older and had more experience than
he, and could, no doubt, give him good advice as to his future plans.
He crossed the Park and Broadway, and kept along on the west side of the
street until he reached the necktie stand kept by Paul. The young street
merchant did not at first see him, being occupied with a customer, to
whom he finally succeeded in selling two neckties; then looking up, he
recognized the young fiddler.
"How are you, Phil?" he said, in a friendly manner. "Where have you kept
yourself? I have not seen you for a long time."
"I have been fiddling," said Phil.
"But I don't see your violin now. What has become of it?"
"It is broken--destroyed," said Phil.
"How did that happen?"
Phil described the manner in which his violin had been stolen.
"Do you know who stole it?"
"It was that boy who tried to take it once in the Park."
"When I stopped him?"
"Yes."
"I know him. It is Tim Rafferty. He is a mean boy; I will pay him up for
it."
"I do not care for it now," said Phil.
"But what will your padrone say when you come home without it?"
"He would beat me, but I will not go home."
"What will you do?"
"I will run away."
"Good for you, Phil! I like your spunk," said Paul, heartily. "I
wouldn't go back to the old villain if I were you. Where are you going?"
"Away from New York. If I stay here the padrone would catch me."
"How much did you earn with your fiddle when you had it?"
"Two dollars, if it was a good day."
"That is excellent. I'll tell you what, Phil, if you could stay in the
city, I would invite you to come and live with us. You could pay your
share of the expense, say three or four dollars a week, and keep the
rest of your money to buy clothes, and to save."
"I should like it," said Phil; "but if I stay in the city the padrone
would get hold of me."
"Has he any legal right to your services?" asked Paul.
Phil looked puzzled. He did not understand the question.
"I mean did your father sign any paper giving you to him?"
"Yes," said Phil, comprehending now.
"Then I suppose he could take you back. You think you must go away from
the city, then, Phil?"
"Yes."
"Where do you think of going?"
"I do not know."
"You might go to Jersey--to Newark, which is quite a large city, only
ten miles from here."
"I should like to go there."
"I don't think the padrone would send there to find you. But how are you
going to make your living--you have lost your fiddle?"
"I can sing."
"But you would make more money with your fiddle."
"Si, signore."
"Don't talk to me in Italian, Phil; I no understand it."
Phil laughed.
"You can speak English much better than most Italian boys."
"Some cannot speak at all. Some speak french, because we all stayed in
Paris sometime before we came to America."
"Parlez-vous Francais?"
"Oui, monsieur, un peu."
"Well, I can't. Those three words are all the French I know. But, I say,
Phil, you ought to have a fiddle."
"I should like to have one. I should make more money."
"How much would one cost?"
"I don't know."
"I'll tell you what I will do, Phil," said Paul, after a moment's
thought. "I know a pawnbroker's shop on Chatham Street where there is
a fiddle for sale. I don't think it will cost very much; not more than
five dollars. You must buy it."
"I have not five dollars," said Phil.
"Then I will lend you the money. You shall buy it, and when you have
earned money enough you shall come back to New York some day and pay
me."
"Thank you," said Phil, gratefully. "I will surely pay you."
"Of course you will, Phil," said Paul, confidently. "I can see by your
face that you are honest. I don't believe you would cheat your friend."
"I would not cheat you, Signor Paul."
"I see, Phil, you are bound to make an Italian of me. You may just
call me Paul, and don't mind about the signor. Now I'll tell you what I
propose. I cannot leave my business for an hour and a half. You can go
where you please, but come back at that time, and I will take you home
to dinner with me. On the way back I will stop with you at the Chatham
Street store and ask the price of the violin; then, if it doesn't cost
too much, I will buy it."
"All right," said Phil.
"You must come back at twelve o'clock, Phil."
"I will come."
Phil strolled down to the Battery, feeling a little strange without his
violin. He was elated with the thought of his coming freedom, and for
the first time since he landed in America the future looked bright to
him.
CHAPTER XIV
THE TAMBOURINE GIRL
Arriving at Trinity Church, Phil turned into Wall Street, looking about
him in a desultory way, for he was at present out of business. Men and
boys were hurrying by in different directions, to and from banks and
insurance offices, while here and there a lawyer or lawyer's clerk might
be seen looking no less busy and preoccupied. If Phil had had three
thousand dollars instead of three, he, too, might have been interested
in the price of gold and stocks; but his financial education had
been neglected, and he could not have guessed within twenty the day's
quotations for either.
As he walked along his attention was suddenly drawn to a pair of
Italians, a man and a girl of twelve, the former turning a hand-organ,
the latter playing a tambourine. There was nothing unusual in the group;
but Phil's heart beat quick for in the girl he thought he recognized a
playmate from the same village in which he was born and bred.
"Lucia!" he called, eagerly approaching the pair.
The girl turned quickly, and, seeing the young fiddler, let fall her
tambourine in surprise.
"Filippo!" she exclaimed, her eyes lighting up with the joy with which
we greet a friend's face in a strange land.
"Why did you drop your tambourine, scelerata?" demanded the man,
harshly.
Lucia, a pretty, brown-faced girl, did not lose her joyful look even at
this rebuke. She stooped and picked up the tambourine, and began to play
mechanically, but continued to speak to Filippo.
"How long are you in the city?" asked Phil, speaking, of course, in his
native language.
"Only two weeks," answered Lucia. "I am so glad to see you, Filippo."
"When did you come from Italy?"
"I cannot tell. I think it is somewhere about two months."
"And did you see my mother before you came away?" asked Phil, eagerly.
"Yes, Filippo, I saw her. She told me if I saw you to say that she
longed for her dear boy to return; that she thought of him day and
night."
"Did she say that, Lucia?"
"Yes, Filippo."
"And is my mother well?" asked Phil, anxiously, for he had a strong love
for his mother.
"She is well, Filippo--she is not sick, but she is thin, and she looks
sad."
"I will go and see her some day," said Phil. "I wish I could see her
now."
"When will you go?"
"I don't know; when I am older."
"But where is your fiddle, Filippo?" asked Lucia. "Do you not play?"
Filippo glanced at the organ-grinder, whom he did not dare to take into
his confidence. So he answered, evasively:
"Another boy took it. I shall get another this afternoon."
"Are you with the padrone?"
"Yes."
"Come, Lucia," said the man, roughly, ceasing to play, "we must go on."
Lucia followed her companion obediently, reluctant to leave Phil,
with whom she desired to converse longer; but the latter saw that her
guardian did not wish the conversation to continue, and so did not
follow.
This unexpected meeting with Lucia gave him much to think of. It carried
back his thoughts to his humble, but still dear, Italian home, and the
mother from whom he had never met with anything but kindness, and a
longing to see both made him for the moment almost sad. But he was
naturally of a joyous temperament, and hope soon returned.
"I will save money enough to go home," he said to himself. "It will not
take very much--not more than fifty dollars. I can get it soon if I do
not have to pay money to the padrone."
As may be inferred, Phil did not expect to return home in style. A
first-class ticket on a Cunarder was far above his expectations. He
would be content to go by steerage all the way, and that could probably
be done for the sum he named. So his sadness was but brief, and be soon
became hopeful again.
He was aroused from his thoughts of home by a hand laid familiarly on
his shoulder. Turning, he saw a bootblack, whose adventures have
been chronicled in the volume called "Ragged Dick." They had become
acquainted some three months before, Dick having acted as a protector to
Phil against some rough boys of his own class.
"Been buyin' stocks?" asked Dick.
"I don't know what they are," said Phil, innocently.
"You're a green one," said Dick. "I shall have to take you into my
bankin' house and give you some training in business."
"Have you got a bankin' house?" asked Phil, in surprise.
"In course I have. Don't you see it?" pointing to an imposing-looking
structure in front of which they were just passing. "My clerks is all
hard to work in there, while I go out to take the air for the benefit of
my constitushun."
Phil looked puzzled, not quite understanding Dick's chaffing, and looked
rather inquiringly at the blacking box, finding it a little difficult to
understand why a banker on so large a scale should be blacking boots in
the street.
"Shine your boots, sir?" said Dick to a gentleman just passing.
"Not now; I'm in a hurry."
"Blackin' boots is good exercise," continued Dick, answering the doubt
in Phil's face. "I do it for the benefit of my health, thus combinin'
profit with salubriousness."
"I can't understand such long words," said Phil. "I don't know much
English."
"I would talk to you in Italian," said Dick, "only it makes my head
ache. What's come of your fiddle? You haven't sold it, and bought Erie
shares, have you?"
"A boy stole it from me, and broke it."
"I'd like to lick him. Who was it?"
"I think his name was Tim Rafferty."
"I know him," said Dick. "I'll give him a lickin' next time I see him."
"Can you?" asked Phil, doubtfully, for his enemy was as large as Dick.
"In course I can. My fists are like sledge-hammers. Jest feel my
muscle."
Dick straightened out his arm, and Phil felt of the muscle, which was
hard and firm.
"It's as tough as a ten-year-old chicken," said Dick. "It won't be
healthy for Tim to come round my way. What made him steal your fiddle?
He ain't goin' into the musical line, is he?"
"He was angry because I didn't want to lend it to him."
Just then Tim Rafferty himself turned the corner. There was a lull in
his business, and he was wandering along the street eating an apple.
"There he is," said Phil, suddenly espying his enemy.
Dick looked up, and saw with satisfaction that Phil was right. Tim had
not yet espied either, nor did he till Dick addressed him.
"Are you round collectin' fiddles this mornin'?" he asked.
Tim looked up, and, seeing that his victim had found an able champion,
felt anxious to withdraw. He was about to turn back, but Dick advanced
with a determined air.
"Jest stop a minute, Tim Rafferty," said he. "I'm a-goin' to intervoo
you for the Herald. That's what they do with all the big rascals
nowadays."
"I'm in a hurry," said Tim.
"That's what the pickpocket said when the cop was gently persuadin' him
to go to the Tombs, but the cop didn't see it. I want the pleasure of
your society a minute or two. I hear you're in the music business."
"No, I'm not," said Tim, shortly.
"What made you borrer this boy's fiddle, then?"
"I don't know anything about it," said Tim, in a fright.
"Some folks forgets easy," returned Dick. "I know a man what went into
Tiffany's and took up a watch to look at, and carried it off, forgettin'
to pay for it. That's what he told the judge the next day, and the judge
sent him to the island for a few months to improve his memory. The air
over to the island is very good to improve the memory."
"You ought to know," said Tim, sullenly; "you've been there times
enough."
"Have I?" said Dick. "Maybe you saw me there. Was it the ninth time you
were there, or the tenth?"
"I never was there," said Tim.
"Maybe it was your twin brother." suggested Dick. "What made you break
my friend's fiddle? He wouldn't have minded it so much, only it belonged
to his grandfather, a noble count, who made boots for a livin'."
"I don't believe he had a fiddle at all," said Tim.
"That's where your forgetfulness comes in," said Dick "Have you forgot
the lickin' I gave you last summer for stealin' my blackin' box?"
"You didn't lick me," said Tim.
"Then I'll lick you harder next time," said Dick.
"You ain't able," said Tim, who, glancing over his shoulder, saw the
approach of a policeman, and felt secure.
"I will be soon," said Dick, who also observed the approach of the
policeman. "I'd do it now, only I've got to buy some gold for a friend
of mine. Just let me know when it's perfectly convenient to take a
lickin'."
Tim shuffled off, glad to get away unharmed, and Dick turned to Phil.
"I'll give him a lickin' the first time I catch him, when there isn't a
cop around," he said.
Phil left his friend at this point, for he saw by the clock on Trinity
spire that it was time to go back to join Paul Hoffman, as he had
agreed. I may here add that Phil's wrongs were avenged that same
evening, his friend, Dick, administered to Tim the promised "lickin'"
with such good effect that the latter carried a black eye for a week
afterwards.
CHAPTER XV
PHIL'S NEW PLANS
As the clock struck twelve Phil reached the necktie stand of his friend,
Paul Hoffman.
"Just in time," said Paul. "Are you hungry?"
"A little."
"That's right. You're going to dine with me; and I want you to bring a
good appetite with you."
"What will your mother say?" asked Phil, doubtfully.
"Wait and see. If you don't like what she says you can go off without
eating. Where have you been?"
"I went down to Wall Street."
"On business?" inquired Paul, with a smile.
"No," said Phil, seriously. "I saw Lucia."
"Who is she?"
"I forgot. You don't know Lucia. She lived in my home in Italy, and I
used to play with her. She told me of my mother."
"That's lucky, Phil. I hope your mother is well."
"She is not sick, but she is thin. She thinks of me," said Phil.
"Of course she does. You will go home and see her some day."
"I hope so."
"Of course you will," said Paul, confidently.
"I saw the boy who stole my fiddle," continued Phil.
"Tim Rafferty?"
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
"I was with a bootblack--the one they call 'Ragged Dick.' Do you know
him?"
"Yes; I know Dick. He is a bully fellow, always joking."
"Dick wanted to lick him, but a policeman came, and he went away."
"Does Dick know that he stole your fiddle?"
"Yes."
"Then he will be sure to punish him. It will save me the trouble."
The walk was not long. Soon they were at Paul's door.
"I have brought company to dinner, mother," said Paul, entering first.
"I am glad to see you, Phil," said Mrs. Hoffman. "Why have you not come
before?"
"How is that, Phil? Will you stay now?" said Paul.
Mrs. Hoffman looked at Paul inquiringly.
"Phil was afraid he would not be welcome," he exclaimed.
"He is always welcome," said Mrs. Hoffman.
"Where is your fiddle?" asked Jimmy.
"A boy took it," said Phil, "and threw it into the street, and a wagon
went over it and broke it."
Jimmy was quite indignant for his friend, when the story had been told.
"It's lucky for Tim Rafferty that he is not here," said Paul, "or he
might suffer."
"If I was a big boy I'd lick him," said Jimmy, belligerently.
"I never saw you so warlike before, Jimmy," said Paul.
To Phil this sympathy seemed pleasant. He felt that he was in the midst
of friends, and friends were not so plentiful as not to be valued.
"What are you going to have for dinner, mother?" asked Paul.
"I am sorry, Paul, that I have no warm meat. I have some cold roast
beef, some hot potatoes, and an apple pudding."
"You needn't apologize, mother. That's good enou