Phil, the Fiddler

“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?”