Phil, the Fiddler

“Yes,” said Pietro, with a sudden thought, “there is Giacomo.”

“The sick boy?”

“Yes. Filippo went in this morning to speak to him. He might have told him then.”

“That is true. I will go and ask him.”

Giacomo still lay upon his hard pallet, receiving very little attention. His fever had increased, and he was quite sick. He rolled from one side to the other in his restlessness. He needed medical attention, but the padrone was indifferent, and none of the boys would have dared to call a doctor without his permission. As he lay upon his bed, the padrone entered the room with a hurried step.

“Where is Giacomo?” he demanded, harshly.

“Here I am, signore padrone,” answered the little boy, trembling, as he always did when addressed by the tyrant.

“Did Filippo come and speak with you this morning, before he went out?”

“Si, signore.”

“What did he say?”

“He asked me how I felt.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him I felt sick.”

“Nothing more?”

“I told him I thought I should die.’

“Nonsense!” said the padrone, harshly; “you are a coward. You have a little cold, that is all. Did he say anything about running away?”

“No, signore.”

“Don’t tell me a lie!” said the tyrant, frowning.

“I tell you the truth, signore padrone. Has not Filippo come home?”

“No.”

“I do not think he has run away,” said the little boy.

“Why not?”

“I think he would tell me.”

“So you two are friends, are you?”

“Si, signore; I love Filippo,” answered Giacomo, speaking the last words tenderly, and rather to himself than to the padrone. He looked up to Phil, though little older than himself, with a mixture of respect and devotion, leaning upon him as the weak are prone to lean upon the strong.

“Then you will be glad to hear,” said the padrone, with a refinement of cruelty, “that I shall beat him worse than last night for staying out so late.”

“Don’t beat him, padrone,” pleaded Giacomo, bursting into tears. “Perhaps he cannot come home.”

“Did he ever speak to you of running away?” asked the padrone, with a sudden thought.

Giacomo hesitated. He could not truthfully deny that Filippo had done so, but he did not want to get his friend into trouble. He remained silent, looking up at the tyrant with troubled eyes.

“Why do you not speak? Did you hear my question?” asked the padrone, with a threatening gesture.

Had the question been asked of some of the other boys present, they would not have scrupled to answer falsely; but Giacomo had a religious nature, and, neglected as he had been, he could not make up his mind to tell a falsehood. So, after a pause, he faltered out a confession that Phil had spoken of flight.

“Do you hear that, Pietro?” said the padrone, turning to his nephew. “The little wretch has doubtless run away.”

“Shall I look for him to-morrow?” asked Pietro, with alacrity, for to him it would be a congenial task to drag Phil home, and witness the punishment.

“Yes, Pietro. I will tell you where to go in the morning. We must have him back, and I will beat him so that he will not dare to run away again.”

The padrone would have been still more incensed could he have looked into Mrs. Hoffman’s room and seen the little fiddler the center of a merry group, his brown face radiant with smiles as he swept the chords of his violin. It was well for Phil that he could not see him.

CHAPTER XVIII

PHIL ELUDES HIS PURSUER

Phil had already made up his mind where to go. Just across the river was New Jersey, with its flourishing towns and cities, settled to a large extent by men doing business in New York. The largest of these cities was Newark, only ten miles distant. There Phil decided to make his first stop. If he found himself in danger of capture he could easily go farther. This plan Paul approved, and it was to be carried into execution immediately.

“I will go down to the Cortlandt Street Ferry with you, Phil,” said Paul.

“I should like to have you, if it will not take you from your business, Paolo.”

“My business can wait,” said Paul. “I mean to see you safe out of the city. The padrone may be in search of you already.”

“I think he will send Pietro to find me,” said Phil.

“Who is Pietro?”

Phil explained that Pietro was the padrone’s nephew and assisted in oppressing the boys.

“I hope he will send him,” said Paul.

Phil looked up in surprise.

“I should like to see this Pietro. What would he do if he should find you?”

“He would take me back.”

“If you did not want to go?”

“I couldn’t help it,” said Phil, shrugging his shoulders. “He is much bigger than I.”

“Is he bigger than I am?”

“I think he is as big.”

“He isn’t big enough to take you away if I am with you.”

Paul did not say this boastfully, but with a quiet confidence in his own powers in which he was justified. Though by no means quarrelsome, he had on several occasions been forced in self-defense into a contest with boys of his own size, and in some instances larger, and in every case he had acquitted himself manfully, and come off victorious.

“I should not be afraid if you were with me, Paolo,” said Phil.

“You are right, Phil,” said Paul, approvingly. “But here we are at the ferry.”

Cortlandt Street is a short distance below the Astor House, and leads to the ferry, connecting on the other side with trains bound for Philadelphia and intermediate places.

Paul paid the regular toll, and passed through the portal with Phil.

“Are you going with me?” asked the little fiddler, in surprise.

“Only to Jersey City, Phil. There might be some of your friends on board the boat. I want to see you safe on the cars. Then I must leave you.”

“You are very kind, Paolo.”

“You are a good little chap, Phil, and I mean to help you. But the boat is about ready to start. Let us go on board.”

They walked down the pier, and got on the boat a minute before it started. They did not pass through to the other end, but, leaning against the side, kept their eyes fixed on the city they were about to leave. They had not long to wait. The signal was heard, and the boat started leisurely from the pier. It was but ten feet distant, when the attention of Paul and Phil was drawn to a person running down the drop in great haste. He evidently wanted to catch the boat, but was too late.

Phil clutched at Paul’s arm, and pointed to him in evident excitement.

“It is Pietro,” he said.

At that moment Pietro, standing on the brink, caught sight of the boy he was pursuing, looking back at him from the deck of the ferry-boat. A look of exultation and disappointment swept over his face as he saw Phil, but realized that he was out of his reach. He had a hand-organ with him, and this had doubtless encumbered him, and prevented his running as fast as he might otherwise.

“So that is Pietro, is it?” said Paul, regarding him attentively in order to fix his face in his memory.

“Yes, Paolo,” said Phil, his eyes fixed nervously upon his pursuer, who maintained his place, and was watching him with equal attention.

“You are not frightened, Phil, are you?”

Phil admitted that he was.

“He will come over in the next boat,” he said.

“But he will not know where you are.”

“He will seek me.”

“Will he? Then I think he will be disappointed. The cars will start on the other side before the next boat arrives. I found out about that before we started.”

Phil felt relieved by this intelligence, but still he was nervous. Knowing well Pietro’s malice, he dreaded the chances of his capturing him.

“He stays there. He does not go away,” said Phil.

“It will do him no good, Phil. He is like a cat watching a canary bird beyond his reach. I don’t think he will catch you to-day.”

“He may go in the cars, too,” suggested Phil.

“That is true. On the whole, Phil, when you get to Newark, I advise you to walk into the country. Don’t stay in the city. He might find you there.”

“I will do what you say, Paolo. It will be better.”

They soon reached the Jersey shore. The railroad station was close by. They went thither at once, and Phil bought a ticket for Newark.

“How soon will the cars start?” inquired Paul of a railway official.

“In five minutes,” was the answer.

“Then, Phil, I advise you to get into the cars at once. Take a seat on the opposite side, though there is no chance of your being seen by Pietro, who will get here too late. Still, it is best to be on the safe side. I will stay near the ferry and watch Pietro when he lands. Perhaps I will have a little conversation with him.”

“I will go, Paolo.”

“Well, good-by, Phil, and good luck,” said Paul, cheerfully. “If you ever come to New York, come to see me.”

“Yes, Paolo, I will be sure to come.”

“And, Phil, though I don’t think you will ever fall into the power of that old brute again (I am sure you won’t if you take good care of yourself), still, if he does get you back again, come to me the first chance you get, and I will see what I can do for you.”

“Thank you, Paolo. I will remember your kindness always,” said the little fiddler, gratefully.

“That is all right, Phil. Good-by!”

“Good-by!” said Phil, and, shaking the hand of his new friend, he ascended the steps, and took a seat on the opposite side, as Paul had recommended.

“I am sorry to part with Phil,” said Paul to himself. “He’s a fine little chap, and I like him. If ever that old brute gets hold of him again, he shan’t keep him long. Now, Signor Pietro, I’ll go back and see you on your arrival.”

Phil was right in supposing that Pietro would take passage on the next boat. He waited impatiently on the drop till it touched, and sprang on board. He cursed the interval of delay, fearing that it would give Phil a chance to get away. However, there was no help for this. Time and tide wait for no man, but it often happens that we are compelled to wait for them. But at length the boat touched the Jersey shore, and Pietro sprang out and hurried to the gates, looking eagerly on all sides for a possible glimpse of the boy he sought. He did not see him, for the cars were already on their way, but his eyes lighted up with satisfaction as they lighted on Paul, whom he recognized as the companion of Phil. He had seen him talking to the little fiddler. Probably he would know where he had gone. He walked up to Paul, who was standing near, and, touching his cap, said: “Excuse me, signore, but have you seen my little brother?”

“Your little brother?” repeated Paul, deliberately.

“Si, signore, a little boy with a fiddle. He was so high;” and Pietro indicated the height of Phil correctly by his hand.

“There was a boy came over in the boat with me,” said Paul.

“Yes, yes; he is the one, signore,” said Pietro, eagerly.

“And he is your brother?”

“Si, signore.”

“That’s a lie,” thought Paul, “I should know it even if Phil had not told me. Phil is a handsome little chap. He wouldn’t have such a villainous-looking brother as you.”

“Can you tell me where he has gone?” asked Pietro, eagerly.

“Didn’t he tell you where he was going?” asked Paul, in turn.

“I think he means to run away,” said Pietro. “Did you see where he went?”

“Why should he want to run away?” asked Paul, who enjoyed tantalizing Pietro, who he saw was chafing with impatience. “Did you not treat him well?”

“He is a little rascal,” said Pietro. “He is treated well, but he is a thief.”

“And you are his brother,” repeated Paul, significantly.

“Did you see where he went?” asked Pietro, getting angry. “I want to take him back to his father.”

“How should I know?” returned Paul, coolly. “Do you think I have nothing to do but to look after your brother?”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?” said Pietro, incensed.

“Don’t get mad,” said Paul, indifferently; “it won’t do you any good. Perhaps, if you look round, you will see your brother. I’ll tell him you want him if I see him.”

Pietro looked at Paul suspiciously. It struck him that the latter might be making a fool of him, but Paul looked so utterly indifferent that he could judge nothing from his appearance. He concluded that Phil was wandering about somewhere in Jersey City.

It did not occur to him that he might have taken the cars for some more distant place. At any rate, there seemed no chance of getting any information out of Paul. So he adjusted his hand-organ and walked up the street leading from the ferry, looking sharply on either side, hoping to catch a glimpse of the runaway; but, of course, in vain.

“I don’t think you’ll find Phil to-day, Signor Pietro,” said Paul to himself, as he watched his receding form. “Now, as there is nothing more to be done here, I will go back to business.”

CHAPTER XIX

PIETRO’S PURSUIT

The distance from New York to Newark is but ten miles. Phil had been there once before with an older boy. He was at no loss, therefore, as to the proper place to get out. He stepped from the cars and found himself in a large depot. He went out of a side door, and began to wander about the streets of Newark. Now, for the first time, he felt that he was working for himself, and the feeling was an agreeable one. True, he did not yet feel wholly secure. Pietro might possibly follow in the next train. He inquired at the station when the next train would arrive.

“In an hour,” was the reply.

It would be an hour, therefore, before Pietro could reach Newark.

He decided to walk on without stopping till he reached the outskirts of the city, and not venture back till nightfall, when there would be little or no danger.

Accordingly he plodded on for an hour and a half, till he came where the houses were few and scattered at intervals. In a business point of view this was not good policy, but safety was to be consulted first of all. He halted at length before a grocery store, in front of which he saw a small group of men standing. His music was listened to with attention, but when he came to pass his cap round afterward the result was small. In fact, to be precise, the collection amounted to but eight cents.

“How’s business, boy?” asked a young man who stood at the door in his shirt-sleeves, and was evidently employed in the grocery.

“That is all I have taken,” said Phil, showing the eight cents.

“Did you come from New York this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Then you haven’t got enough to pay for your ticket yet?”

Phil shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t believe you’ll make your fortune out here.”

Phil was of precisely the same opinion, but kept silent.

“You would have done better to stay in New York.”

To this also Phil mentally assented, but there were imperative reasons, as we know, for leaving the great city.

It was already half-past twelve, and Phil began, after his walk, to feel the cravings of appetite. He accordingly went into the grocery and bought some crackers and cheese, which he sat down by the stove and ate.

“Are you going farther?” asked the same young man who had questioned him before.

“I shall go back to Newark to-night,” said Phil.

“Let me try your violin.”

“Can you play?” asked Phil, doubtfully, for he feared that an unpracticed player might injure the instrument.

“Yes, I can play. I’ve got a fiddle at home myself.”

Our hero surrendered his fiddle to the young man, who played passably.

“You’ve got a pretty good fiddle,” he said. “I think it’s better than mine. Can you play any dancing tunes?”

Phil knew one or two, and played them.

“If you were not going back to Newark, I should like to have you play with me this evening. I don’t have anybody to practice with.”

“I would not know where to sleep,” said Phil, hesitatingly.

“Oh, we’ve got beds enough in our house. Will you stay?”

Phil reflected that he had no place to sleep in Newark except such as he might hire, and decided to accept the offer of his new friend.

“This is my night off from the store,” he said. “I haven’t got to come back after supper. Just stay around here till six o’clock. Then I’ll take you home and give you some supper, and then we’ll play this evening.”

Phil had no objection to this arrangement. In fact, it promised to be an agreeable one for him. As he was sure of a supper, a bed and breakfast, there was no particular necessity for him to earn anything more that day. However, he went out for an hour or two, and succeeded in collecting twenty-five cents. He realized, however, that it was not so easy to pick up pennies in the country as in the city—partly because population is sparser and partly because, though there is less privation in the country, there is also less money.

A little before six Phil’s new friend, whose name he ascertained was Edwin Grover, washed his hands, and, putting on his coat, said “Come along, Phil.”

Phil, who had been sitting near the stove, prepared to accompany him.

“We haven’t got far to go,” said Edwin, who was eighteen. “I am glad of that, for the sooner I get to the supper table the better.”

After five minutes’ walk they stopped at a comfortable two-story house near the roadside.

“That’s where I put up,” said Edwin.

He opened the door and entered, followed by Phil, who felt a little bashful, knowing that he was not expected.

“Have you got an extra plate, mother?” asked Edwin. “This is a professor of the violin, who is going to help me make some music this evening.”

“He is welcome,” said Mrs. Grover, cheerfully, “We can make room for him. He is an Italian, I suppose. What is your name?”

“Filippo.”

“I will call you Philip. I suppose that is the English name. Will you lay down your violin and draw up to the fire?”

“I am not cold,” said Phil.

“He is not cold, he is hungry, as Ollendorf says,” said Edwin, who had written a few French exercises according to Ollendorf’s system. “Is supper almost ready?”

“It will be ready at once. There is your father coming in at the front gate, and Henry with him.”

Mr. Grover entered, and Phil made the acquaintance of the rest of the family. He soon came to feel that he was a welcome guest, and shared in the family supper, which was well cooked and palatable. Then Edwin brought out his fiddle, and the two played various tunes. Phil caught one or two new dancing tunes from his new friend, and in return taught him an Italian air. Three or four people from a neighboring family came in, and a little impromptu dance was got up. So the evening passed pleasantly, and at half-past ten they went to bed, Phil sleeping in a little room adjoining that in which the brothers Edwin and Harry slept.

After breakfast the next morning Phil left the house, with a cordial invitation to call again when he happened to be passing.

Before proceeding with his adventures, we must go back to Pietro.

He, as we know, failed to elicit any information from Paul likely to guide him in his pursuit of Phil. He was disappointed. Still, he reflected that Phil had but a quarter of an hour’s start of him—scarcely that, indeed—and if he stopped to play anywhere, he would doubtless easily find him. There was danger, of course, that he would turn off somewhere, and Pietro judged it best to inquire whether such a boy had passed.

Seeing two boys playing in the street, he inquired: “Have you seen anything of my little brother?”

“What does he look like?” inquired one.

“He is not quite so large as you. He had a fiddle with him.”

“No, I haven’t seen him. Have you, Dick?”

“Yes,” said the other, “there was a boy went along with a fiddle.”

This was true, but, as we know, it was not Phil.

“Did you see where he went?” demanded Pietro, eagerly.

“Straight ahead,” was the reply.

Lured by the delusive hope these words awakened, Pietro went on. He did not stop to play on his organ. He was too intent on finding Phil. At length, at a little distance before him, he saw a figure about the size of Phil, playing on the violin. He hurried forward elated, but when within a few yards he discovered to his disappointment that it was not Phil, but a little fiddler of about his size. He was in the employ of a different padrone. He was doubtless the one the boy had seen.

Disappointed, Pietro now turned back, and bent his steps to the ferry. But he saw nothing of Phil on the way.

“I would like to beat him, the little wretch!” he said to himself, angrily. “If I had not been too late for the boat, I would have easily caught him.”

It never occurred to Pietro that Phil might have taken the cars for a more distant point, as he actually did. The only thing he could think of, for he was not willing to give up the pursuit, was to go back. He remained in Jersey City all day, wandering about the streets, peering here and there; but he did not find Phil, for a very good reason.

The padrone awaited his report at night with some impatience. Phil was one of the smartest boys he had, and he had no mind to lose him.

“Did you find him, Pietro?” he asked as soon as his nephew entered his presence.

“I saw him,” said Pietro.

“Then why did you not bring him back?”

Pietro explained the reason. His uncle listened attentively.

“Pietro, you are a fool,” he said, at length.

“Why am I a fool?” asked Pietro, sullenly.

“Because you sought Filippo where he is not.”

“Where is he?”

“He did not stop in Jersey City. He went farther. He knew that you were on his track. Did you ask at the station if such a boy bought a ticket?”

“I did not think of it.”

“Then you were a fool.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“To-morrow you must go to Newark. That is the first large town. I must have Filippo back.”

“I will go,” said Pietro, briefly.

He was mortified at the name applied to him by his uncle, as well as by the fact of Phil’s having thus far outwitted him. He secretly determined that when he did get him into his power he would revenge himself for all the trouble to which he had been put, and there was little doubt that he would keep his word.

CHAPTER XX

PIETRO’S DISAPPOINTMENT

Though Phil had not taken in much money during the first day of independence, he had more than paid his expenses. He started on the second day with a good breakfast, and good spirits. He determined to walk back to Newark, where he might expect to collect more money than in the suburbs. If he should meet Pietro he determined not to yield without a struggle. But he felt better now than at first, and less afraid of the padrone.

Nine o’clock found him again in Newark. He soon came to a halt, and began to play. A few paused to listen, but their interest in music did not extend so far as to affect their pockets. Phil passed around his hat in vain. He found himself likely to go unrewarded for his labors. But just then he noticed a carriage with open door, waiting in front of a fashionable dry-goods store. Two ladies had just come out and taken their seats preparatory to driving off, when Phil stepped up bareheaded and held his cap. He was an unusually attractive boy, and as he smiled one of the ladies, who was particularly fond of children, noticed him.

“What a handsome boy!” she said to her companion.

“Some pennies for music,” said Phil.

“How old are you?” asked the lady.

“Twelve years.”

“Just the age of my Johnny. If I give you some money what will you do with it?”

“I will buy dinner,” said Phil.

“I never give to vagrants,” said the second lady, a spinster of uncertain age, who did not share her niece’s partiality for children.

“It isn’t his fault if he is a vagrant, Aunt Maria,” said the younger lady.

“I have no doubt he is a thief,” continued Aunt Maria, with acerbity.

“I am not a thief,” said Phil, indignantly, for he understood very well the imputation, and he replaced his cap on his head.

“I don’t believe you are,” said the first lady; “here, take this,” and she put in his hand twenty-five cents.

“Thank you, signora,” said Phil, with a grateful smile.

“That money is thrown away,” said the elderly lady; “you are very indiscriminate in your charity, Eleanor.”

“It is better to give too much than too little, Aunt Maria, isn’t it?”

“You shouldn’t give to unworthy objects.”

“How do you know this boy is an unworthy object?”

“He is a young vagrant.”

“Can he help it? It is the way he makes his living.”