Phil, the Fiddler

The discussion continued, but Phil did not stop to hear it. He had received more than he expected, and now felt ready to continue his business. One thing was fortunate, and relieved him from the anxiety which he had formerly labored under. He was not obliged to obtain a certain sum in order to escape a beating at night. He had no master to account to. He was his own employer, as long as he kept out of the clutches of the padrone.

Phil continued to roam about the streets very much after the old fashion, playing here and there as he thought it expedient. By noon he had picked up seventy-five cents, and felt very well satisfied with his success. But if, as we are told, the hour that is darkest is just before day, it also happens sometimes that danger lies in wait for prosperity, and danger menaced our young hero, though he did not know it. To explain this, we must go back a little.

When Pietro prepared to leave the lodging-house in the morning, the padrone called loudly to him.

“Pietro,” said he, “you must find Filippo today.”

“Where shall I go?” asked Pietro.

“Go to Newark. Filippo went there, no doubt, while you, stupid that you are, went looking for him in Jersey City. You have been in Newark before?”

“Yes, signore padrone.”

“Very good; then you need no directions.”

“If I do not find him in Newark, where shall I go?”

“He is in Newark,” said the padrone, confidently. “He will not leave it.”

He judged that Phil would consider himself safe there, and would prefer to remain in a city rather than go into the country.

“I will do my best,” said Pietro.

“I expect you to bring him back to-night.”

“I should like to do so,” said Pietro, and he spoke the truth. Apart from his natural tendency to play the tyrant over smaller boys, he felt a personal grudge against Phil for eluding him the day before, and so subjecting him to the trouble of another day’s pursuit, besides the mortification of incurring a reprimand from his uncle. Never did agent accept a commission more readily than Pietro accepted that of catching and bringing Filippo to the padrone.

Leaving the lodging-house he walked down to the ferry at the foot of Cortlandt Street, and took the first train for Newark. It was ten o’clock before he reached the city. He had nothing in particular to guide him, but made up his mind to wander about all day, inquiring from time to time if anyone had seen his little brother, describing Phil. After a while his inquiries were answered in the affirmative, and he gradually got on the track of our hero.

At twelve o’clock Phil went into a restaurant, and invested thirty cents in a dinner. As the prices were low, he obtained for this sum all he desired. Ten minutes afterward, as he was walking leisurely along with that feeling of tranquil enjoyment which a full stomach is apt to give, Pietro turned the corner behind him. No sooner did the organ-grinder catch sight of his prey, than a fierce joy lighted up his eyes, and he quickened his pace.

“Ah, scelerato, I have you now,” he exclaimed to himself. “To-night you shall feel the stick.”

But opportunely for himself Phil looked behind him. When he saw Pietro at but a few rods’ distance his heart stood still with sudden fright, and for an instant his feet were rooted to the ground. Then the thought of escape came to him, and he began to run, not too soon.

“Stop!” called out Pietro. “Stop, or I will kill you!”

But Phil did not comprehend the advantage of surrendering himself to Pietro. He understood too well how he would be treated, if he returned a prisoner. Instead of obeying the call, he only sped on the faster. Now between the pursuer and the pursued there was a difference of six years, Pietro being eighteen, while Phil was but twelve. This, of course, was in Pietro’s favor. On the other hand, the pursuer was encumbered by a hand-organ, which retarded his progress, while Phil had only a violin, which did not delay him at all. This made their speed about equal, and gave Phil a chance to escape, unless he should meet with some interruption.

“Stop!” called Pietro, furiously, beginning to realize that the victory was not yet won.

Phil looked over his shoulder, and, seeing that Pietro was no nearer, took fresh courage. He darted round a corner, with his pursuer half a dozen rods behind him. They were not in the most frequented parts of the city, but in a quarter occupied by two-story wooden houses. Seeing a front door open, Phil, with a sudden impulse, ran hastily in, closing the door behind him.

A woman with her sleeves rolled up, who appeared to have taken her arms from the tub, hearing his step, came out from the back room.

“What do ye want?” she demanded, suspiciously.

“Save me!” cried Phil, out of breath. “Someone is chasing me. He is bad. He will beat me.”

The woman’s sympathies were quickly enlisted. She had a warm heart, and was always ready to give aid to the oppressed.

“Whist, darlint, run upstairs, and hide under the bed. I’ll send him off wid a flea in his ear, whoever he is.”

Phil was quick to take the hint. He ran upstairs, and concealed himself as directed. While he was doing it, the lower door, which he had shut, was opened by Pietro. He was about to rush into the house, but the muscular form of Phil’s friend stood in his way.

“Out wid ye!” said she, flourishing a broom, which she had snatched up. “Is that the way you inter a dacint woman’s house, ye spalpeen!”

“I want my brother,” said Pietro, drawing back a little before the amazon who disputed his passage.

“Go and find him, thin!” said Bridget McGuire, “and kape out of my house.”

“But he is here,” said Pietro, angrily; “I saw him come in.”

“Then, one of the family is enough,” said Bridget. “I don’t want another. Lave here wid you!”

“Give me my brother, then!” said Pietro, provoked.

“I don’t know anything of your brother. If he looks like you, he’s a beauty, sure,” returned Mrs. McGuire.

“Will you let me look for him?”

“Faith and I won’t. You may call him if you plase.”

Pietro knew that this would do very little good, but there seemed nothing else to do.

“Filippo!” he called; “come here. The padrone has sent for you.”

“What was ye sayin’?” demanded Bridget not comprehending the Italian.

“I told my brother to come.”

“Then you can go out and wait for him,” said she. “I don’t want you in the house.”

Pietro was very angry. He suspected that Phil was in the rear room, and was anxious to search for him. But Bridget McGuire was in the way—no light, delicate woman, but at least forty pounds heavier than Pietro. Moreover, she was armed with a broom, and seemed quite ready to use it. Phil was fortunate in obtaining so able a protector. Pietro looked at her, and had a vague thought of running by her, and dragging Phil out if he found him. But Bridget was planted so squarely in his path that this course did not seem very practicable.

“Will you give me my brother?” demanded Pietro, forced to use words where he would willingly have used blows.

“I haven’t got your brother.”

“He is in this house.”

“Thin he may stay here, but you shan’t,” said Bridget, and she made a sudden demonstration with the broom, of so threatening a character that Pietro hastily backed out of the house, and the door was instantly bolted in his face.

CHAPTER XXI

THE SIEGE

When the enemy had fairly been driven out of the house Mrs. McGuire went upstairs in search of Phil. Our hero had come out from his place of concealment, and stood at the window.

“Where is Pietro?” he asked, as his hostess appeared in the chamber.

“I druv him out of the house,” said Bridget, triumphantly.

“Then he won’t come up here?” interrogated Phil.

“It’s I that would like to see him thry it,” said Mrs. McGuire, shaking her head in a very positive manner, “I’d break my broom over his back first.”

Phil breathed freer. He saw that he was rescued from immediate danger.

“Where is he now?”

“He’s outside watching for you. He’ll have to wait till you come out.”

“May I stay here till he goes?”

“Sure, and you may,” said the warm-hearted Irishwoman. “You’re as welcome as flowers in May. Are you hungry?”

“No, thank you,” said Phil. “I have eaten my dinner.”

“Won’t you try a bit of bread and cold mate now?” she asked, hospitably.

“You are very kind,” said Phil, gratefully, “but I am not hungry. I only want to get away from Pietro.”

“Is that the haythen’s name? Sure I niver heard it before.”

“It is Peter in English.”

“And has he got the name of the blessed St. Peter, thin? Sure, St. Peter would be mightily ashamed of him. And is he your brother, do you say?”

“No,” said Phil.

“He said he was; but I thought it was a wicked lie when he said it. He’s too bad, sure, to be a brother of yours. But I must go down to my work. My clothes are in the tub, and the water will get cold.”

“Will you be kind enough to tell me when he goes away?” asked Phil.

“Sure I will. Rest aisy, darlint. He shan’t get hold of you.”

Pietro’s disappointment may be imagined when he found that the victim whom he had already considered in his grasp was snatched from him in the very moment of his triumph. He felt nearly as much incensed at Mrs. McGuire as at Phil, but against the former he had no remedy. Over the stalwart Irishwoman neither he nor the padrone had any jurisdiction, and he was compelled to own himself ignominiously repulsed and baffled. Still all was not lost. Phil must come out of the house some time, and when he did he would capture him. When that happy moment arrived he resolved to inflict a little punishment on our hero on his own account, in anticipation of that which awaited him from his uncle, the padrone. He therefore took his position in front of the house, and maintained a careful watch, that Phil might not escape unobserved.

So half an hour passed. He could hear no noise inside the house, nor did Phil show himself at any of the windows. Pietro was disturbed by a sudden suspicion. What if, while he was watching, Phil had escaped by the back door, and was already at a distance!

This would be quite possible, for as he stood he could only watch the front of the house. The rear was hidden from his view. Made uneasy by this thought, he shifted his ground, and crept stealthily round on the side, in the hope of catching a view of Phil, or perhaps hearing some conversation between him and his Amazonian protector by which he might set at rest his suddenly formed suspicions.

He was wrong, however. Phil was still upstairs. He was disposed to be cautious, and did not mean to leave his present place of security until he should be apprised by his hostess that Pietro had gone.

Bridget McGuire kept on with her washing. She had been once to the front room, and, looking through the blinds, had ascertained that Pietro was still there.

“He’ll have to wait long enough,” she said to herself, “the haythen! It’s hard he’ll find it to get the better of Bridget McGuire.”

She was still at her tub when through the opposite window on the side of the house she caught sight of Pietro creeping stealthily along, as we have described.

“I’ll be even wid him,” said Bridget to herself exultingly. “I’ll tache him to prowl around my house.”

She took from her sink near by a large, long-handled tin dipper, and filled it full of warm suds from the tub. Then stealing to the window, she opened it suddenly, and as Pietro looked up, suddenly launched the contents in his face, calling forth a volley of imprecations, which I would rather not transfer to my page. Being in Italian, Bridget did not exactly understand their meaning, but guessed it.

“Is it there ye are?” she said, in affected surprise.

“Why did you do that?” demanded Pietro, finding enough English to express his indignation.

“Why did I do it?” repeated Bridget. “How would I know that you were crapin’ under my windy? It serves ye right, anyhow. I don’t want you here.”

“Send out my brother, then,” said Pietro.

“There’s no brother of yours inside,” said Mrs. McGuire.

“It’s a lie!” said Pietro, angrily stamping his foot.

“Do you want it ag’in?” asked Bridget, filling her dipper once more from the tub, causing Pietro to withdraw hastily to a greater distance. “Don’t you tell Bridget McGuire that she lies.”

“My brother is in the house,” reiterated Pietro, doggedly.

“He is no brother of yours—he says so.”

“He lies,” said Pietro.

“Shure and it’s somebody else lies, I’m thinkin’,” said Bridget.

“Is he in the house?” demanded Pietro, finding it difficult to argue with Phil’s protector.

“I don’t see him,” said Bridget, shrewdly, turning and glancing round the room.

“I’ll call the police,” said Pietro, trying to intimidate his adversary.

“I wish you would,” she answered, promptly. “It would save me the trouble. I’ll make a charge against you for thryin’ to break into my house; maybe you want to stale something.”

Pietro was getting disgusted. Mrs. McGuire proved more unmanageable than he anticipated. It was tantalizing to think that Phil was so near him, and yet out of his reach. He anathematized Phil’s protector in his heart, and I am afraid it would have gone hard with her if he could have had his wishes fulfilled. He was not troubled to think what next to say, for Bridget suddenly terminated the interview by shutting down the window with the remark: “Go away from here! I don’t want you lookin’ in at my windy.”

Pietro did not, however, go away immediately. He moved a little further to the rear, having a suspicion that Phil might escape from the door at the back. While he was watching here, he suddenly heard the front door open, and shut with a loud sound. He ran to the front, thinking that Phil might be taking flight from the street door, but it was only a ruse of Mrs. McGuire, who rather enjoyed tantalizing Pietro. He looked carefully up and down the street, but, seeing nothing of Phil, he concluded he must still be inside. He therefore resumed his watch, but in some perplexity as to where he ought to stand, in order to watch both front and rear. Phil occasionally looked guardedly from the window in the second story, and saw his enemy, but knew that as long as he remained indoors he was safe. It was not very agreeable remaining in the chamber alone, but it was a great deal better than falling into the clutches of Pietro, and he felt fortunate to have found so secure a place of refuge.

Pietro finally posted himself at the side of the house, where he could command a view of both front and rear, and there maintained his stand nearly underneath the window at which his intended prisoner was standing.

As Phil was watching him, suddenly he heard steps, and Bridget McGuire entered the chamber. She bore in her hand the same tin dipper before noticed, filled with steaming hot water. Phil regarded her with some surprise.

“Would you like to see some fun now?” she asked, her face covered by a broad smile.

“Yes,” said Phil.

“Open the windy, aisy, so he won’t hear.”

Phil obeyed directions, and managed not to attract the attention of his besieger below, who chanced at the moment to be looking toward the door in the rear.

“Now,” said Bridget, “take this dipper and give him the binifit of it.”

“Don’t let him see you do it,” cautioned his protector.

Phil took the idea and the dipper at once.

Phil, holding the dipper carefully, discharged the contents with such good aim that they drenched the watching Pietro. The water being pretty hot, a howl of pain and rage rose from below, and Pietro danced about frantically. Looking up, he saw no one, for Phil had followed directions and drawn his head in immediately. But Mrs. McGuire, less cautious, looked out directly afterward.

“Will ye go now, or will ye stand jist where I throw the hot water?”

In reply, Pietro indulged in some rather emphatic language, but being in the Italian language, in which he was more fluent, it fell unregarded upon the ears of Mrs. McGuire.

“I told you to go,” she said. “I’ve got some more wather inside.”

Pietro stepped back in alarm. He had no disposition to take another warm shower bath, and he had found out to his cost that Bridget McGuire was not a timid woman, or easily frightened.

But he had not yet abandoned the siege. He shifted his ground to the front of the house, and took a position commanding a view of the front door.

CHAPTER XXII

THE SIEGE IS RAISED

Though Phil was the besieged party, his position was decidedly preferable to that of Pietro. The afternoon was passing, and he was earning nothing. He finally uncovered his organ and began to play. A few gathered around him, but they were of that class with whom money is not plenty. So after a while, finding no pennies forthcoming, he stopped suddenly, but did not move on, as his auditors expected him to. He still kept his eyes fixed on Mrs. McGuire’s dwelling. He did this so long as to attract observation.

“You’ll know the house next time, mister,” said a sharp boy.

Pietro was about to answer angrily, when a thought struck him.

“Will you do something for me?” he asked.

“How much?” inquired the boy, suggestively.

“Five cents,” answered Pietro, understanding his meaning.

“It isn’t much,” said the boy, reflectively. “Tell me what you want.”

Though Pietro was not much of a master of English, he contrived to make the boy understand that he was to go round to the back door and tell Mrs. McGuire that he, Pietro, was gone. He intended to hide close by, and when Phil came out, as he hoped, on the strength of his disappearance, he would descend upon him and bear him off triumphantly.

Armed with these instructions, the boy went round to the back door and knocked.

Thinking it might be Phil’s enemy, Mrs. McGuire went to the door, holding in one hand a dipper of hot suds, ready to use in case of emergency.

“Well, what do you want?” she asked, abruptly, seeing that it was a boy.

“He’s gone,” said the boy.

“Who’s gone?”

“The man with the hand-organ, ma’am.”

“And what for do I care?” demanded Bridget, suspiciously.

This was a question the boy could not answer. In fact, he wondered himself why such a message should have been sent. He could only look at her in silence.

“Who told you to tell the man was gone?” asked Bridget, with a shrewdness worthy of a practitioner at the bar.

“The Italian told me.”

“Did he?” repeated Bridget, who saw into the trick at once. “He’s very kind.”

“He didn’t want you to know he told me,” said the boy, remembering his instructions when it was too late.

Mrs. McGuire nodded her head intelligently.

“True for you,” said she. “What did he pay you for tellin’ me?”

“Five cents.”

“Thin it’s five cints lost. Do you want to earn another five cints?”

“Yes,” said the boy, promptly.

“Thin do what I tell you.”

“What is it?”

“Come in and I’ll tell you.”

The boy having entered, Mrs. McGuire led him to the front door.

“Now,” said she, “when I open the door, run as fast as you can. The man that sint you will think it is another boy, and will run after you. Do ye mind?”

The young messenger began to see the joke, and was quite willing to help carry it out. But even the prospective fun did not make him forgetful of his promised recompense.

“Where’s the five cents?” he asked.

“Here,” said Bridget, and diving into the depths of a capacious pocket, she drew out five pennies.

“That’s all right,” said the boy. “Now, open the door.”

Bridget took care to make a noise in opening the door, and, as it opened, she said in a loud and exultant voice, “You’re all safe now; the man’s gone.”

“Now run,” she said, in a lower voice.

The boy dashed out of the doorway, but Mrs. McGuire remained standing there. She was not much surprised to see Pietro run out from the other side of the house, and prepare to chase the runaway. But quickly perceiving that he was mistaken, he checked his steps, and turning, saw Mrs. McGuire with a triumphant smile on her face.

“Why don’t you run?” she said. “You can catch him.”

“It isn’t my brother,” he answered, sullenly.

“I thought you was gone,” she said.

“I am waiting for my brother.”

“Thin you’ll have to wait. You wanted to chate me, you haythen! But Bridget McGuire ain’t to be took in by such as you. You’d better lave before my man comes home from his work, or he’ll give you lave of absence wid a kick.”

Without waiting for an answer, Bridget shut the door, and bolted it—leaving her enemy routed at all points.

In fact Pietro began to lose courage. He saw that he had a determined foe to contend with. He had been foiled thus far in every effort to obtain possession of Phil. But the more difficult the enterprise seemed, the more anxious he became to carry it out successfully. He knew that the padrone would not give him a very cordial reception if he returned without Phil, especially as he would be compelled to admit that he had seen him, and had nevertheless failed to secure him. His uncle would not be able to appreciate the obstacles he had encountered, but would consider him in fault. For this reason he did not like to give up the siege, though he saw little hopes of accomplishing his object. At length, however, he was obliged to raise the siege, but from a cause with which neither Phil nor his defender had anything to do.

The sky, which had till this time been clear, suddenly darkened. In ten minutes rain began to fall in large drops. A sudden shower, unusual at this time of the year, came up, and pedestrians everywhere, caught without umbrellas, fled panic-stricken to the nearest shelter. Twice before, as we know, Pietro had suffered from a shower of warm water. This, though colder, was even more formidable. Vanquished by the forces of nature, Pietro shouldered his instrument and fled incontinently. Phil might come out now, if he chose. His enemy had deserted his post, and the coast was clear.

“That’ll make the haythen lave,” thought Mrs. McGuire, who, though sorry to see the rain on account of her washing, exulted in the fact that Pietro was caught out in it.

She went to the front door and looked out. Looking up the street, she just caught a glimpse of the organ in rapid retreat. She now unbolted the door, the danger being at an end, and went up to acquaint Phil with the good news.

“You may come down now,” she said.

“Is he gone?” inquired Phil.

“Shure he’s runnin’ up the street as fast as his legs can carry him.”

“Thank you for saving me from him,” said, Phil, with a great sense of relief at the flight of his enemy.

“Whisht now; I don’t nade any thanks. Come down by the fire now.”

So Phil went down, and Bridget, on hospitable thoughts intent, drew her only rocking-chair near the stove, and forced Phil to sit down in it. Then she told him, with evident enjoyment, of the trick which Pietro had tried to play on her, and how he had failed.

“He couldn’t chate me, the haythen!” she concluded. “I was too smart for the likes of him, anyhow. Where do you live when you are at home?”

“I have no home now,” said Phil, with tears in his eyes.

“And have you no father and mother?”

“Yes,” said Phil. “They live in Italy.”

“And why did they let you go so far away?”

“They were poor, and the padrone offered them money,” answered Phil, forced to answer, though the subject was an unpleasant one.

“And did they know he was a bad man and would bate you?”

“I don’t think they knew,” said Phil, with hesitation. “My mother did not know.”

“I’ve got three childer myself,” said Bridget; “they’ll get wet comin’ home from school, the darlints—but I wouldn’t let them go with any man to a far country, if he’d give me all the gowld in the world. And where does that man live that trates you so bad?”

“In New York.”

“And does Peter—or whatever the haythen’s name is—live there too?”

“Yes, Pietro lives there. The padrone is his uncle, and treats him better than the rest of us. He sent him after me to bring me back.”

“And what is your name? Is it Peter, like his?”

“No; my name is Filippo.”

“It’s a quare name.”

“American boys call me Phil.”

“That’s better. It’s a Christian name, and the other isn’t. Before I married my man I lived five years at Mrs. Robertson’s, and she had a boy they called Phil. His whole name was Philip.”