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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.”