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.
As the clock struck twelve Phil reached the necktie stand of his friend, Paul Hoffman.
“Just in time,” said Paul. “Are you hungry?”
“A little.”
“That’s right. You’re going to dine with me; and I want you to bring a good appetite with you.”
“What will your mother say?” asked Phil, doubtfully.
“Wait and see. If you don’t like what she says you can go off without eating. Where have you been?”
“I went down to Wall Street.”
“On business?” inquired Paul, with a smile.
“No,” said Phil, seriously. “I saw Lucia.”
“Who is she?”
“I forgot. You don’t know Lucia. She lived in my home in Italy, and I used to play with her. She told me of my mother.”
“That’s lucky, Phil. I hope your mother is well.”
“She is not sick, but she is thin. She thinks of me,” said Phil.
“Of course she does. You will go home and see her some day.”
“I hope so.”
“Of course you will,” said Paul, confidently.
“I saw the boy who stole my fiddle,” continued Phil.
“Tim Rafferty?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“I was with a bootblack—the one they call ‘Ragged Dick.’ Do you know him?”
“Yes; I know Dick. He is a bully fellow, always joking.”
“Dick wanted to lick him, but a policeman came, and he went away.”
“Does Dick know that he stole your fiddle?”
“Yes.”
“Then he will be sure to punish him. It will save me the trouble.”
The walk was not long. Soon they were at Paul’s door.
“I have brought company to dinner, mother,” said Paul, entering first.
“I am glad to see you, Phil,” said Mrs. Hoffman. “Why have you not come before?”
“How is that, Phil? Will you stay now?” said Paul.
Mrs. Hoffman looked at Paul inquiringly.
“Phil was afraid he would not be welcome,” he exclaimed.
“He is always welcome,” said Mrs. Hoffman.
“Where is your fiddle?” asked Jimmy.
“A boy took it,” said Phil, “and threw it into the street, and a wagon went over it and broke it.”
Jimmy was quite indignant for his friend, when the story had been told.
“It’s lucky for Tim Rafferty that he is not here,” said Paul, “or he might suffer.”
“If I was a big boy I’d lick him,” said Jimmy, belligerently.
“I never saw you so warlike before, Jimmy,” said Paul.
To Phil this sympathy seemed pleasant. He felt that he was in the midst of friends, and friends were not so plentiful as not to be valued.
“What are you going to have for dinner, mother?” asked Paul.
“I am sorry, Paul, that I have no warm meat. I have some cold roast beef, some hot potatoes, and an apple pudding.”
“You needn’t apologize, mother. That’s good enough for anybody. It’s as good as Phil gets at his boarding house, I am sure. He has got rather tired of it, and isn’t going to stay.”
“Are you going to leave the padrone?” asked Mrs. Hoffman, with interest.
“Si, signora,” said Phil.
“Will he let you go?”
“I shall run away,” said Phil.
“You see, mother, Phil would be sure of a beating if he went home without his fiddle. Now he doesn’t like to be beaten, and the padrone gives harder beatings than you do, mother.”
“I presume so,” said Mrs. Hoffman, smiling. “I do not think I am very severe.”
“No, you spoil the rod and spare the child.”
“Is Phil going to stay in the city?”
“No; the padrone would get hold of him if he did. He is going to New Jersey to make his fortune.”
“But he will need a fiddle.”
“I am going to lend him money enough to buy one. I know a pawnbroker who has one for sale. I think I can get it for three or four dollars. When Phil gets it he is going around giving concerts. How much can you make in a day, Phil?”
“Sometimes I make two dollars,” answered Phil.
“That is excellent, especially when you are your own padrone. You will be able to save up money. You will have to buy a pocketbook, Phil.”
“Where will you sleep, Phil?” asked Jimmy, interested.
Phil shrugged his shoulders. He had not thought of that question particularly.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I can sleep anywhere.”
“Of course he will stop at the first-class hotels, Jimmy,” said Paul, “like all men of distinction. I shouldn’t wonder if he married an heiress in six months, and went back to Italy on a bridal tour.”
“He is too young to be married,” said Jimmy, who, it will be perceived, understood everything literally.
“I don’t know but he is,” said Paul, “but he isn’t too old to be hungry. So, mother, whenever dinner is ready we shall be.”
“It is all ready except peeling the potatoes, Paul.”
“We can do that ourselves. It is good exercise, and will sharpen our appetites. You will have to eat fast or there won’t be much left. Jimmy is the most tremendous eater I ever saw, and won’t leave much for the rest of us, if we give him the chance.”
“Now, Paul,” expostulated Jimmy, feeling aggrieved at this charge, “you know I don’t eat as much as you do.”
“Hear him talk, Phil. I don’t eat more than enough to keep a fly alive.”
“It must be a pretty large fly, Paul,” said Jimmy, slyly.
“Good joke, Jimmy. Mother, you must give Jimmy twelve potatoes to-day instead of the ten he usually eats.”
“Oh, Paul, how can you tell such stories?” exclaimed Jimmy, shocked at such an extravagant assertion. Phil laughed, for there was something ludicrous in the idea of Jimmy, who was a slight boy of seven, making away with such a large quantity, and the little boy began to see that it was a joke at his expense.
The dinner went off well. All had a good appetite, and did full justice to Mrs. Hoffman’s cookery. The pudding in particular was pronounced a success. It was so flaky and well-seasoned, and the sauce, flavored with lemon, was so good, that everyone except Mrs. Hoffman took a second piece. For the first time since he had left Italy, Phil felt the uncomfortable sensation of having eaten too much. However, with the discomfort was the pleasant recollection of a good dinner, and to the mind of the little fiddler the future brightened, as it is very apt to do under such circumstances, and he felt ready to go out and achieve his fortune.
“Why won’t you stop with us to-night, Phil, and start on your journey to-morrow?” asked Mrs. Hoffman. “I am sure Jimmy would be glad of your company.”
“Yes, Phil, stay,” said Paul.
Phil hesitated. It was a tempting invitation, but, on the other hand, if he remained in the city till the next day he might be in danger from the padrone.
He expressed this fear.
“I am afraid the padrone would catch me,” he said.
“No, he won’t. You can go out with me and buy the fiddle now, and then come back and play to mother and Jimmy. To-morrow morning I will go with you to the Jersey City Ferry myself, and if we meet the padrone, I’ll give him a hint to be off.”
Phil still hesitated, but finally yielded to the united request. But it was now one o’clock, and Paul must be back to his business. Phil took his cap and went with him to purchase the fiddle, promising to come back directly.
They went into Chatham Street, and soon halted before a small shop, in front of which were three gilt balls, indicating that it was a pawnbroker’s shop.
Entering, they found themselves in a small apartment, about twelve feet front by twenty in depth, completely filled with pawnable articles in great variety a large part, however, consisting of clothing; for when the poor have occasion to raise money at a pawnbroker’s, they generally find little in their possession to pawn except their clothing. Here was a shawls pawned for a few shillings by a poor woman whose intemperate husband threw the burden of supporting two young children upon her. Next to it was a black coat belonging to a clerk, who had been out of employment for three months, and now was out of money also. Here was a child’s dress, pawned by the mother in dire necessity to save the child from starving. There was a plain gold ring, snatched by a drunken husband from the finger of his poor wife, not to buy food, but to gratify his insatiable craving for drink.
Over this scene of confusion presided a little old man with blear eyes and wrinkled face, but with a sharp glance, fully alive to his own interests. He was an Englishman born, but he had been forty years in America. He will be remembered by those who have read “Paul the Peddler.” Though nearly as poverty-stricken in appearance as his poorest customers, the old man was rich, if reports were true. His business was a very profitable one, allowing the most exorbitant rates of interest, and, being a miser, he spent almost nothing on himself, so that his hoards had increased to a considerable amount.
He looked up sharply, as Paul and Phil entered, and scanned them closely with his ferret-like eyes.
Eliakim Henderson, for this was the pawnbroker’s name, did not remember Paul, though on one occasion our hero had called upon him. Nearly all his customers came to pawn articles, not to purchase, and Eliakim naturally supposed that the two boys had come on this errand. Before entering, Paul said to Phil, “Don’t say anything; leave me to manage.”
As they entered, Phil espied a fiddle hanging up behind the counter, and he saw at a glance that it was better than the one he had been accustomed to play upon. But to his surprise, Paul did not refer to it at first.
“What will you give me on this coat?” asked Paul, indicating the one he had on.
He had no intention of selling it, but preferred to come to the fiddle gradually, that the pawnbroker might not think that was his main object, and so charge an extra price.
Eliakim scanned the garment critically. It was nearly new and in excellent condition, and he coveted it.
“I will give you a dollar,” said he, naming a price low enough to advance upon.
“That is too little,” said Paul, shaking his head.
“I might give you fifty cents more, but I should lose if you didn’t redeem it.”
“I don’t think you would. I paid ten dollars for it.”
“But it is old.”
“No, it isn’t; I have only had it a few weeks.”
“How much do you want on it?” asked Eliakim, scanning Paul sharply, to see how much he seemed in want of money.
“I don’t want any to-day. If I should want some next week, I will come in.”
“It will be older next week,” said Eliakim, not wanting to lose the bargain, for he hoped it would not be redeemed.
“Never mind; I can get along till then.”
“Can I do no business with you this morning?” asked Eliakim, disappointed.
“I don’t know,” said Paul, looking carelessly around. “My friend here would like a fiddle, if he can get one cheap. What do you ask for that one up there?”
Eliakim took down the fiddle with alacrity. He had had it on hand for a year without securing a customer. It had originally been pawned by a poor musician, for a dollar and a quarter, but the unfortunate owner had never been able to redeem it. Among his customers, the pawnbroker had not found one sufficiently musical to take it off his hands. Here was a slight chance, and he determined to effect a sale if he could.
“It is a splendid instrument,” he said, enthusiastically, brushing off the dust with a dirty cotton handkerchief. “I have had many chances to sell it.”
“Why didn’t you sell it, then?” demanded Paul, who did not believe a word of this.
“Because it was only pawned. I kept it for the owner.”
“Oh, well; if you can’t sell it, it doesn’t matter.”
“It is for sale now,” said Eliakim, quickly. “He has not come for it, and I shall keep it no longer. Just try it. See what a sp-l-endid instrument it is!” said the pawnbroker, dwelling on the adjective to give emphasis to it.
Paul tried it, but not knowing how to play, of course created only discord. He did not offer it to Phil, because the young Italian boy would have made it sound too well and so enhanced the price.
“It don’t sound very well,” said he, indifferently; “but I suppose it will do to learn on. What do you want for it?”
“Five dollars,” said Eliakim, studying the face of Paul, to observe the effect of his announcement.
“Five dollars,” repeated Paul. “Take it back, then, and wait till A. T. Stewart wants one. I haven’t got five dollars to throw away.”
But the pawnbroker did not expect to get his first price. He named it, in order to have a chance to fall.
“Stay,” he said, as Paul made a motion to leave; “what will you give me for it?”
“I’ll give you a dollar and a half,” said Paul, turning back.
“A dollar and a half!” exclaimed Eliakim, holding up both hands in horror. “Do you want to ruin me?”
“No, I think you want to ruin me. I am willing to pay a fair price.”
“You may have it for three dollars and a half.”
“No doubt you’d be glad to get that. Come, Phil, we’ll go.”
“Stay; you may have it for three dollars, though I shall lose by it.”
“So should I, if I paid you that price. I can wait till some other time.”
But Eliakim did not intend to let this chance slip. He had found the fiddle rather unsalable, and feared if he lost his chance of disposing of it, it might remain on his hands for a year more. He was willing, therefore, to take less than the profit he usually calculated upon in the sale of articles which remained unredeemed.
“You may have it for two dollars and a half,” he said.
As far as Paul could judge, though he did not know much about the price of violins, this was a reasonable price. But he knew that Eliakim must have got it for considerably less, or he would not so soon have come down to this sum. He did not hesitate, therefore, to try to get it a little cheaper.
“I’ll give you two dollars and a quarter,” he said, “and not a penny more.”
Eliakim tried hard to get ten cents more, but Paul saw that he was sure of his purchase, and remained obdurate. So, after a pretense of putting up the fiddle, the pawnbroker finally said, “You may have it, but I tell you that I shall lose money.”
“All right,” said Paul; “hand it over.”
“Where is the money?” asked Eliakim, cautiously.
Paul drew from his pocket a two-dollar bill and twenty-five cents in currency, and received the fiddle. The pawnbroker scrutinized the money closely, fearing that it might be bad; but finally, making up his mind on that point, deposited it in his money drawer.
“Well, Phil, we may as well go,” said Paul. “We’ve got through our business.”
The pawnbroker heard this, and a sudden suspicion entered his mind that Paul had been too sharp for him.
“I might have got twenty-five cents more,” he thought regretfully; and this thought disturbed the complacency he felt at first.
“Well, Phil, how do you like it?” asked Paul, as they emerged into the street.
“Let me try it,” said Phil, eagerly.
He struck up a tune, which he played through, his face expressing the satisfaction he felt.
“Is it as good as your old one?”
“It is much better,” said Phil. “I will pay you for it;” and he drew out the money the sailors had given him in the morning.
“No, Phil,” said his friend, “you may need that money. Keep it, and pay me when you have more.”
“But I shall be away.”
“You will come to the city some day. When you do you will know where to find me. Now go and play a tune to Jimmy. He is waiting for you. If you remain in the streets, your old enemy, Tim Rafferty, may want to borrow your fiddle again.”
“You are very kind to me, Paolo,” said Phil, raising his dark eyes with a sudden impulse of gratitude.
“It’s nothing, Phil,” said Paul, modestly; “you would do the same for me if I needed it.”
“Yes, I would,” said Phil; “but I am poor, and I cannot help you.”
“You won’t be poor always, Phil,” said Paul, cheerfully, “nor I either, I hope. I mean to be a merchant some time on a bigger scale than now. As for you, you will be a great player, and give concerts at the Academy of Music.”
Phil laughed, but still seemed pleased at the prophecy.
“Well, Phil, I must bid you good-by for a little while, or my clerks will be cheating me. I will see you at supper.”
“Addio, Paolo,” said Phil.
“Addio,” said Paul, laughing. “Wouldn’t I make a good Italian?”
Paul returned to his stand, and Phil took the direction of Mrs. Hoffman’s rooms. While on his way he heard the sound of a hand-organ, and, looking across the way, saw, with some uneasiness, his old enemy Pietro, playing to a crowd of boys.
“I hope he won’t see me,” said Phil to himself.
He was afraid Pietro would remember his old violin, and, seeing the difference in the instrument he now had, inquire how he got it. He might, if not satisfied on this point, take Phil home with him, which would be fatal to his plans. He thought it prudent, therefore, to turn down the next street, and get out of sight as soon as possible. Fortunately for him Pietro had his back turned, so that he did not observe him. Nothing would have pleased him better than to get the little fiddler into trouble, for, besides being naturally malicious, he felt that an exhibition of zeal in his master’s service would entitle him to additional favors at the hands of the padrone, whom he hoped some day to succeed.
“Oh, what a beautiful fiddle!” said Jimmy, in admiration, as Phil reappeared. “Do you think I could play on it?”
Phil shook his head, smiling.
“Don’t let Jimmy have it. He would only spoil it,” said Mrs. Hoffman. “I don’t think he would succeed as well in music as in drawing.”
“Will you play something?” asked Jimmy.
Phil willingly complied, and for half an hour held Jimmy entranced with his playing. The little boy then undertook to teach Phil how to draw, but at this Phil probably cut as poor a figure as his instructor would have done at playing on the violin.
So the afternoon wore away, happily for all three, and at five Paul made his appearance. When supper was over Phil played again, and this attracting the attention of the neighbors, Mrs. Hoffman’s rooms were gradually filled with visitors, who finally requested Phil to play some dancing tunes. Finding him able to do so, an impromptu dance was got up, and Mrs. Hoffman, considerably to her surprise, found that she was giving a dancing-party. Paul, that nothing might be left out, took a companion with him and they soon reappeared with cake and ice cream, which were passed around amid great hilarity; and it was not until midnight that the last visitor went out, and the sound of music and laughter was hushed.
“You are getting fashionable in your old age, mother,” said Paul, gayly. “I think I shall send an account of your party to the Home Journal.”
“I believe it is usual to describe the dresses of the ladies,” said Mrs. Hoffman, smiling.
“Oh, yes, I won’t forget that. Just give me a piece of paper and see how I will do it.”
Paul, whose education, I repeat here, was considerably above that of most boys in his position, sat down and hastily wrote the following description, which was read to the great amusement of his auditors:
“Mrs. Hoffman, mother of the well-known artist, Jimmy Hoffman, Esq., gave a fashionable party last evening. Her spacious and elegant apartments were crowded with finely dressed gentlemen and ladies from the lower part of the city. Signor Filippo, the great Italian musician, furnished the music. Mrs. Hoffman appeared in a costly calico dress, and had a valuable gold ring on one of her fingers. Her son, the artist, was richly dressed in a gray suit, purchased a year since. Miss Bridget Flaherty, of Mott Street, was the belle of the occasion, and danced with such grace and energy that the floor came near giving away beneath her fairy tread. [Miss Flaherty, by the way, weighed one hundred and eighty pounds.] Mr. Mike Donovan, newspaper merchant, handed round refreshments with his usual graceful and elegant deportment. Miss Matilda Wiggins appeared in a magnificent print dress, imported from Paris by A. T. Stewart, and costing a shilling a yard. No gloves were worn, as they are now dispensed with in the best society. At a late hour the guests dispersed. Mrs. Hoffman’s party will long be remembered as the most brilliant of the season.”
“I did not know you had so much talent for reporting, Paul,” said his mother. “You forgot one thing, however.”
“What is that?”
“You said nothing of yourself.”
“I was too modest, mother. However, if you insist upon it, I will do so. Anything at all to please you.”
Paul resumed his writing and in a short time had the following:
“Among those present we observed the handsome and accomplished Paul Hoffman, Esq., the oldest son of the hostess. He was elegantly dressed in a pepper-and-salt coat and vest, blue necktie, and brown breeches, and wore a six-cent diamond breastpin in the bosom of his shirt. His fifteen-cent handkerchief was perfumed with cologne which he imported himself at a cost of ten cents per bottle. He attracted general admiration.”
“You seem to have got over your modesty, Paul,” said his mother.
“I am sleepy,” said Jimmy, drowsily rubbing his eyes.
As this expressed the general feeling, they retired to bed at once, and in half an hour were wandering in the land of dreams.
The next morning Paul and Phil rose later that usual. They slept longer, in order to make up for the late hour at which they retired. As they sat down to breakfast, at half-past eight, Paul said: “I wonder whether the padrone misses you, Phil?”
“Yes,” said Phil; “he will be very angry because I did not come back last night.”
“Will he think you have run away?”
“I do not know. Some of the boys stay away sometimes, because they are too far off to come home.”
“Then he may expect you to-night. I suppose he will have a beating ready for you.”
“Yes, he would beat me very hard,” said Phil, “if he thought I did not mean to come back.”
“I should like to go and tell him that he need not expect you. I should like to see how he looks.”
“He might beat you, too, Paolo.”
“I should like to see him try it,” said Paul, straightening up with a consciousness of strength. “He might find that rather hard.”
Phil looked admiringly at the boy who was not afraid of the padrone. Like his comrades, he had been accustomed to think of the padrone as possessed of unlimited power, and never dreamed of anybody defying him, or resisting his threats. Though he had determined to run away, his soul was not free from the tyranny of his late taskmaster, and he thought with uneasiness and dread of the possibility of his being conveyed back to him.
“Well, mother,” said Paul, glancing at the clock as he rose from the breakfast table, “it is almost nine o’clock—rather a late hour for a business man like me.”
“You are not often so late, Paul.”
“It is lucky that I am my own employer, or I might run the risk of being discharged. I am afraid the excuse that I was at Mrs. Hoffman’s fashionable party would not be thought sufficient. I guess I won’t have time to stop to shave this morning.”
“You haven’t got anything to shave,” said Jimmy.
“Don’t be envious, Jimmy. I counted several hairs this morning. Well, Phil, are you ready to go with me? Don’t forget your fiddle.”
“When shall we see you again, Philip?” said Mrs. Hoffman.
“I do not know,” said the little minstrel.
“Shall you not come to the city sometimes?”
“I am afraid the padrone would catch me,” said Phil.
“Whenever you do come, Phil,” said Paul, “come right to me. I will take care of you. I don’t think the padrone will carry us both off, and he would have to take me if he took you.”
“Good-by, Philip,” said Mrs. Hoffman, offering her hand. “I hope you will prosper.”
“So do I, Phil,” said Jimmy.
Phil thus took with him the farewells and good wishes of two friends who had been drawn to him by his attractive face and good qualities. He could not help wishing that he might stay with them permanently, but he knew that this could not be. To remain in the same city with the padrone was out of the question.
Meanwhile we return to the house which Phil had forsaken, and inquire what effect was produced by his non-appearance.
It was the rule of the establishment that all the boys should be back by midnight. Phil had generally returned an hour before that time. When, therefore, it was near midnight, the padrone looked uneasily at the clock.
“Have you seen Filippo?” he asked, addressing his nephew.
“No, signore,” answered Pietro. “Filippo has not come in.”
“Do you think he has run away?” asked the padrone, suspiciously.
“I don’t know,” said Pietro.
“Have you any reason to think he intended to run away?”
“No,” said Pietro.
“I should not like to lose him. He brings me more money than most of the boys.”
“He may come in yet.”
“When he does,” said the padrone, frowning, “I will beat him for being so late. Is there any boy that he would be likely to tell, if he meant to run away?”
“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.