Phil, the Fiddler

CHAPTER XXIII

A PITCHED BATTLE

Has my youthful reader ever seen a dog slinking home with downcast look and tall between his legs? It was with very much the same air that Pietro in the evening entered the presence of the padrone. He had received a mortifying defeat, and now he had before him the difficult task of acknowledging it.

“Well, Pietro,” said the padrone, harshly, “where is Filippo?”

“He is not with me,” answered Pietro, in an embarrassed manner.

“Didn’t you see him then?” demanded his uncle, hastily.

For an instant Pietro was inclined to reply in the negative, knowing that the censure he would incur would be less. But Phil might yet be taken—he probably would be, sooner or later, Pietro thought—and then his falsehood would be found out, and he would in consequence lose the confidence of the padrone. So, difficult though it was, he thought it politic to tell the truth.

“Si, signore, I saw him,” said he.

“Then why didn’t you drag him home?” demanded his uncle, with contracted brow. “Didn’t I tell you to bring him home?”

“Si, signore, but I could not.”

“Are you not so strong as he, then?” asked the padrone, with a sneer. “Is a boy of twelve more than a match for you, who are six years older?”

“I could kill him with my little finger,” said Pietro, stung by this taunt, and for the moment he looked as if he would like to do it.

“Then you didn’t want to bring him? Come, you are not too old for the stick yet.”

Pietro glowed beneath his dark skin with anger and shame when these words were addressed to him. He would not have cared so much had they been alone, but some of the younger boys were present, and it shamed him to be threatened in their presence.

“I will tell you how it happened,” he said, suppressing his anger as well as he could, “and you will see that I was not in fault.”

“Speak on, then,” said his uncle; but his tone was cold and incredulous.

Pietro told the story, as we know it. It will not be necessary to repeat it. When he had finished, his uncle said, with a sneer, “So you were afraid of a woman. I am ashamed of you.”

“What could I do?” pleaded Pietro.

“What could you do?” repeated the padrone, furiously; “you could push her aside, run into the house, and secure the boy. You are a coward—afraid of a woman!”

“It was her house,” said Pietro. “She would call the police.”

“So could you. You could say it was your brother you sought. There was no difficulty. Do you think Filippo is there yet?”

“I do not know.”

“To-morrow I will go with you myself,” said the padrone. “I see I cannot trust you alone. You shall show me the house, and I will take the boy.”

Pietro was glad to hear this. It shifted the responsibility from his shoulders, and he was privately convinced that Mrs. McGuire would prove a more formidable antagonist than the padrone imagined. Whichever way it turned out, he would experience a feeling of satisfaction. If the padrone got worsted, it would show that he, Pietro, need not be ashamed of his defeat. If Mrs. McGuire had to surrender at discretion, he would rejoice in her discomfiture. So, in spite of his reprimand, he went to bed with better spirits than he came home.

The next morning Pietro and the padrone proceeded to Newark, as proposed. Arrived there, the former led his uncle at once to the house of the redoubtable Mrs. McGuire. It will be necessary for us to precede them.

Patrick McGuire was a laborer, and for some months past had had steady work. But, as luck would have it, work ceased for him on the day in which his wife had proved so powerful a protector to Phil. When he came home at night he announced this.

“Niver mind, Pat,” said Mrs. McGuire, who was sanguine and hopeful, “we’ll live somehow. I’ve got a bit of money upstairs, and I’ll earn something by washing. We won’t starve.”

“I’ll get work ag’in soon, maybe,” said Pat, encouraged.

“Shure you will.”

“And if I don’t, I’ll help you wash,” said her husband, humorously.

“Shure you’d spoil the clothes,” said Bridget, laughing.

In the evening Phil played, and they had a merry time. Mr. McGuire quite forgot that he was out of work, and, seizing his wife by the waist, danced around the kitchen, to the great delight of the children.

The next morning Phil thanked Mrs. McGuire for her kindness, and prepared to go away.

“Why will you go?” asked Bridget, hospitably. “Shure we have room for you. You can pay us a little for your atin’, and sleep with the childer.”

“I should like it,” said Phil, “but–”

“But what?”

“Pietro will come for me.”

“And if he does, my Pat will kick him out of doors.”

Mr. McGuire was six feet in height, and powerfully made. There was no doubt he could do it if he had the opportunity. But Phil knew that he must go out into the streets and then Pietro might waylay him when he had no protector at hand. He explained his difficulty to Mrs. McGuire, and she proposed that he should remain close at hand all the forenoon; near enough to fly to the house as a refuge, if needful. If Pietro did not appear in that time, he probably would not at all.

Phil agreed to this plan, and accordingly began to play and sing in the neighborhood, keeping a watchful lookout for the enemy. His earnings were small, for the neighborhood was poor. Still, he picked up a few pennies, and his store was increased by a twenty-five cent gift from a passing gentleman. He had just commenced a new tune, being at that time ten rods from the house, when his watchful eyes detected the approach of Pietro, and, more formidable still, the padrone.

He did not stop to finish his tune, but took to his heels. At that moment the padrone saw him. With a cry of exultation, he started in pursuit, and Pietro with him. He thought Phil already in his grasp.

Phil dashed breathless into the kitchen, where Mrs. McGuire was ironing.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“The padrone—Pietro and the padrone!” exclaimed Phil, pale with affright.

Mrs. McGuire took in the situation at once.

“Run upstairs,” she said. “Pat’s up there on the bed. He will see they won’t take you.”

Phil sprang upstairs two steps at a time, and dashed into the chamber. Mr. McGuire was lying on the outside of the bed, peacefully smoking a clay pipe.

“What’s the matther?” he asked, repeating his wife’s question.

“They have come for me,” said Phil.

“Have they?” said Pat. “Then they’ll go back, I’m thinkin’. Where are they?”

But there was no need of a reply, as their voices were already audible from below, talking with Mrs. McGuire. The distance was so trifling that they had seen Phil enter the house, and the padrone, having a contempt for the physical powers of woman, followed boldly.

They met Mrs. McGuire at the door.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

“The boy,” said the padrone. “I saw him come in here.”

“Did ye? Your eyes is sharp thin.”

She stood directly in the passage, so that neither could enter without brushing her aside.

“Send him out,” said the padrone.

“Faith, and I won’t,” said Bridget. “He shall stay here as long as he likes.”

“I will come in and take him,” said the padrone, furiously.

“I wouldn’t advise ye to thry it,” said Mrs. McGuire, coolly.

“Move aside, woman, or I will make you,” said the Italian, angrily.

“I’ll stay where I am. Shure, it’s my own house, and I have a right to do it.”

“Pietro,” said the padrone, with sudden thought, “he may escape from the front door. Go round and watch it.”

By his sign Bridget guessed what he said, though it was spoken in Italian.

“He won’t run away,” she said. “I’ll tell you where he is, if you want to know.”

“Where?” asked the padrone, eagerly.

“He’s upstairs, thin.”

The padrone would not be restrained any longer. He made a rush forward, and, pushing Mrs. McGuire aside, sprang up the stairs. He would have found greater difficulty in doing this, but Bridget, knowing her husband was upstairs, made little resistance, and contented herself, after the padrone had passed, with intercepting Pietro, and clutching him vigorously by the hair, to his great discomfort, screaming “Murther!” at the top of her lungs.

The padrone heard the cry, but in his impetuosity he did not heed it. He expected to gain an easy victory over Phil, whom he supposed to be alone in the chamber. He sprang toward him, but had barely seized him by the arm, when the gigantic form of the Irishman appeared, and the padrone found himself in his powerful grasp.

“What business have ye here, you bloody villain?” demanded Pat; “breakin’ into an honest man’s house, without lave or license. I’ll teach you manners, you baste!”

“Give me the boy!” gasped the padrone.

“You can’t have him, thin!” said Pat “You want to bate him, you murderin’ ould villain!”

“I’ll have you arrested,” said the padrone, furiously, writhing vainly to get himself free. He was almost beside himself that Phil should be the witness of his humiliation.

“Will you, thin?” demanded Pat. “Thin the sooner you do it the betther. Open the window, Phil!”

Phil obeyed, not knowing why the request was made. He was soon enlightened. The Irishman seized the padrone, and, lifting him from the floor, carried him to the window, despite his struggles, and, thrusting him out, let him drop. It was only the second story, and there was no danger of serious injury. The padrone picked himself up, only to meet with another disaster. A passing policeman had heard Mrs. McGuire’s cries, and on hearing her account had arrested Pietro, and was just in time to arrest the padrone also, on the charge of forcibly entering the house. As the guardian of the peace marched off with Pietro on one side and the padrone on the other, Mrs. McGuire sat down on a chair and laughed till she cried.

“Shure, they won’t come for you again in a hurry, Phil, darlint!” she said. “They’ve got all they want, I’m thinkin’.”

I may add that the pair were confined in the station-house over night, and the next day were brought before a justice, reprimanded and fined.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE DEATH OF GIACOMO

Great was the astonishment at the Italian lodging-house that night when neither the padrone nor Pietro made his appearance. Great was the joy, too, for the nightly punishments were also necessarily omitted, and the boys had no one to pay their money to. There was another circumstance not so agreeable. All the provisions were locked up, and there was no supper for the hungry children. Finally, at half-past eleven, three boys, bolder than the rest, went out, and at last succeeded in obtaining some bread and crackers at an oyster saloon, in sufficient quantities to supply all their comrades. After eating heartily they went to bed, and for one night the establishment ran itself much more satisfactorily to the boys than if the padrone had been present.

The next morning the boys went out as usual, having again bought their breakfast and dispersed themselves about the city and vicinity, heartily hoping that this state of things might continue. But it was too good to last. When they returned at evening they found their old enemy in command. He looked more ill-tempered and sour than ever, but gave no explanation of his and Pietro’s absence, except to say that he had been out of the city on business. He called for the boys’ earnings of the day previous, but to their surprise made no inquiries about how they had supplied themselves with supper or breakfast. He felt that his influence over the boys, and the terror which he delighted to inspire in them, would be lessened if they should learn that he had been arrested and punished. The boys were accustomed to look upon him as possessed of absolute power over them, and almost regarded him as above law.

Pietro, too, was silent, partly for the same reasons which influenced the padrone, partly because he was afraid of offending his uncle.

Meanwhile poor Giacomo remained sick. If he had been as robust and strong as Phil, he would have recovered, but he was naturally delicate, and exposure and insufficient food had done their work only too well.

Four days afterward (to advance the story a little) one of the boys came to the padrone in the morning, saying: “Signore padrone, Giacomo is much worse. I think he is going to die.”

“Nonsense!” said the padrone, angrily. “He is only pretending to be sick, so that he need not work. I have lost enough by him already.”

Nevertheless he went to the little boy’s bedside.

Giacomo was breathing faintly. His face was painfully thin, his eyes preternaturally bright. He spoke faintly, but his mind seemed to be wandering.

“Where is Filippo?” he said. “I want to see Filippo.”

In this wish the padrone heartily concurred. He, too, would have been glad to see Filippo, but the pleasure would not have been mutual.

“Why do you want to see Filippo?” he demanded, in his customary harsh tone.

Giacomo heard and answered, though unconscious who spoke to him.

“I want to kiss him before I die,” he said.

“What makes you think you are going to die?” said the tyrant, struck by the boy’s appearance.

“I am so weak,” murmured Giacomo. “Stoop down, Filippo. I want to tell you something in your ear.”

Moved by curiosity rather than humanity, the padrone stooped over, and Giacomo whispered:

“When you go back to Italy, dear Filippo, go and tell my mother how I died. Tell her not to let my father sell my little brother to a padrone, or he may die far away, as I am dying. Promise me, Filippo.”

There was no answer. The padrone did indeed feel a slight emotion of pity, but it was, unhappily, transient. Giacomo did not observe that the question was not answered.

“Kiss me, Filippo,” said the dying boy.

One of the boys who stood nearby, with tears in his eyes, bent over and kissed him.

Giacomo smiled. He thought it was Filippo. With that smile on his face, he gave one quick gasp and died—a victim of the padrone’s tyranny and his father’s cupidity.2

Death came to Giacomo as a friend. No longer could he be forced out into the streets to suffer cold and fatigue, and at night inhuman treatment and abuse. His slavery was at an end.

We go back now to Phil. Though he and his friends had again gained a victory over Pietro and the padrone, he thought it would not be prudent to remain in Newark any longer. He knew the revengeful spirit of his tyrants, and dreaded the chance of again falling into their hands. He must, of course, be exposed to the risk of capture while plying his vocation in the public streets. Therefore he resisted the invitation of his warm-hearted protectors to make his home with them, and decided to wander farther away from New York.

The next day, therefore, he went to the railway station and bought a ticket for a place ten miles further on. This he decided would be far enough to be safe.

Getting out of the train, he found himself in a village of moderate size. Phil looked around him with interest. He had the fondness, natural to his age, for seeing new places. He soon came to a schoolhouse. It was only a quarter of nine, and some of the boys were playing outside. Phil leaned against a tree and looked on.

Though he was at an age when boys enjoy play better than work or study, he had no opportunity to join in their games.

One of the boys, observing him, came up and said frankly, “Do you want to play with us?”

“Yes,” said Phil, brightening up, “I should like to.”

“Come on, then.”

Phil looked at his fiddle and hesitated.

“Oh, I’ll take care of your fiddle for you. Here, this tree is hollow; just put it inside, and nobody will touch it.”

Phil needed no second invitation. Sure of the safety of his fiddle, which was all-important to him since it procured for him his livelihood, he joined in the game with zest. It was so simple that he easily understood it. His laugh was as loud and merry as any of the rest, and his face glowed with enjoyment.

It does not take long for boys to become acquainted. In the brief time before the teacher’s arrival, Phil became on good terms with the schoolboys, and the one who had first invited him to join them said: “Come into school with us. You shall sit in my seat.”

“Will he let me?” asked Phil, pointing to the teacher.

“To be sure he will. Come along.”

Phil took his fiddle from its hiding-place in the interior of the tree, and walked beside his companion into the schoolroom.

It was the first time he had ever been in a schoolroom before, and he looked about him with curiosity at the desks, and the maps hanging on the walls. The blackboards, too, he regarded with surprise, not understanding their use.

After the opening exercises were concluded, the teacher, whose attention had been directed to the newcomer, walked up to the desk where he was seated. Phil was a little alarmed, for, associating him with his recollections of the padrone, he did not know but that he would be punished for his temerity in entering without the teacher’s invitation.

But he was soon reassured by the pleasant tone in which he was addressed.

“What is your name, my young friend?”

“Filippo.”

“You are an Italian, I suppose.”

“Si, signore.”

“Does that mean ‘Yes, sir’?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Phil, remembering to speak English.

“Is that your violin?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where do you live?”

Phil hesitated.

“I am traveling,” he said at last.

“You are young to travel alone. How long have you been in this country?”

“A year.”

“And have you been traveling about all that time?”

“No, signore; I have lived in New York.”

“I suppose you have not gone to school?”

“No, signore.”

“Well, I am glad to see you here; I shall be glad to have you stay and listen to our exercises.”

The teacher walked back to his desk, and the lessons began. Phil listened with curiosity and attention. For the first time in his life he felt ashamed of his own ignorance, and wished he, too, might have a chance to learn, as the children around him were doing. But they had homes and parents to supply their wants, while he must work for his livelihood.

After a time, recess came. Then the boys gathered around, and asked Phil to play them a tune.

“Will he let me?” asked the young fiddler, again referring to the teacher.

The latter, being applied to, readily consented, and expressed his own wish to hear Phil. So the young minstrel played and sang several tunes to the group of children who gathered around him. Time passed rapidly, and the recess was over before the children anticipated it.

“I am sorry to disturb your enjoyment,” said the teacher; “but duty before pleasure, you know. I will only suggest that, as our young friend here depends on his violin for support, we ought to collect a little money for him. James Reynolds, suppose you pass around your hat for contributions. Let me suggest that you come to me first.”

The united offerings, though small individually, amounted to a dollar, which Phil pocketed with much satisfaction. He did not remain after recess, but resumed his wanderings, and about noon entered a grocery store, where he made a hearty lunch. Thus far good fortune attended him, but the time was coming, and that before long, when life would wear a less sunny aspect.

CHAPTER XXV

PHIL FINDS A FRIEND

It was the evening before Christmas. Until to-day the winter had been an open one, but about one o’clock in the afternoon the snow began to fall. The flakes came thicker and faster, and it soon became evident that an old-fashioned snowstorm had set in. By seven o’clock the snow lay a foot deep on the level, but in some places considerably deeper, for a brisk wind had piled it up in places.

In a handsome house, some rods back from the village street, lived Dr. Drayton, a physician, whose skill was so well appreciated that he had already, though still in the prime of life, accumulated a handsome competence.

He sat this evening in his library, in dressing-gown and slippers, his wife nearby engaged in some needlework.

“I hope you won’t be called out this evening, Joseph,” said Mrs. Drayton, as a gust of wind tattled the window panes.

“I echo that wish, my dear,” said the doctor, looking up from the last number of the Atlantic Monthly. “I find it much more comfortable here, reading Dr. Holmes’ last article.”

“The snow must be quite deep.”

“It is. I found my ride from the north village this afternoon bleak enough. You know how the wind sweeps across the road near the Pond schoolhouse. I believe there is to be a Christmas-eve celebration in the Town Hall this evening, is there not?”

“No; it has been postponed till to-morrow evening.”

“That will be better. The weather and walking will both be better. Shall we go, Mary?”

“If you wish it,” she said, hesitatingly.

Her husband understood her hesitation. Christmas day was a sad anniversary for them. Four years before, their only son, Walter, a boy of eight, had died just as the Christmas church bells were ringing out a summons to church. Since then the house had been a silent one, the quiet unbroken by childish noise and merriment. Much as the doctor and his wife were to each other, both felt the void which Walter’s death had created, and especially as the anniversary came around which called to mind their great loss.

“I think we had better go,” said the doctor; “though God has bereft us of our own child, it will be pleasant for us to watch the happy faces of others.”

“Perhaps you are right, Joseph.”

Half an hour passed. The doctor continued reading the Atlantic, while his wife, occupied with thoughts which the conversation had called up, kept on with her work.