Phil, the Fiddler

Phil looked around for Giacomo, who had slept in a different room, but he was not to be seen.

“Is Giacomo sick this morning, Pietro?” he asked of the padrone’s nephew.

“He pretends to be sick, little drone!” said Pietro, unfeelingly. “If I were the padrone, I would let him taste the stick again.”

Phil felt that he would like to see the brutal speaker suffering the punishment he wanted inflicted on him; but he knew Pietro’s power and malice too well to give utterance to the wish. A longing came to him to see Giacomo before he went out. He might have had a secret presentiment of what was coming.

“Signor Pietro,” he said, “may I see Giacomo before I go out?”

This request would have been refused without doubt, but that Pietro felt flattered at being addressed as signor, to which his years did not yet entitle him. Phil knew this, and therefore used the title.

“What do you want to see him for?” he asked, suspiciously.

“I want to ask him how he feels.”

“Yes, you can go in. Tell him he must get up to-morrow. The padrone will not let him spend his time in idleness.”

So Phil, having already his fiddle under his arm, entered the room where Giacomo lay. The other occupants of the room had risen, and the little boy was lying on a hard pallet in the corner. His eyes lighted up with joy as he saw Phil enter.

“I am glad it is you, Filippo,” he said; “I thought it was the padrone, come to make me get up.”

“How do you feel this morning, Giacomo?”

“I do not feel well, Filippo. My back is sore, and I am so weak.”

His eyes were very bright with the fever that had now control, and his cheeks were hot and flushed. Phil put his hand upon them.

“Your cheeks are very hot, Giacomo,” he said. “You are going to be sick.”

“I know it, Filippo,” said the little boy. “I may be very sick.”

“I hope not, Giacomo.”

“Lean over, Filippo,” said Giacomo. “I want to tell you something.”

Phil leaned over until his ear was close to the mouth of his little comrade.

“I think I am going to die, Filippo,” whispered Giacomo.

Phil started in dismay.

“No, no, Giacomo,” he said; “that is nonsense. You will live a great many years.”

“I think you will, Filippo. You are strong. But I have always been weak, and lately I am tired all the time. I don’t care to live—very much. It is hard to live;” and the little boy sighed as he spoke.

“You are too young to die, Giacomo. It is only because you are sick that you think of it. You will soon be better.”

“I do not think so, Filippo. I should like to live for one thing.”

“What is that?” asked Phil, gazing with strange wonder at the patient, sad face of the little sufferer, who seemed so ready to part with the life which, in spite of his privations and hardships, seemed so bright to him.

“I should like to go back to my home in Italy, and see my mother again before I die. She loved me.”

The almost unconscious emphasis which he laid on the word “she” showed that in his own mind he was comparing her with his father, who had sold him into such cruel slavery.

“If you live, Giacomo, you will go back and see her some day.”

“I shall never see her again, Filippo,” said the little boy, sadly. “If you ever go back to Italy—when you are older—will you go and see her, and tell her that—that I thought of her when I was sick, and wanted to see her?”

“Yes, Giacomo,” said Phil, affected by his little companion’s manner.

“Filippo!” called Pietro, in harsh tones.

“I must go,” said Phil, starting to his feet.

“Kiss me before you go,” said Giacomo.

Phil bent over and kissed the feverish lips of the little boy, and then hurried out of the room. He never saw Giacomo again; and this, though he knew it not, was his last farewell to his little comrade.

So Phil commenced his wanderings. He was free in one way—he could go where he pleased. The padrone did not care where he picked up his money, as long as he brought home a satisfactory amount. Phil turned to go up town, though he had no definite destination in view. He missed Giacomo, who lately had wandered about in his company, and felt lonely without him.

“Poor Giacomo!” he thought. “I hope he will be well soon.”

“Avast there, boy!” someone called. “Just come to anchor, and give us a tune.”

Phil looked up and saw two sailors bearing down upon him (to use a nautical phrase) with arms locked, and evidently with more liquor aboard than they could carry steadily.

“Give us a tune, boy, and we’ll pay you,” said the second.

Phil had met such customers before, and knew what would please them. He began playing some lively dancing tunes, with so much effect that the sailors essayed to dance on the sidewalk, much to the amusement of a group of boys who collected around them.

“Go it, bluejacket! Go it, boots!” exclaimed the boys, designating them by certain prominent articles of dress.

The applause appeared to stimulate them to further efforts, and they danced and jumped high in air, to the hilarious delight of their juvenile spectators. After a time such a crowd collected that the attention of a passing policeman was attracted.

“What’s all this disturbance?” he demanded, in tones of authority.

“We’re stretching our legs a little, shipmate,” said the first sailor.

“Then you’d better stretch them somewhere else than in the street.”

“I thought this was a free country,” hiccoughed the second.

“You’ll find it isn’t if I get hold of you,” said the officer.

“Want to fight?” demanded the second sailor, belligerently.

“Boy, stop playing,” said the policeman. “I don’t want to arrest these men unless I am obliged to do it.”