Phil, the Fiddler

“That is all right, Phil. Good-by!”

“Good-by!” said Phil, and, shaking the hand of his new friend, he ascended the steps, and took a seat on the opposite side, as Paul had recommended.

“I am sorry to part with Phil,” said Paul to himself. “He’s a fine little chap, and I like him. If ever that old brute gets hold of him again, he shan’t keep him long. Now, Signor Pietro, I’ll go back and see you on your arrival.”

Phil was right in supposing that Pietro would take passage on the next boat. He waited impatiently on the drop till it touched, and sprang on board. He cursed the interval of delay, fearing that it would give Phil a chance to get away. However, there was no help for this. Time and tide wait for no man, but it often happens that we are compelled to wait for them. But at length the boat touched the Jersey shore, and Pietro sprang out and hurried to the gates, looking eagerly on all sides for a possible glimpse of the boy he sought. He did not see him, for the cars were already on their way, but his eyes lighted up with satisfaction as they lighted on Paul, whom he recognized as the companion of Phil. He had seen him talking to the little fiddler. Probably he would know where he had gone. He walked up to Paul, who was standing near, and, touching his cap, said: “Excuse me, signore, but have you seen my little brother?”

“Your little brother?” repeated Paul, deliberately.

“Si, signore, a little boy with a fiddle. He was so high;” and Pietro indicated the height of Phil correctly by his hand.

“There was a boy came over in the boat with me,” said Paul.

“Yes, yes; he is the one, signore,” said Pietro, eagerly.

“And he is your brother?”

“Si, signore.”

“That’s a lie,” thought Paul, “I should know it even if Phil had not told me. Phil is a handsome little chap. He wouldn’t have such a villainous-looking brother as you.”

“Can you tell me where he has gone?” asked Pietro, eagerly.

“Didn’t he tell you where he was going?” asked Paul, in turn.

“I think he means to run away,” said Pietro. “Did you see where he went?”

“Why should he want to run away?” asked Paul, who enjoyed tantalizing Pietro, who he saw was chafing with impatience. “Did you not treat him well?”

“He is a little rascal,” said Pietro. “He is treated well, but he is a thief.”

“And you are his brother,” repeated Paul, significantly.

“Did you see where he went?” asked Pietro, getting angry. “I want to take him back to his father.”

“How should I know?” returned Paul, coolly. “Do you think I have nothing to do but to look after your brother?”

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?” said Pietro, incensed.

“Don’t get mad,” said Paul, indifferently; “it won’t do you any good. Perhaps, if you look round, you will see your brother. I’ll tell him you want him if I see him.”

Pietro looked at Paul suspiciously. It struck him that the latter might be making a fool of him, but Paul looked so utterly indifferent that he could judge nothing from his appearance. He concluded that Phil was wandering about somewhere in Jersey City.

It did not occur to him that he might have taken the cars for some more distant place. At any rate, there seemed no chance of getting any information out of Paul. So he adjusted his hand-organ and walked up the street leading from the ferry, looking sharply on either side, hoping to catch a glimpse of the runaway; but, of course, in vain.

“I don’t think you’ll find Phil to-day, Signor Pietro,” said Paul to himself, as he watched his receding form. “Now, as there is nothing more to be done here, I will go back to business.”

CHAPTER XIX

PIETRO’S PURSUIT

The distance from New York to Newark is but ten miles. Phil had been there once before with an older boy. He was at no loss, therefore, as to the proper place to get out. He stepped from the cars and found himself in a large depot. He went out of a side door, and began to wander about the streets of Newark. Now, for the first time, he felt that he was working for himself, and the feeling was an agreeable one. True, he did not yet feel wholly secure. Pietro might possibly follow in the next train. He inquired at the station when the next train would arrive.

“In an hour,” was the reply.

It would be an hour, therefore, before Pietro could reach Newark.

He decided to walk on without stopping till he reached the outskirts of the city, and not venture back till nightfall, when there would be little or no danger.

Accordingly he plodded on for an hour and a half, till he came where the houses were few and scattered at intervals. In a business point of view this was not good policy, but safety was to be consulted first of all. He halted at length before a grocery store, in front of which he saw a small group of men standing. His music was listened to with attention, but when he came to pass his cap round afterward the result was small. In fact, to be precise, the collection amounted to but eight cents.

“How’s business, boy?” asked a young man who stood at the door in his shirt-sleeves, and was evidently employed in the grocery.

“That is all I have taken,” said Phil, showing the eight cents.

“Did you come from New York this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Then you haven’t got enough to pay for your ticket yet?”

Phil shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t believe you’ll make your fortune out here.”

Phil was of precisely the same opinion, but kept silent.

“You would have done better to stay in New York.”

To this also Phil mentally assented, but there were imperative reasons, as we know, for leaving the great city.

It was already half-past twelve, and Phil began, after his walk, to feel the cravings of appetite. He accordingly went into the grocery and bought some crackers and cheese, which he sat down by the stove and ate.

“Are you going farther?” asked the same young man who had questioned him before.

“I shall go back to Newark to-night,” said Phil.

“Let me try your violin.”

“Can you play?” asked Phil, doubtfully, for he feared that an unpracticed player might injure the instrument.

“Yes, I can play. I’ve got a fiddle at home myself.”

Our hero surrendered his fiddle to the young man, who played passably.

“You’ve got a pretty good fiddle,” he said. “I think it’s better than mine. Can you play any dancing tunes?”

Phil knew one or two, and played them.