Phil, the Fiddler

She took from her sink near by a large, long-handled tin dipper, and filled it full of warm suds from the tub. Then stealing to the window, she opened it suddenly, and as Pietro looked up, suddenly launched the contents in his face, calling forth a volley of imprecations, which I would rather not transfer to my page. Being in Italian, Bridget did not exactly understand their meaning, but guessed it.

“Is it there ye are?” she said, in affected surprise.

“Why did you do that?” demanded Pietro, finding enough English to express his indignation.

“Why did I do it?” repeated Bridget. “How would I know that you were crapin’ under my windy? It serves ye right, anyhow. I don’t want you here.”

“Send out my brother, then,” said Pietro.

“There’s no brother of yours inside,” said Mrs. McGuire.

“It’s a lie!” said Pietro, angrily stamping his foot.

“Do you want it ag’in?” asked Bridget, filling her dipper once more from the tub, causing Pietro to withdraw hastily to a greater distance. “Don’t you tell Bridget McGuire that she lies.”

“My brother is in the house,” reiterated Pietro, doggedly.

“He is no brother of yours—he says so.”

“He lies,” said Pietro.

“Shure and it’s somebody else lies, I’m thinkin’,” said Bridget.

“Is he in the house?” demanded Pietro, finding it difficult to argue with Phil’s protector.

“I don’t see him,” said Bridget, shrewdly, turning and glancing round the room.

“I’ll call the police,” said Pietro, trying to intimidate his adversary.

“I wish you would,” she answered, promptly. “It would save me the trouble. I’ll make a charge against you for thryin’ to break into my house; maybe you want to stale something.”

Pietro was getting disgusted. Mrs. McGuire proved more unmanageable than he anticipated. It was tantalizing to think that Phil was so near him, and yet out of his reach. He anathematized Phil’s protector in his heart, and I am afraid it would have gone hard with her if he could have had his wishes fulfilled. He was not troubled to think what next to say, for Bridget suddenly terminated the interview by shutting down the window with the remark: “Go away from here! I don’t want you lookin’ in at my windy.”

Pietro did not, however, go away immediately. He moved a little further to the rear, having a suspicion that Phil might escape from the door at the back. While he was watching here, he suddenly heard the front door open, and shut with a loud sound. He ran to the front, thinking that Phil might be taking flight from the street door, but it was only a ruse of Mrs. McGuire, who rather enjoyed tantalizing Pietro. He looked carefully up and down the street, but, seeing nothing of Phil, he concluded he must still be inside. He therefore resumed his watch, but in some perplexity as to where he ought to stand, in order to watch both front and rear. Phil occasionally looked guardedly from the window in the second story, and saw his enemy, but knew that as long as he remained indoors he was safe. It was not very agreeable remaining in the chamber alone, but it was a great deal better than falling into the clutches of Pietro, and he felt fortunate to have found so secure a place of refuge.

Pietro finally posted himself at the side of the house, where he could command a view of both front and rear, and there maintained his stand nearly underneath the window at which his intended prisoner was standing.

As Phil was watching him, suddenly he heard steps, and Bridget McGuire entered the chamber. She bore in her hand the same tin dipper before noticed, filled with steaming hot water. Phil regarded her with some surprise.

“Would you like to see some fun now?” she asked, her face covered by a broad smile.

“Yes,” said Phil.

“Open the windy, aisy, so he won’t hear.”

Phil obeyed directions, and managed not to attract the attention of his besieger below, who chanced at the moment to be looking toward the door in the rear.

“Now,” said Bridget, “take this dipper and give him the binifit of it.”

“Don’t let him see you do it,” cautioned his protector.

Phil took the idea and the dipper at once.

Phil, holding the dipper carefully, discharged the contents with such good aim that they drenched the watching Pietro. The water being pretty hot, a howl of pain and rage rose from below, and Pietro danced about frantically. Looking up, he saw no one, for Phil had followed directions and drawn his head in immediately. But Mrs. McGuire, less cautious, looked out directly afterward.

“Will ye go now, or will ye stand jist where I throw the hot water?”

In reply, Pietro indulged in some rather emphatic language, but being in the Italian language, in which he was more fluent, it fell unregarded upon the ears of Mrs. McGuire.

“I told you to go,” she said. “I’ve got some more wather inside.”

Pietro stepped back in alarm. He had no disposition to take another warm shower bath, and he had found out to his cost that Bridget McGuire was not a timid woman, or easily frightened.

But he had not yet abandoned the siege. He shifted his ground to the front of the house, and took a position commanding a view of the front door.

CHAPTER XXII

THE SIEGE IS RAISED

Though Phil was the besieged party, his position was decidedly preferable to that of Pietro. The afternoon was passing, and he was earning nothing. He finally uncovered his organ and began to play. A few gathered around him, but they were of that class with whom money is not plenty. So after a while, finding no pennies forthcoming, he stopped suddenly, but did not move on, as his auditors expected him to. He still kept his eyes fixed on Mrs. McGuire’s dwelling. He did this so long as to attract observation.

“You’ll know the house next time, mister,” said a sharp boy.

Pietro was about to answer angrily, when a thought struck him.

“Will you do something for me?” he asked.

“How much?” inquired the boy, suggestively.

“Five cents,” answered Pietro, understanding his meaning.

“It isn’t much,” said the boy, reflectively. “Tell me what you want.”

Though Pietro was not much of a master of English, he contrived to make the boy understand that he was to go round to the back door and tell Mrs. McGuire that he, Pietro, was gone. He intended to hide close by, and when Phil came out, as he hoped, on the strength of his disappearance, he would descend upon him and bear him off triumphantly.

Armed with these instructions, the boy went round to the back door and knocked.

Thinking it might be Phil’s enemy, Mrs. McGuire went to the door, holding in one hand a dipper of hot suds, ready to use in case of emergency.

“Well, what do you want?” she asked, abruptly, seeing that it was a boy.

“He’s gone,” said the boy.

“Who’s gone?”

“The man with the hand-organ, ma’am.”

“And what for do I care?” demanded Bridget, suspiciously.