Phil, the Fiddler

“Thank you for saving me,” said Phil, gratefully. “The padrone would beat me if the fiddle was broke.”

“Never mind about thanks, Phil. Tim is a bully with small boys, but he is a coward among large ones. Have you had any supper?”

“No,” said Phil.

“Won’t you come home and take supper with me?”

Phil hesitated.

“You are kind,” he said, “but I fear the padrone.”

“What will he do to you?”

“He will beat me if I don’t bring home enough money.”

“How much more must you get?”

“Sixty cents.”

“You can play better after a good supper. Come along; I won’t keep you long.”

Phil made no more objection. He was a healthy boy, and his wanderings had given him a good appetite. So he thanked Paul, and walked along by his side. One object Paul had in inviting him was, the fear that Tim Rafferty might take advantage of his absence to renew his assault upon Phil, and with better success than before.

“How old are you, Phil?” he asked.

“Twelve years.”

“And who taught you to play?”

“No one. I heard the other boys play, and so I learned.”

“Do you like it?”

“Sometimes; but I get tired of it.”

“I don’t wonder. I should think playing day after day might tire you. What are you going to do when you become a man?”

Phil shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I think I’ll go back to Italy.”

“Have you any relations there?”

“I have a mother and two sisters.”

“And a father?”

“Yes, a father.”

“Why did they let you come away?”

“The padrone gave my father money.”

“Don’t you hear anything from home?”

“No, signore.”

“I am not a signore,” said Paul, smiling. “You may call me Paul. Is that an Italian name?”

“Me call it Paolo.”

“That sounds queer to me. What’s James in Italian?”

“Giacomo.”

“Then I have a little brother Giacomo.”

“How old is he?”

“Eight years old.”

“My sister Bettina is eight years. I wish I could see her.”

“You will see her again some day, Phil. You will get rich in America, and go back to sunny Italy.”

“The padrone takes all my money.”

“You’ll get away from the old rascal some day. Keep up good courage, Phil, and all will come right. But here we are. Follow me upstairs, and I will introduce you to my mother and Giacomo,” said Paul, laughing at the Italian name he had given his little brother.

Mrs. Hoffman and Jimmy looked with some surprise at the little fiddler as he entered with Paul.

“Mother,” said Paul, “this is one of my friends, whom I have invited to take supper with us.”

“He is welcome,” said Mrs. Hoffman, kindly. “Have you ever spoken to us of him?”

“I am not sure. His name is Phil—Phil the fiddler, we call him.”

“Filippo,” said the young musician.

“We will call you Phil; it is easier to speak,” said Paul. “This is my little brother Jimmy. He is a great artist.”

“Now you are laughing at me, Paul,” said the little boy.

“Well, he is going to be a great artist some day, if he isn’t one yet. Do you think, Jimmy, you could draw Phil, here, with his fiddle?”

“I think I could,” said the little boy, slowly, looking carefully at their young guest; “but it would take some time.”

“Perhaps Phil will come some day, and give you a sitting.”