Phil, the Fiddler

“Will you come?” asked Jimmy.

“I will come some day.”

Meanwhile Mrs. Hoffman was preparing supper. Since Paul had become proprietor of the necktie stand, as described in the last volume, they were able to live with less regard to economy than before. So, when the table was spread, it presented quite a tempting appearance. Beefsteak, rolls, fried potatoes, coffee, and preserves graced the board.

“Supper is ready, Paul,” said his mother, when all was finished.

“Here, Phil, you may sit here at my right hand,” said Paul. “I will put your violin where it will not be injured.”

Phil sat down as directed, not without feeling a little awkward, yet with a sense of anticipated pleasure. Accustomed to bread and cheese alone, the modest repast before him seemed like a royal feast. The meat especially attracted him, for he had not tasted any for months, indeed seldom in his life, for in Italy it is seldom eaten by the class to which Phil’s parents belonged.

“Let me give you some meat, Phil,” said Paul. “Now, shall we drink the health of the padrone in coffee?”

“I will not drink his health,” said Phil. “He is a bad man.”

“Who is the padrone?” asked Jimmy, curiously.

“He is my master. He sends me out to play for money.”

“And must you give all the money you make to him?”

“Yes; if I do not bring much money, he will beat me.”

“Then he must be a bad man. Why do you live with him?”

“He bought me from my father.”

“He bought you?” repeated Jimmy, puzzled.

“He hires him for so much money,” explained Paul.

“But why did your father let you go with a bad man?” asked Jimmy.

“He wanted the money,” said Phil. “He cared more for money than for me.”

What wonder that the boys sold into such cruel slavery should be estranged from the fathers who for a few paltry ducats sell the liberty and happiness of their children. Even where the contract is for a limited terms of years, the boys in five cases out of ten are not returned at the appointed time. A part, unable to bear the hardships and privations of the life upon which they enter, are swept off by death, while of those that survive, a part are weaned from their homes, or are not permitted to go back.

“You must not ask too many questions, Jimmy.” said Mrs. Hoffman, fearing that he might awaken sad thoughts in the little musician.

She was glad to see that Phil ate with a good appetite. In truth he relished the supper, which was the best he remembered to have tasted for many a long day.

“Is Italy like America?” asked Jimmy, whose curiosity was excited to learn something of Phil’s birthplace.

“It is much nicer,” said Phil, with a natural love of country. “There are olive trees and orange trees, and grapes—very many.”

“Are there really orange trees? Have you seen them grow?”

“I have picked them from the trees many times.”

“I should like that, but I don’t care for olives.”

“They are good, too.”

“I should like the grapes.”

“There are other things in Italy which you would like better, Jimmy,” said Paul.

“What do you mean, Paul?”

“The galleries of fine paintings.”

“Yes, I should like to see them. Have you seen them?”

Phil shook his head. The picture galleries are in the cities, and not in the country district where he was born.

“Sometime, when I am rich, we will all go to Italy, Jimmy; then, if Phil is at home, we will go and see him.”

“I should like that, Paul.”

Though Jimmy was not yet eight years old, he had already exhibited a remarkable taste for drawing, and without having received any instruction, could copy any ordinary picture with great exactness. It was the little boy’s ambition to become an artist, and in this ambition he was encouraged by Paul, who intended, as soon as he could afford it, to engage an instructor for Jimmy.

CHAPTER V

ON THE FERRY BOAT

When supper was over, Phil bethought himself that his day’s work was not yet over. He had still a considerable sum to obtain before he dared go home, if such a name can be given to the miserable tenement in Crosby Street where he herded with his companions. But before going he wished to show his gratitude to Paul for his protection and the supper which he had so much and so unexpectedly enjoyed.

“Shall I play for you?” he asked, taking his violin from the top of the bureau, where Paul had placed it.

“Will you?” asked Jimmy, his eyes lighting up with pleasure.

“We should be very glad to hear you,” said Mrs. Hoffman.

Phil played his best, for he felt that he was playing for friends. After a short prelude, he struck into an Italian song. Though the words were unintelligible, the little party enjoyed the song.

“Bravo, Phil!” said Paul. “You sing almost as well as I do.”

Jimmy laughed.

“You sing about as well as you draw,” said the little boy.

“There you go again with your envy and jealousy,” said Paul, in an injured tone. “Others appreciate me better.”

“Sing something, and we will judge of your merits,” said his mother.

“Not now,” said Paul, shaking his head. “My feelings are too deeply injured. But if he has time, Phil will favor us with another song.”

So the little fiddler once more touched the strings of his violin, and sang the hymn of Garibaldi.