The large sums which Philip had received for his playing might have dazzled a less sensible boy. He was quite conscious that he played unusually well for a boy, but when it came to selecting music as a profession, he felt it would not be wise to come to too hasty a decision. To be a commonplace performer did not seem to him very desirable, and would not have satisfied his ambition.
He had told Professor Riccabocca that he intended to go to New York. This design had not been hastily formed. He had heard a great deal of the great city in his home in the western part of the State of which it was the metropolis, and he was desirous of seeing it. Perhaps there might be some opening for him in its multitude of business houses.
Philip had plenty of money, and could easily have bought a railroad ticket, which would have landed him in New York inside of twenty-four hours, for he was only about four hundred miles distant; but he was in no hurry, and rather enjoyed traveling leisurely through the country towns, with his violin in his hand.
It reminded him of a biography he had read of the famous Doctor Goldsmith, author of the “Vicar of Wakefield,” who made a tour on the continent of Europe, paying his way with music evoked from a similar instrument.
Three days later, he found himself on the outskirts of a village, which I will call Cranston. It was afternoon, and he had walked far enough to be tired.
He was looking about for a pleasant place to lounge, when his attention was drawn to a boy of about his own age, who was sitting on the stone wall under a large tree.
He was rather a slender boy, and had originally been well dressed, but his suit was travel-stained, and covered with dust.
Now, boys have a natural attraction for each other, and Philip determined to introduce himself to the stranger. This he did in boy-fashion, by saying:
“Hello!”
“Hello!” said the stranger, looking up.
But he spoke slowly and wearily, and to Philip he seemed out of spirits.
“Do you live in Cranston?” asked Philip, taking a seat beside the other boy, upon the top of the stone wall.
“No; do you?”
“No.”
“Where do you live?”
“I don’t live anywhere just at present,” answered Philip, with a smile. “I am traveling.”
“So am I,” said the other boy.
“I am traveling to New York,” Philip continued.
“And I am traveling from there,” said his new acquaintance.
Then both boys surveyed each other curiously.
“What’s your name?” asked the stranger.
“Philip Gray. What’s your’s?”
“Mine is Henry Taylor. What have you got there?”
“A violin.”
“Do you play on it?”
“Yes; a little.”
“I should think you’d be tired lugging it round.”
Philip smiled.
“It is about all the property I have,” he said; “so it won’t do for me to get tired of it.”
“You’re richer than I am, then,” said Henry.
“Are you poor, then?” asked Philip, in a tone of sympathy.
“I haven’t got a cent in my pocket, and I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast.”
“Then I’m glad I met you,” said Philip warmly. “I will see that you have a good supper. How long is it since you left New York?”
“About a week.”
“What made you leave it?”
Henry Taylor hesitated, and finally answered, in a confused tone:
“I’ve run away from home. I wanted to go out West to kill Indians.”
Philip stared at his new acquaintance in astonishment.
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