Tim had raised his fist to strike the young fiddler, when he was suddenly pushed aside with considerable force, and came near measuring his length on the ground.
“Who did that?” he cried, angrily, recovering his equilibrium.
“I did it,” said a calm voice.
Tim recognized in the speaker Paul Hoffman, whom some of my readers will remember as “Paul the Peddler.” Paul was proprietor of a necktie stand below the Astor House, and was just returning home to supper.
He was a brave and manly boy, and his sympathies were always in favor of the oppressed. He had met Phil before, and talked with him, and seeing him in danger came to his assistance.
“What made you push me?” demanded Tim, fiercely.
“What were you going to do to him?” rejoined Paul, indicating the Italian boy.
“I was only goin’ to borrer his fiddle.”
“He would have broken it,” said Phil.
“You don’t know how to play,” said Paul. “You would have broken his fiddle, and then he would be beaten.”
“I would pay for it if I did,” said Tim.
“You say so, but you wouldn’t. Even if you did, it would take time, and the boy would have suffered.”
“What business is that of yours?” demanded Tim, angrily.
“It is always my business when I see a big boy teasing a little one.”
“You’ll get hurt some day,” said Tim, suddenly.
“Not by you,” returned Paul, not particularly alarmed.
Tim would have gladly have punished Paul on the spot for his interference, but he did not consider it prudent to provoke hostilities. Paul was as tall as himself, and considerably stronger. He therefore wisely confined himself to threatening words.
“Come along with me, Phil,” said Paul, kindly, to the little 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.”
“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.
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.
“He has a beautiful voice,” said Mrs. Hoffman to Paul.
“Yes, Phil sings much better than most of his class. Shall I bring him up here again?”
“Any time, Paul. We shall always be glad to see him.”
Here Phil took his cap and prepared to depart.
“Good-by,” he said in English. “I thank you all for your kindness.”
“Will you come again?” said Mrs. Hoffman. “We shall be glad to have you.”
“Do come,” pleaded Jimmy, who had taken a fancy to the dark-eyed Italian boy, whose brilliant brown complexion contrasted strongly with his own pale face and blue eyes.
These words gave Phil a strange pleasure. Since his arrival in America he had become accustomed to harsh words and blows; but words of kindness were strangers to his ears. For an hour he forgot the street and his uninviting home, and felt himself surrounded by a true home atmosphere. He almost fancied himself in his Calabrian home, with his mother and sisters about him—in his home as it was before cupidity entered his father’s heart and impelled him to sell his own flesh and blood into slavery in a foreign land. Phil could not analyze his own emotions, but these were the feelings which rose in his heart, and filed it with transient sadness.
“I thank you much,” he said. “I will come again some day.”
“Come soon, Phil,” said Paul. “You know where my necktie stand is. Come there any afternoon between four and five, and I will take you home to supper. Do you know the way out, or shall I go with you?”
“I know the way,” said Phil.
He went downstairs and once more found himself on the sidewalk. It was but six o’clock, and five or six hours were still before him before he could feel at liberty to go home. Should he return too early, he would be punished for losing the possible gains of the hour he had lost, even if the sum he brought home were otherwise satisfactory. So, whatever may be his fatigue, or however inclement the weather, the poor Italian boy is compelled to stay out till near midnight, before he is permitted to return to the hard pallet on which only he can sleep off his fatigues.
Again in the street, Phil felt that he must make up for lost time. Now six o’clock is not a very favorable time for street music; citizens who do business downtown have mostly gone home to dinner. Those who have not started are in haste, and little disposed to heed the appeal of the young minstrel. Later the saloons will be well frequented, and not seldom the young fiddlers may pick up a few, sometimes a considerable number of pennies, by playing at the doors of these places, or within, if they should be invited to enter; but at six there is not much to be done.
After a little reflection, Phil determined to go down to Fulton Ferry and got on board the Brooklyn steamboat. He might get a chance to play to the passengers, and some, no doubt, would give him something. At any rate, the investment would be small, since for one fare, or two cents, he might ride back and forward several times, as long as he did not step off the boat. He, therefore, directed his steps toward the ferry, and arrived just in time to go on board the boat.
The boat was very full. So large a number of the people in Brooklyn are drawn to New York by business and pleasure, that the boats, particularly in the morning from seven to nine, and in the afternoon, from five to seven, go loaded down with foot passengers and carriages.
Phil entered the ladies’ cabin. Though ostensibly confined to ladies’ use, it was largely occupied also by gentlemen who did not enjoy the smoke which usually affects disagreeably the atmosphere of the cabin appropriated to their own sex. Our young musician knew that to children the hearts and purses of ladies are more likely to open than those of gentlemen, and this guided him.
Entering, he found every seat taken. He waited till the boat had started, and then, taking his position in the center of the rear cabin, he began to play and sing, fixing at once the attention of the passengers upon himself.
“That boy’s a nuisance; he ought not to be allowed to play on the boat,” muttered an old gentleman, looking up from the columns of the Evening Post.
“Now, papa,” said a young lady at his side, “why need you object to the poor boy? I am sure he sings very nicely. I like to hear him.”
“I don’t.”
“You know, papa, you have no taste for music. Why, you went to sleep at the opera the other evening.”
“I tried to,” said her father, in whom musical taste had a very limited development. “It was all nonsense to me.”
“He is singing the Hymn of Garibaldi. What a sweet voice he has! Such a handsome little fellow, too!”
“He has a dirty face, and his clothes are quite ragged.”
“But he has beautiful eyes; see how brilliant they are. No wonder he is dirty and ragged; it isn’t his fault, poor boy. I have no doubt he has a miserable home. I’m going to give him something.”
“Just as you like, Florence; as I am not a romantic young damsel, I shall not follow your example.”’
By this time the song was finished, and Phil, taking off his cap, went the rounds. None of the contributions were larger than five cents, until he came to the young lady of whom we have spoken above. She drew a twenty-five-cent piece from her portemonnaie, and put it into Phil’s hand, with a gracious smile, which pleased the young fiddler as much as the gift, welcome though that undoubtedly was.
“Thank you, lady,” he said.
“You sing very nicely,” she replied.
Phil smiled, and dirty though his face was, the smile lighted it up with rare beauty.
“Do you often come on these boats?” asked the young lady.
“Sometimes, but they do not always let me play,” said Phil.
“I hope I shall hear you again. You have a good voice.”
“Thank you, signorina.”
“You can speak English. I tried to speak with one of you the other day, but he could only speak Italian.”
“I know a few words, signorina.”
“I hope I shall see you again,” and the young lady, prompted by a natural impulse of kindness, held out her hand to the little musician. He took it respectfully, and bending over, touched it with his lips.
The young lady, to whom this was quite unexpected, smiled and blushed, by no means offended, but she glanced round her to see whether it was observed by others.
“Upon my word, Florence,” said her father, as Phil moved away, “you have got up quite a scene with this little ragged musician. I am rather glad he is not ten or twelve years older, or there might be a romantic elopement.”
“Now, papa, you are too bad,” said Florence. “Just because I choose to be kind to a poor, neglected child, you fancy all sorts of improbable things.”
“I don’t know where you get all your foolish romance from—not from me, I am sure.”
“I should think not,” said Florence, laughing merrily. “Your worst enemy won’t charge you with being romantic, papa.”
“I hope not,” said her father, shrugging his shoulders. “But the boat has touched the pier. Shall we go on shore, or have you any further business with your young Italian friend?”
“Not to-day, papa.”
The passengers vacated the boat, and were replaced by a smaller number, on their way from Brooklyn to New York.
Phil did not leave the boat. He lingered in the cabin until the passengers were seated, and after the boat was again under way began to play. This time, however, he was not as fortunate as before. While in the midst of a tune one of the men employed on the boat entered the cabin. At times he would not have interfered with him, but he happened to be in ill humor, and this proved unfortunate for Phil.
“Stop your noise, boy,” he said.
Phil looked up.
“May I not play?”
“No; nobody wants to hear you.”
The young fiddler did not dare to disobey. He saw that for the present his gains were at an end. However, he had enough to satisfy the rapacity of the padrone, and could afford to stop. He took a seat, and waited quietly till the boat landed. One of the lady passengers, as she passed him on her way out of the cabin, placed ten cents in his hand. This led him to count up his gains. He found they amounted to precisely two dollars and fifty cents.
“I need not play any more,” he thought. “I shall not be beaten to-night.”
He found his seat so comfortable, especially after wandering about the streets all day, that he remained on the boat for two more trips. Then, taking his violin under his arm, he went out on the pier.
It was half-past seven o’clock. He would like to have gone to his lodging, but knew that it would not be permitted. In this respect the Italian fiddler is not as well off as those who ply other street trades. Newsboys and bootblacks are their own masters, and, whether their earnings are little or great, reap the benefit of them themselves. They can stop work at six if they like, or earlier; but the little Italian musician must remain in the street till near midnight, and then, after a long and fatiguing day, he is liable to be beaten and sent to bed without his supper, unless he brings home a satisfactory sum of money.
Phil walked about here and there in the lower part of the city. As he was passing a barroom he was called in by the barkeeper.
“Give us a tune, boy,” he said.
It was a low barroom, frequented by sailors and a rough set of customers of similar character. The red face of the barkeeper showed that he drank very liberally, and the atmosphere was filled with the fumes of bad cigars and bad liquor. The men were ready for a good time, as they called it, and it was at the suggestion of one of them that Phil had been invited in.
“Play a tune on your fiddle, you little ragamuffin,” said one.
Phil cared little how he was addressed. He was at the service of the public, and what he chiefly cared for was that he be paid for his services.
“What shall I play?” he asked.
“Anything,” hiccoughed one. “It’s all the same to me. I don’t know one tune from another.”
The young fiddler played one of the popular airs of the day. He did not undertake to sing, for the atmosphere was so bad that he could hardly avoid coughing. He was anxious to get out into the street, but he did not wish to refuse playing. When he had finished his tune, one of those present, a sailor, cried, “That’s good. Step up, boys, and have a drink.”
The invitation was readily accepted by all except Phil. Noticing that the boy kept his place, the sailor said, “Step up, boy, and wet your whistle.”
Phil liked the weak wines of his native land, but he did not care for the poisonous decoctions of be found in such places.
“I am not thirsty,” he said.
“Yes, you are; here, give this boy a glass of brandy.”
“I do not want it,” said Phil.
“You won’t drink with us,” exclaimed the sailor, who had then enough to be quarrelsome. “Then I’ll make you;” and he brought down his fist so heavily upon the counter as to make the glasses rattle. “Then I’ll make you. Here, give me a glass, and I’ll pour it down his throat.”
The fiddler was frightened at his vehemence, and darted to the door. But the sailor was too quick for him. Overtaking Phil, he dragged him back with a rough grasp, and held out his hand for the glass. But an unexpected friend now turned up.
“Oh, let the boy go, Jack,” said a fellow sailor. “If he don’t want to drink, don’t force him.”
But his persecutor was made ugly by his potations, and swore that Phil should drink before he left the barroom.
“That he shall not,” said his new friend.
“Who is to prevent it?” demanded Jack, fiercely.
“I will.”
“Then I’ll pour a glass down your throat, too,” returned Jack, menacingly.
“No need of that. I am ready enough to drink. But the boy shan’t drink, if he don’t want to.”
“He shall!” retorted the first sailor, with an oath.
Still holding Phil by the shoulder with one hand, with the other he took a glass which had just been filled with brandy; he was about to pour it down his throat, when the glass was suddenly dashed from his hand and broke upon the floor.
With a fresh oath Jack released his hold on Phil, and, maddened with rage, threw himself upon the other. Instantly there was a general melee. Phil did not wait to see the result. He ran to the door, and, emerging into the street, ran away till he had placed a considerable distance between himself and the disorderly and drunken party in the barroom. The fight there continued until the police, attracted by the noise, forced an entrance and carried away the whole party to the station-house, where they had a chance to sleep off their potations.
Freed from immediate danger, the young fiddler kept on his way. He had witnessed such scenes before, as he had often been into barrooms to play in the evening. He had not been paid for his trouble, but he cared little for that, as the money would have done him no good. He would only have been compelled to pass it over to the padrone. These boys, even at a tender age, are necessarily made familiar with the darker side of metropolitan life. Vice and crime are displayed before their young eyes, and if they do not themselves become vicious, it is not for the want of knowledge and example.
It would be tedious to follow Phil in his wanderings. We have already had a glimpse of the manner in which the days passed with him; only it is to be said that this was a favorable specimen. He had been more fortunate in collecting money than usual. Besides, he had had a better dinner than usual, thanks to the apple, and a supper such as he had not tasted for months.
About ten o’clock, as he was walking on the Bowery, he met Giacomo, his companion of the morning.
The little boy was dragging one foot after the other wearily. There was a sad look on his young face, for he had not been successful, and he knew too well how he would be received by the padrone. Yet his face lighted up as he saw Phil. Often before Phil had encouraged him when he was despondent. He looked upon our young hero as his only friend; for there was no other of the boys who seemed to care for him or able to help him.
“Is it you, Filippo?” he said.
“Yes, Giacomo. What luck have you had?”
“Not much. I have only a little more than a dollar. I am so tired; but I don’t dare go back. The padrone will beat me.”
An idea came to Phil. He did not know how much money he had; but he was sure it must be considerably more than two dollars, Why should he not give some to his friend to make up his deficiencies, and so perhaps save him from punishment?
“I have had better luck,” he said. “I have almost three dollars.”
“You are always luckier than I, Filippo.”
“I am stronger, Giacomo. It does not tire me so much to walk about.”
“You can sing, too. I cannot sing very much, and I do not get so much money.”
“Tell me just how much money you have, Giacomo.”
“I have a dollar and thirty cents,” said Giacomo, after counting the contents of his pockets.
Meanwhile Phil had been doing the same thing. The result of his count was that he found he had two dollars and eighty cents.
“Listen, Giacomo,” he said. “I will give you enough to make two dollars.”
“But then you will be beaten.”
“No; I shall have two dollars and five cents left. Then neither of us will get beaten.”
“How kind you are, Filippo!”
“Oh, it is nothing. Besides, I do not want to carry too much, or the padrone will expect me to bring as much every day, and that I cannot do. So it will be better for us both.”
The transfer was quickly made, and the two boys kept together until they heard the clock strike eleven. It was now so late that they determined to return to their miserable lodging, for both were tired and longed for sleep.
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