Pietro had one of those mean and malignant natures that are best pleased when they are instrumental in bringing others into trouble. He looked forward to becoming a padrone himself some time, and seemed admirably fitted by nature to exercise the inhuman office. He lost no time, on his return, in making known to his uncle what he had learned.
For the boys to appropriate to their own use money which had been received for their services was, in the eyes of the padrone, a crime of the darkest shade. In fact, if the example were generally followed, it would have made a large diminution of his income, though the boys might have been benefited. He listened to Pietro with an ominous scowl, and decided to inflict condign punishment upon the young offenders.
Meanwhile Phil and Giacomo resumed their wanderings. They no longer hoped to make up the large difference between what they had and the sum they were expected by the padrone to bring. As the evening advanced the cold increased, and penetrated through their thin clothing, chilling them through and through. Giacomo felt it the most. By and by he began to sob with the cold and fatigue.
“What is the matter, Giacomo?” asked Phil, anxiously.
“I feel so cold, Filippo—so cold and tired. I wish I could rest.”
The boys were in Printing House Square, near the spot where now stands the Franklin statue.
“If you want to rest, Giacomo,” said Phil, pityingly, “we will go into French’s Hotel a little while.”
“I should like to.”
They entered the hotel and sat down near the heater. The grateful warmth diffused itself through their frames, and Giacomo sank back in his seat with a sigh of relief.
“Do you feel better, Giacomo?” asked his comrade.
“Yes, Filippo; I wish I could stay here till it is time to go home.”
“We will, then. We shall get no more money outside.”
“The padrone——”
“Will beat us at any rate. It will be no worse for us. Besides they may possibly ask us to play here.”
“I can play no more to-night, Filippo, I am so tired.”
Phil knew very little of sickness, or he might have seen that Giacomo was going to be ill. Exposure, fatigue, and privation had been too much for his strength. He had never been robust, and he had been subjected to trials that would have proved hard for one much stronger to bear.
When he had once determined to remain in the comfortable hotel, Phil leaned back in his chair also, and decided to enjoy all the comfort attainable. What though there was a beating in prospect?
He had before him two or three hours of rest and relief from the outside cold. He was something of a philosopher, and chose not to let future evil interfere with present good.
Near the two boys sat two young men—merchants from the interior of New York State, who were making a business visit to the metropolis.
“Well, Gardner,” said the first, “where shall we go to-night?”
“Why need we go anywhere?”
“I thought you might like to go to some place of amusement.”
“So I would if the weather were less inclement. The most comfortable place is by the fire.”
“You are right as to that, but the evening will be long and stupid.”
“Oh, we can worry it through. Here, for instance, are two young musicians,” indicating the little fiddlers. “Suppose we get a tune out of them?”
“Agreed. Here, boy, can you play on that fiddle?”
“Yes,” said Phil.
“Well, give us a tune, then. Is that your brother?”
“No, he is my comrade.”
“He can play, too.”
“Will you play, Giacomo?”
The younger boy roused himself. The two stood up, and played two or three tunes successfully. A group of loungers gathered around them and listened approvingly. When they had finished Phil took off his hat and went the rounds. Some gave, the two first mentioned contributing most liberally. The whole sum collected was about fifty cents.
Phil and Giacomo now resumed their seats. They felt now that they were entitled to rest for the remainder of the evening, since they had gained quite as much as they would have been likely to earn in wandering about the streets. The group that had gathered about them dispersed, and they ceased to be objects of attention. Fatigue and the warmth of the room gradually affected Giacomo until he leaned back and fell asleep.
“I won’t take him till it’s time to go back,” thought Phil.
So Giacomo slept on, despite the noises in the street outside and the confusion incident to every large hotel. As he sat asleep, he attracted the attention of a stout gentleman who was passing, leading by the hand a boy of ten.
“Is that your brother?” he asked in a low tone of Phil.
“No, signore; it is my comrade.”
“So you go about together?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Phil, bethinking himself to use English instead of Italian.
“He seems tired.”
“Yes; he is not so strong as I am.”
“Do you play about the streets all day?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How would you like that, Henry?” asked his father to the boy at his side.
“I should like to play about the streets all day,” said Henry, roguishly, misinterpreting the word “play.”
“I think you would get tired of it. What is your name, my boy?”
“Filippo.”
“And what is the name of your friend?”
“Giacomo.”
“Did you never go to school?”
Phil shook his head.
“Would you like to go?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You would like it better than wandering about the streets all day?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why do you not ask your father to send you to school?”
“My father is in Italy.”
“And his father, also?”
“Si, signore,” answered Phil, relapsing into Italian.
“What do you think of that, Henry?” asked the gentleman. “How should you like to leave me, and go to some Italian city to roam about all day, playing on the violin?”
“I think I would rather go to school.”
“I think you would.”
“Are you often out so late, Filippo? I think that is the name you gave me.”
Phil shrugged his shoulders
“Always,” he answered.
“At what time do you go home?”
“At eleven.”
“It is too late for a boy of your age to sit up. Why do you not go home sooner?”
“The padrone would beat me.”
“Who is the padrone?”
“The man who brought me from Italy to America.”
“Poor boys!” said the gentleman, compassionately. “Yours is a hard life. I hope some time you will be in a better position.”
Phil fixed his dark eyes upon the stranger, grateful for his words of sympathy.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Good-night,” said the stranger, kindly.
“Good-night, signore.”
An hour passed. The City Hall clock near by struck eleven. The time had come for returning to their mercenary guardian. Phil shook the sleeping form of Giacomo. The little boy stirred in his sleep, and murmured, “Madre.” He had been dreaming of his mother and his far-off Italian home. He woke to the harsh realities of life, four thousand miles away from that mother and home.
“Have I slept, Filippo?” he asked, rubbing his eyes, and looking about him in momentary bewilderment.
“Yes, Giacomo. You have slept for two hours and more. It is eleven o’clock.”
“Then we must go back.”
“Yes; take your violin, and we will go.”
They passed out into the cold street, which seemed yet colder by contrast with the warm hotel they just left, and, crossing to the sidewalk that skirts the park, walked up Centre street.
Giacomo was seized with a fit of trembling. His teeth chattered with the cold. A fever was approaching, although neither he nor his companion knew it.
“Are you cold, Giacomo?” asked Phil, noticing how he trembled.
“I am very cold. I feel sick, Filippo.”
“You will feel better to-morrow,” said Phil; but the thought of the beating which his little comrade was sure to receive saddened him more than the prospect of being treated in the same way himself.
They kept on their way, past the Tombs with its gloomy entrance, through the ill-lighted street, scarcely noticed by the policeman whom they passed—for he was accustomed to see boys of their class out late at night—until at last they reached the dwelling of the padrone, who was waiting their arrival with the eagerness of a brutal nature, impatient to inflict pain.
Phil and Giacomo entered the lodging-house, wholly unconscious of the threatening storm, The padrone scowled at them as they entered but that was nothing unusual. Had he greeted them kindly, they would have had reason to be surprised.
“Well,” he said, harshly, “how much do you bring?”
The boys produced two dollars and a half which he pocketed.
“Is this all?” he asked.
“It was cold,” said Phil, “and we could not get more.”
The padrone listened with an ominous frown.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Do you want your supper?”
Phil was puzzled by his manner, for he expected to be deprived of his supper on account of bringing less money than usual. Why should the padrone ask him if he wanted his supper? Though he was not hungry, he thought it best to answer in the affirmative.
“What would you like?” asked the padrone.
Again Phil was puzzled, for the suppers supplied by the padrone never varied, always consisting of bread and cheese.
“Perhaps,” continued the padrone, meeting no answer, “you would like to have coffee and roast beef.”
All was clear now. Phil understood that he had been seen going in or out of the restaurant, though he could not tell by whom. He knew well enough what to expect, but a chivalrous feeling of friendship led him to try to shield his young companion, even at the risk of a more severe punishment to be inflicted upon himself.
“It was my fault,” he said, manfully. “Giacomo would not have gone in but for me.”
“Wicked, ungrateful boy!” exclaimed the padrone, wrathfully. “It was my money that you spent. You are a thief!”
Phil felt that this was a hard word, which he did not deserve. The money was earned by himself, though claimed by the padrone. But he did not venture to say this. It would have been revolutionary. He thought it prudent to be silent.
“Why do you say nothing?” exclaimed the padrone, stamping his foot. “Why did you spend my money?”
“I was hungry.”
“So you must live like a nobleman! Our supper is not good enough for you. How much did you spend?”
“Thirty cents.”
“For each?”
“No, signore, for both.”
“Then you shall have each fifteen blows, one for each penny. I will teach you to be a thief. Pietro, the stick! Now, strip!”
“Padrone,” said Phil, generously, “let me have all the blows. It was my fault; Giacomo only went because I asked him.”
If the padrone had had a heart, this generous request would have touched it; but he was not troubled in that way.
“He must be whipped, too,” he said. “He should not have gone with you.”
“He is sick, padrone,” persisted Phil. “Excuse him till he is better.”
“Not a word more,” roared the padrone, irritated at his persistence. “If he is sick, it is because he has eaten too much,” he added, with a sneer. “Pietro, my stick!”
The two boys began to strip mechanically, knowing that there was no appeal. Phil stood bare to the waist. The padrone seized the stick and began to belabor him. Phil’s brown face showed by its contortions the pain he suffered, but he was too proud to cry out. When the punishment was finished his back was streaked with red, and looked maimed and bruised.
“Put on your shirt!” commanded the tyrant.
Phil drew it on over his bleeding back and resumed his place among his comrades.
“Now!” said the padrone, beckoning to Giacomo.
The little boy approached shivering, not so much with cold as with the fever that had already begun to prey upon him.
Phil turned pale and sick as he looked at the padrone preparing to inflict punishment. He would gladly have left the room, but he knew that it would not be permitted.
The first blow descended heavily upon the shrinking form of the little victim. It was followed by a shriek of pain and terror.
“What are you howling at?” muttered the padrone, between his teeth. “I will whip you the harder.”
Giacomo would have been less able to bear the cruel punishment than Phil if he had been well, but being sick, it was all the more terrible to him. The second blow likewise was followed by a shriek of anguish. Phil looked on with pale face, set teeth, and blazing eyes, as he saw the barbarous punishment of his comrade. He felt that he hated the padrone with a fierce hatred. Had his strength been equal to the attempt, he would have flung himself upon the padrone. As it was, he looked at his comrades, half wishing that they would combine with him against their joint oppressor. But there was no hope of that. Some congratulated themselves that they were not in Giacomo’s place; others looked upon his punishment as a matter of course. There was no dream of interference, save in the mind of Phil.
The punishment continued amid the groans and prayers for mercy of the little sufferer. But at the eighth stroke his pain and terror reached a climax, and nature succumbed. He sank on the floor, fainting. The padrone thought at first it was a pretense, and was about to repeat the strokes, when a look at the pallid, colorless face of the little sufferer alarmed him. It did not excite his compassion, but kindled the fear that the boy might be dying, in which case the police might interfere and give him trouble; therefore he desisted, but unwillingly.
“He is sick,” said Phil, starting forward.
“He is no more sick than I am,” scowled the padrone. “Pietro, some water!”
Pietro brought a glass of water, which the padrone threw in the face of the fallen boy. The shock brought him partially to. He opened his eyes, and looked around vacantly.
“What is the matter with you?” demanded the padrone, harshly.
“Where am I?” asked Giacomo, bewildered. But, as he asked this question, his eyes met the dark look of his tyrant, and he clasped his hands in terror.
“Do not beat me!” he pleaded. “I feel sick.”
“He is only shamming,” said Pietro, who was worthy to be the servant and nephew of such a master. But the padrone thought it would not be prudent to continue the punishment.
“Help him put on his clothes, Pietro,” he said. “I will let you off this time, little rascal, but take heed that you never again steal a single cent of my money.”
Giacomo was allowed to seek his uncomfortable bed. His back was so sore with the beating he had received that he was compelled to lie on his side. During the night the feverish symptoms increased, and before morning he was very sick. The padrone was forced to take some measures for his recovery, not from motives of humanity, but because Giacomo’s death would cut off a source of daily revenue, and this, in the eyes of the mercenary padrone, was an important consideration.
Phil went to bed in silence. Though he was suffering from the brutal blows he had received, the thought of the punishment and suffering of Giacomo affected him more deeply than his own. As I have said, the two boys came from the same town in southern Italy. They had known each other almost from infancy, and something of a fraternal feeling had grown up between them. In Phil’s case, since he was the stronger, it was accompanied by the feeling that he should be a protector to the younger boy, who, on his side, looked up to Phil as stronger and wiser than himself. Though only a boy of twelve, what had happened led Phil to think seriously of his position and prospects. He did not know for how long his services had been sold to the padrone by his father, but he felt sure that the letter of the contract would be little regarded as long as his services were found profitable.
What hope, then, had he of better treatment in the future? There seemed no prospect except of continued oppression and long days of hardship, unless—and here the suggestion of Mr. Pomeroy occurred to him—unless he ran away. He had known of boys doing this before. Some had been brought back, and, of course, were punished severely for their temerity, but others had escaped, and had never returned. What had become of them Phil did not know, but he rightly concluded that they could not be any worse off than in the service of the padrone. Thinking of all this, Phil began to think it probable that he, too, would some day break his bonds and run away. He did not fix upon any time. He had not got as far as this. But circumstances, as we shall find in our next chapter, hastened his determination, and this, though he knew it not, was the last night he would sleep in the house of the padrone.
Phil woke up the next morning feeling lame and sore. His back bore traces of the flogging he had received the night before. As his eyes opened, they rested upon twenty boys lying about him, and also upon the dark, unsightly walls of the shabby room, and the prospect before him served to depress even his hopeful temperament. But he was not permitted to meditate long. Pietro opened the door, and called out in harsh tones: “Get up, all of you, or the padrone will be here with his stick!”
The invitation was heard and obeyed. The boys got up, yawning and rubbing their eyes, having a wholesome dread of their tyrant and his stick, which no tenderness of heart ever made him reluctant to use. Their toilet did not require long to make. The padrone was quite indifferent whether they were clean or not, and offered them no facilities for washing.
When they were dressed they were supplied with a frugal breakfast—a piece of bread and cheese each; their instruments were given them, and they were started off for a long day of toil.
Phil looked around for Giacomo, who had slept in a different room, but he was not to be seen.
“Is Giacomo sick this morning, Pietro?” he asked of the padrone’s nephew.
“He pretends to be sick, little drone!” said Pietro, unfeelingly. “If I were the padrone, I would let him taste the stick again.”
Phil felt that he would like to see the brutal speaker suffering the punishment he wanted inflicted on him; but he knew Pietro’s power and malice too well to give utterance to the wish. A longing came to him to see Giacomo before he went out. He might have had a secret presentiment of what was coming.
“Signor Pietro,” he said, “may I see Giacomo before I go out?”
This request would have been refused without doubt, but that Pietro felt flattered at being addressed as signor, to which his years did not yet entitle him. Phil knew this, and therefore used the title.
“What do you want to see him for?” he asked, suspiciously.
“I want to ask him how he feels.”
“Yes, you can go in. Tell him he must get up to-morrow. The padrone will not let him spend his time in idleness.”
So Phil, having already his fiddle under his arm, entered the room where Giacomo lay. The other occupants of the room had risen, and the little boy was lying on a hard pallet in the corner. His eyes lighted up with joy as he saw Phil enter.
“I am glad it is you, Filippo,” he said; “I thought it was the padrone, come to make me get up.”
“How do you feel this morning, Giacomo?”
“I do not feel well, Filippo. My back is sore, and I am so weak.”
His eyes were very bright with the fever that had now control, and his cheeks were hot and flushed. Phil put his hand upon them.
“Your cheeks are very hot, Giacomo,” he said. “You are going to be sick.”
“I know it, Filippo,” said the little boy. “I may be very sick.”
“I hope not, Giacomo.”
“Lean over, Filippo,” said Giacomo. “I want to tell you something.”
Phil leaned over until his ear was close to the mouth of his little comrade.
“I think I am going to die, Filippo,” whispered Giacomo.
Phil started in dismay.
“No, no, Giacomo,” he said; “that is nonsense. You will live a great many years.”
“I think you will, Filippo. You are strong. But I have always been weak, and lately I am tired all the time. I don’t care to live—very much. It is hard to live;” and the little boy sighed as he spoke.
“You are too young to die, Giacomo. It is only because you are sick that you think of it. You will soon be better.”
“I do not think so, Filippo. I should like to live for one thing.”
“What is that?” asked Phil, gazing with strange wonder at the patient, sad face of the little sufferer, who seemed so ready to part with the life which, in spite of his privations and hardships, seemed so bright to him.
“I should like to go back to my home in Italy, and see my mother again before I die. She loved me.”
The almost unconscious emphasis which he laid on the word “she” showed that in his own mind he was comparing her with his father, who had sold him into such cruel slavery.
“If you live, Giacomo, you will go back and see her some day.”
“I shall never see her again, Filippo,” said the little boy, sadly. “If you ever go back to Italy—when you are older—will you go and see her, and tell her that—that I thought of her when I was sick, and wanted to see her?”
“Yes, Giacomo,” said Phil, affected by his little companion’s manner.
“Filippo!” called Pietro, in harsh tones.
“I must go,” said Phil, starting to his feet.
“Kiss me before you go,” said Giacomo.
Phil bent over and kissed the feverish lips of the little boy, and then hurried out of the room. He never saw Giacomo again; and this, though he knew it not, was his last farewell to his little comrade.
So Phil commenced his wanderings. He was free in one way—he could go where he pleased. The padrone did not care where he picked up his money, as long as he brought home a satisfactory amount. Phil turned to go up town, though he had no definite destination in view. He missed Giacomo, who lately had wandered about in his company, and felt lonely without him.
“Poor Giacomo!” he thought. “I hope he will be well soon.”
“Avast there, boy!” someone called. “Just come to anchor, and give us a tune.”
Phil looked up and saw two sailors bearing down upon him (to use a nautical phrase) with arms locked, and evidently with more liquor aboard than they could carry steadily.
“Give us a tune, boy, and we’ll pay you,” said the second.
Phil had met such customers before, and knew what would please them. He began playing some lively dancing tunes, with so much effect that the sailors essayed to dance on the sidewalk, much to the amusement of a group of boys who collected around them.
“Go it, bluejacket! Go it, boots!” exclaimed the boys, designating them by certain prominent articles of dress.
The applause appeared to stimulate them to further efforts, and they danced and jumped high in air, to the hilarious delight of their juvenile spectators. After a time such a crowd collected that the attention of a passing policeman was attracted.
“What’s all this disturbance?” he demanded, in tones of authority.
“We’re stretching our legs a little, shipmate,” said the first sailor.
“Then you’d better stretch them somewhere else than in the street.”
“I thought this was a free country,” hiccoughed the second.
“You’ll find it isn’t if I get hold of you,” said the officer.
“Want to fight?” demanded the second sailor, belligerently.
“Boy, stop playing,” said the policeman. “I don’t want to arrest these men unless I am obliged to do it.”
Phil stopped playing, and this put a stop to the dance. Finding there was no more to be seen, the crowd also dispersed. With arms again interlocked, the sailors were about to resume their walk, forgetting to “pay the piper.” But Phil was not at all bashful about presenting his claims. He took off his cap, and going up to the jolly pair said, “I want some pennies.”
Sailors are free with their money. Parsimony is not one of their vices. Both thrust their hands into their pockets, and each drew out a handful of scrip, which they put into Phil’s hands, without looking to see how much it might be.
“That’s all right, boy, isn’t it?” inquired the first.
“All right,” answered Phil, wondering at their munificence. He only anticipated a few pennies, and here looked to be as much as he was generally able to secure in a day. As soon as he got a good chance he counted it over, and found four half dollars, three quarters, and four tens—in all, three dollars and fifteen cents. At this rate, probably, the sailors’ money would not last long. However this was none of Phil’s business. It was only nine o’clock in the forenoon, and he had already secured enough to purchase immunity from blows at night. Still there was one thing unsatisfactory about it. All this money was to go into the hands of the padrone. Phil himself would reap none of the benefit, unless he bought his dinner, as he had purchased supper the evening before. But for this he had been severely punished, though he could not feel that he had done very wrong in spending the money he himself earned. However, it would be at least three hours before the question of dinner would come up.
He put the money into the pocket of his ragged vest, and walked on.
It was not so cold as the day before. The thermometer had risen twenty-five degrees during the night—a great change, but not unusual in our variable climate. Phil rather enjoyed this walk, notwithstanding his back was a little lame.
He walked up the Bowery to the point where Third and Fourth avenues converge into it. He kept on the left-hand side, and walked up Fourth Avenue, passing the Cooper Institute and the Bible House, and, a little further on, Stewart’s magnificent marble store. On the block just above stood a book and periodical store, kept, as the sign indicated, by Richard Burnton. Phil paused a moment to look in at the windows, which were filled with a variety of attractive articles. Suddenly he was conscious of his violin being forcibly snatched from under his arm. He turned quickly, and thought he recognized Tim Rafferty, to whom the reader was introduced in the third chapter of this story.
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