Eliakim Henderson, for this was the pawnbroker’s name, did not remember Paul, though on one occasion our hero had called upon him. Nearly all his customers came to pawn articles, not to purchase, and Eliakim naturally supposed that the two boys had come on this errand. Before entering, Paul said to Phil, “Don’t say anything; leave me to manage.”
As they entered, Phil espied a fiddle hanging up behind the counter, and he saw at a glance that it was better than the one he had been accustomed to play upon. But to his surprise, Paul did not refer to it at first.
“What will you give me on this coat?” asked Paul, indicating the one he had on.
He had no intention of selling it, but preferred to come to the fiddle gradually, that the pawnbroker might not think that was his main object, and so charge an extra price.
Eliakim scanned the garment critically. It was nearly new and in excellent condition, and he coveted it.
“I will give you a dollar,” said he, naming a price low enough to advance upon.
“That is too little,” said Paul, shaking his head.
“I might give you fifty cents more, but I should lose if you didn’t redeem it.”
“I don’t think you would. I paid ten dollars for it.”
“But it is old.”
“No, it isn’t; I have only had it a few weeks.”
“How much do you want on it?” asked Eliakim, scanning Paul sharply, to see how much he seemed in want of money.
“I don’t want any to-day. If I should want some next week, I will come in.”
“It will be older next week,” said Eliakim, not wanting to lose the bargain, for he hoped it would not be redeemed.
“Never mind; I can get along till then.”
“Can I do no business with you this morning?” asked Eliakim, disappointed.
“I don’t know,” said Paul, looking carelessly around. “My friend here would like a fiddle, if he can get one cheap. What do you ask for that one up there?”
Eliakim took down the fiddle with alacrity. He had had it on hand for a year without securing a customer. It had originally been pawned by a poor musician, for a dollar and a quarter, but the unfortunate owner had never been able to redeem it. Among his customers, the pawnbroker had not found one sufficiently musical to take it off his hands. Here was a slight chance, and he determined to effect a sale if he could.
“It is a splendid instrument,” he said, enthusiastically, brushing off the dust with a dirty cotton handkerchief. “I have had many chances to sell it.”
“Why didn’t you sell it, then?” demanded Paul, who did not believe a word of this.
“Because it was only pawned. I kept it for the owner.”
“Oh, well; if you can’t sell it, it doesn’t matter.”
“It is for sale now,” said Eliakim, quickly. “He has not come for it, and I shall keep it no longer. Just try it. See what a sp-l-endid instrument it is!” said the pawnbroker, dwelling on the adjective to give emphasis to it.
Paul tried it, but not knowing how to play, of course created only discord. He did not offer it to Phil, because the young Italian boy would have made it sound too well and so enhanced the price.
“It don’t sound very well,” said he, indifferently; “but I suppose it will do to learn on. What do you want for it?”
“Five dollars,” said Eliakim, studying the face of Paul, to observe the effect of his announcement.
“Five dollars,” repeated Paul. “Take it back, then, and wait till A. T. Stewart wants one. I haven’t got five dollars to throw away.”
But the pawnbroker did not expect to get his first price. He named it, in order to have a chance to fall.
“Stay,” he said, as Paul made a motion to leave; “what will you give me for it?”
“I’ll give you a dollar and a half,” said Paul, turning back.
“A dollar and a half!” exclaimed Eliakim, holding up both hands in horror. “Do you want to ruin me?”
“No, I think you want to ruin me. I am willing to pay a fair price.”
“You may have it for three dollars and a half.”
“No doubt you’d be glad to get that. Come, Phil, we’ll go.”
“Stay; you may have it for three dollars, though I shall lose by it.”
“So should I, if I paid you that price. I can wait till some other time.”
But Eliakim did not intend to let this chance slip. He had found the fiddle rather unsalable, and feared if he lost his chance of disposing of it, it might remain on his hands for a year more. He was willing, therefore, to take less than the profit he usually calculated upon in the sale of articles which remained unredeemed.
“You may have it for two dollars and a half,” he said.
As far as Paul could judge, though he did not know much about the price of violins, this was a reasonable price. But he knew that Eliakim must have got it for considerably less, or he would not so soon have come down to this sum. He did not hesitate, therefore, to try to get it a little cheaper.
“I’ll give you two dollars and a quarter,” he said, “and not a penny more.”
Eliakim tried hard to get ten cents more, but Paul saw that he was sure of his purchase, and remained obdurate. So, after a pretense of putting up the fiddle, the pawnbroker finally said, “You may have it, but I tell you that I shall lose money.”
“All right,” said Paul; “hand it over.”
“Where is the money?” asked Eliakim, cautiously.
Paul drew from his pocket a two-dollar bill and twenty-five cents in currency, and received the fiddle. The pawnbroker scrutinized the money closely, fearing that it might be bad; but finally, making up his mind on that point, deposited it in his money drawer.
“Well, Phil, we may as well go,” said Paul. “We’ve got through our business.”
The pawnbroker heard this, and a sudden suspicion entered his mind that Paul had been too sharp for him.
“I might have got twenty-five cents more,” he thought regretfully; and this thought disturbed the complacency he felt at first.
“Well, Phil, how do you like it?” asked Paul, as they emerged into the street.
“Let me try it,” said Phil, eagerly.
He struck up a tune, which he played through, his face expressing the satisfaction he felt.
“Is it as good as your old one?”
“It is much better,” said Phil. “I will pay you for it;” and he drew out the money the sailors had given him in the morning.
“No, Phil,” said his friend, “you may need that money. Keep it, and pay me when you have more.”
“But I shall be away.”
“You will come to the city some day. When you do you will know where to find me. Now go and play a tune to Jimmy. He is waiting for you. If you remain in the streets, your old enemy, Tim Rafferty, may want to borrow your fiddle again.”
“You are very kind to me, Paolo,” said Phil, raising his dark eyes with a sudden impulse of gratitude.
“It’s nothing, Phil,” said Paul, modestly; “you would do the same for me if I needed it.”
“Yes, I would,” said Phil; “but I am poor, and I cannot help you.”
“You won’t be poor always, Phil,” said Paul, cheerfully, “nor I either, I hope. I mean to be a merchant some time on a bigger scale than now. As for you, you will be a great player, and give concerts at the Academy of Music.”
Phil laughed, but still seemed pleased at the prophecy.
“Well, Phil, I must bid you good-by for a little while, or my clerks will be cheating me. I will see you at supper.”
“Addio, Paolo,” said Phil.
“Addio,” said Paul, laughing. “Wouldn’t I make a good Italian?”
Paul returned to his stand, and Phil took the direction of Mrs. Hoffman’s rooms. While on his way he heard the sound of a hand-organ, and, looking across the way, saw, with some uneasiness, his old enemy Pietro, playing to a crowd of boys.
“I hope he won’t see me,” said Phil to himself.
He was afraid Pietro would remember his old violin, and, seeing the difference in the instrument he now had, inquire how he got it. He might, if not satisfied on this point, take Phil home with him, which would be fatal to his plans. He thought it prudent, therefore, to turn down the next street, and get out of sight as soon as possible. Fortunately for him Pietro had his back turned, so that he did not observe him. Nothing would have pleased him better than to get the little fiddler into trouble, for, besides being naturally malicious, he felt that an exhibition of zeal in his master’s service would entitle him to additional favors at the hands of the padrone, whom he hoped some day to succeed.
“Oh, what a beautiful fiddle!” said Jimmy, in admiration, as Phil reappeared. “Do you think I could play on it?”
Phil shook his head, smiling.
“Don’t let Jimmy have it. He would only spoil it,” said Mrs. Hoffman. “I don’t think he would succeed as well in music as in drawing.”
“Will you play something?” asked Jimmy.
Phil willingly complied, and for half an hour held Jimmy entranced with his playing. The little boy then undertook to teach Phil how to draw, but at this Phil probably cut as poor a figure as his instructor would have done at playing on the violin.
So the afternoon wore away, happily for all three, and at five Paul made his appearance. When supper was over Phil played again, and this attracting the attention of the neighbors, Mrs. Hoffman’s rooms were gradually filled with visitors, who finally requested Phil to play some dancing tunes. Finding him able to do so, an impromptu dance was got up, and Mrs. Hoffman, considerably to her surprise, found that she was giving a dancing-party. Paul, that nothing might be left out, took a companion with him and they soon reappeared with cake and ice cream, which were passed around amid great hilarity; and it was not until midnight that the last visitor went out, and the sound of music and laughter was hushed.
“You are getting fashionable in your old age, mother,” said Paul, gayly. “I think I shall send an account of your party to the Home Journal.”
“I believe it is usual to describe the dresses of the ladies,” said Mrs. Hoffman, smiling.
“Oh, yes, I won’t forget that. Just give me a piece of paper and see how I will do it.”
Paul, whose education, I repeat here, was considerably above that of most boys in his position, sat down and hastily wrote the following description, which was read to the great amusement of his auditors:
“Mrs. Hoffman, mother of the well-known artist, Jimmy Hoffman, Esq., gave a fashionable party last evening. Her spacious and elegant apartments were crowded with finely dressed gentlemen and ladies from the lower part of the city. Signor Filippo, the great Italian musician, furnished the music. Mrs. Hoffman appeared in a costly calico dress, and had a valuable gold ring on one of her fingers. Her son, the artist, was richly dressed in a gray suit, purchased a year since. Miss Bridget Flaherty, of Mott Street, was the belle of the occasion, and danced with such grace and energy that the floor came near giving away beneath her fairy tread. [Miss Flaherty, by the way, weighed one hundred and eighty pounds.] Mr. Mike Donovan, newspaper merchant, handed round refreshments with his usual graceful and elegant deportment. Miss Matilda Wiggins appeared in a magnificent print dress, imported from Paris by A. T. Stewart, and costing a shilling a yard. No gloves were worn, as they are now dispensed with in the best society. At a late hour the guests dispersed. Mrs. Hoffman’s party will long be remembered as the most brilliant of the season.”
“I did not know you had so much talent for reporting, Paul,” said his mother. “You forgot one thing, however.”
“What is that?”
“You said nothing of yourself.”
“I was too modest, mother. However, if you insist upon it, I will do so. Anything at all to please you.”
Paul resumed his writing and in a short time had the following:
“Among those present we observed the handsome and accomplished Paul Hoffman, Esq., the oldest son of the hostess. He was elegantly dressed in a pepper-and-salt coat and vest, blue necktie, and brown breeches, and wore a six-cent diamond breastpin in the bosom of his shirt. His fifteen-cent handkerchief was perfumed with cologne which he imported himself at a cost of ten cents per bottle. He attracted general admiration.”
“You seem to have got over your modesty, Paul,” said his mother.
“I am sleepy,” said Jimmy, drowsily rubbing his eyes.
As this expressed the general feeling, they retired to bed at once, and in half an hour were wandering in the land of dreams.
The next morning Paul and Phil rose later that usual. They slept longer, in order to make up for the late hour at which they retired. As they sat down to breakfast, at half-past eight, Paul said: “I wonder whether the padrone misses you, Phil?”
“Yes,” said Phil; “he will be very angry because I did not come back last night.”
“Will he think you have run away?”
“I do not know. Some of the boys stay away sometimes, because they are too far off to come home.”
“Then he may expect you to-night. I suppose he will have a beating ready for you.”
“Yes, he would beat me very hard,” said Phil, “if he thought I did not mean to come back.”
“I should like to go and tell him that he need not expect you. I should like to see how he looks.”
“He might beat you, too, Paolo.”
“I should like to see him try it,” said Paul, straightening up with a consciousness of strength. “He might find that rather hard.”
Phil looked admiringly at the boy who was not afraid of the padrone. Like his comrades, he had been accustomed to think of the padrone as possessed of unlimited power, and never dreamed of anybody defying him, or resisting his threats. Though he had determined to run away, his soul was not free from the tyranny of his late taskmaster, and he thought with uneasiness and dread of the possibility of his being conveyed back to him.
“Well, mother,” said Paul, glancing at the clock as he rose from the breakfast table, “it is almost nine o’clock—rather a late hour for a business man like me.”
“You are not often so late, Paul.”
“It is lucky that I am my own employer, or I might run the risk of being discharged. I am afraid the excuse that I was at Mrs. Hoffman’s fashionable party would not be thought sufficient. I guess I won’t have time to stop to shave this morning.”
“You haven’t got anything to shave,” said Jimmy.
“Don’t be envious, Jimmy. I counted several hairs this morning. Well, Phil, are you ready to go with me? Don’t forget your fiddle.”
“When shall we see you again, Philip?” said Mrs. Hoffman.
“I do not know,” said the little minstrel.
“Shall you not come to the city sometimes?”
“I am afraid the padrone would catch me,” said Phil.
“Whenever you do come, Phil,” said Paul, “come right to me. I will take care of you. I don’t think the padrone will carry us both off, and he would have to take me if he took you.”
“Good-by, Philip,” said Mrs. Hoffman, offering her hand. “I hope you will prosper.”
“So do I, Phil,” said Jimmy.
Phil thus took with him the farewells and good wishes of two friends who had been drawn to him by his attractive face and good qualities. He could not help wishing that he might stay with them permanently, but he knew that this could not be. To remain in the same city with the padrone was out of the question.
Meanwhile we return to the house which Phil had forsaken, and inquire what effect was produced by his non-appearance.
It was the rule of the establishment that all the boys should be back by midnight. Phil had generally returned an hour before that time. When, therefore, it was near midnight, the padrone looked uneasily at the clock.
“Have you seen Filippo?” he asked, addressing his nephew.
“No, signore,” answered Pietro. “Filippo has not come in.”
“Do you think he has run away?” asked the padrone, suspiciously.
“I don’t know,” said Pietro.
“Have you any reason to think he intended to run away?”
“No,” said Pietro.
“I should not like to lose him. He brings me more money than most of the boys.”
“He may come in yet.”
“When he does,” said the padrone, frowning, “I will beat him for being so late. Is there any boy that he would be likely to tell, if he meant to run away?”
“Yes,” said Pietro, with a sudden thought, “there is Giacomo.”
“The sick boy?”
“Yes. Filippo went in this morning to speak to him. He might have told him then.”
“That is true. I will go and ask him.”
Giacomo still lay upon his hard pallet, receiving very little attention. His fever had increased, and he was quite sick. He rolled from one side to the other in his restlessness. He needed medical attention, but the padrone was indifferent, and none of the boys would have dared to call a doctor without his permission. As he lay upon his bed, the padrone entered the room with a hurried step.
“Where is Giacomo?” he demanded, harshly.
“Here I am, signore padrone,” answered the little boy, trembling, as he always did when addressed by the tyrant.
“Did Filippo come and speak with you this morning, before he went out?”
“Si, signore.”
“What did he say?”
“He asked me how I felt.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him I felt sick.”
“Nothing more?”
“I told him I thought I should die.’
“Nonsense!” said the padrone, harshly; “you are a coward. You have a little cold, that is all. Did he say anything about running away?”
“No, signore.”
“Don’t tell me a lie!” said the tyrant, frowning.
“I tell you the truth, signore padrone. Has not Filippo come home?”
“No.”
“I do not think he has run away,” said the little boy.
“Why not?”
“I think he would tell me.”
“So you two are friends, are you?”
“Si, signore; I love Filippo,” answered Giacomo, speaking the last words tenderly, and rather to himself than to the padrone. He looked up to Phil, though little older than himself, with a mixture of respect and devotion, leaning upon him as the weak are prone to lean upon the strong.
“Then you will be glad to hear,” said the padrone, with a refinement of cruelty, “that I shall beat him worse than last night for staying out so late.”
“Don’t beat him, padrone,” pleaded Giacomo, bursting into tears. “Perhaps he cannot come home.”
“Did he ever speak to you of running away?” asked the padrone, with a sudden thought.
Giacomo hesitated. He could not truthfully deny that Filippo had done so, but he did not want to get his friend into trouble. He remained silent, looking up at the tyrant with troubled eyes.
“Why do you not speak? Did you hear my question?” asked the padrone, with a threatening gesture.
Had the question been asked of some of the other boys present, they would not have scrupled to answer falsely; but Giacomo had a religious nature, and, neglected as he had been, he could not make up his mind to tell a falsehood. So, after a pause, he faltered out a confession that Phil had spoken of flight.
“Do you hear that, Pietro?” said the padrone, turning to his nephew. “The little wretch has doubtless run away.”
“Shall I look for him to-morrow?” asked Pietro, with alacrity, for to him it would be a congenial task to drag Phil home, and witness the punishment.
“Yes, Pietro. I will tell you where to go in the morning. We must have him back, and I will beat him so that he will not dare to run away again.”
The padrone would have been still more incensed could he have looked into Mrs. Hoffman’s room and seen the little fiddler the center of a merry group, his brown face radiant with smiles as he swept the chords of his violin. It was well for Phil that he could not see him.
Phil had already made up his mind where to go. Just across the river was New Jersey, with its flourishing towns and cities, settled to a large extent by men doing business in New York. The largest of these cities was Newark, only ten miles distant. There Phil decided to make his first stop. If he found himself in danger of capture he could easily go farther. This plan Paul approved, and it was to be carried into execution immediately.
“I will go down to the Cortlandt Street Ferry with you, Phil,” said Paul.
“I should like to have you, if it will not take you from your business, Paolo.”
“My business can wait,” said Paul. “I mean to see you safe out of the city. The padrone may be in search of you already.”
“I think he will send Pietro to find me,” said Phil.
“Who is Pietro?”
Phil explained that Pietro was the padrone’s nephew and assisted in oppressing the boys.
“I hope he will send him,” said Paul.
Phil looked up in surprise.
“I should like to see this Pietro. What would he do if he should find you?”
“He would take me back.”
“If you did not want to go?”
“I couldn’t help it,” said Phil, shrugging his shoulders. “He is much bigger than I.”
“Is he bigger than I am?”
“I think he is as big.”
“He isn’t big enough to take you away if I am with you.”
Paul did not say this boastfully, but with a quiet confidence in his own powers in which he was justified. Though by no means quarrelsome, he had on several occasions been forced in self-defense into a contest with boys of his own size, and in some instances larger, and in every case he had acquitted himself manfully, and come off victorious.
“I should not be afraid if you were with me, Paolo,” said Phil.
“You are right, Phil,” said Paul, approvingly. “But here we are at the ferry.”
Cortlandt Street is a short distance below the Astor House, and leads to the ferry, connecting on the other side with trains bound for Philadelphia and intermediate places.
Paul paid the regular toll, and passed through the portal with Phil.
“Are you going with me?” asked the little fiddler, in surprise.
“Only to Jersey City, Phil. There might be some of your friends on board the boat. I want to see you safe on the cars. Then I must leave you.”
“You are very kind, Paolo.”
“You are a good little chap, Phil, and I mean to help you. But the boat is about ready to start. Let us go on board.”
They walked down the pier, and got on the boat a minute before it started. They did not pass through to the other end, but, leaning against the side, kept their eyes fixed on the city they were about to leave. They had not long to wait. The signal was heard, and the boat started leisurely from the pier. It was but ten feet distant, when the attention of Paul and Phil was drawn to a person running down the drop in great haste. He evidently wanted to catch the boat, but was too late.
Phil clutched at Paul’s arm, and pointed to him in evident excitement.
“It is Pietro,” he said.
At that moment Pietro, standing on the brink, caught sight of the boy he was pursuing, looking back at him from the deck of the ferry-boat. A look of exultation and disappointment swept over his face as he saw Phil, but realized that he was out of his reach. He had a hand-organ with him, and this had doubtless encumbered him, and prevented his running as fast as he might otherwise.
“So that is Pietro, is it?” said Paul, regarding him attentively in order to fix his face in his memory.
“Yes, Paolo,” said Phil, his eyes fixed nervously upon his pursuer, who maintained his place, and was watching him with equal attention.
“You are not frightened, Phil, are you?”
Phil admitted that he was.
“He will come over in the next boat,” he said.
“But he will not know where you are.”
“He will seek me.”
“Will he? Then I think he will be disappointed. The cars will start on the other side before the next boat arrives. I found out about that before we started.”
Phil felt relieved by this intelligence, but still he was nervous. Knowing well Pietro’s malice, he dreaded the chances of his capturing him.
“He stays there. He does not go away,” said Phil.
“It will do him no good, Phil. He is like a cat watching a canary bird beyond his reach. I don’t think he will catch you to-day.”
“He may go in the cars, too,” suggested Phil.
“That is true. On the whole, Phil, when you get to Newark, I advise you to walk into the country. Don’t stay in the city. He might find you there.”
“I will do what you say, Paolo. It will be better.”
They soon reached the Jersey shore. The railroad station was close by. They went thither at once, and Phil bought a ticket for Newark.
“How soon will the cars start?” inquired Paul of a railway official.
“In five minutes,” was the answer.
“Then, Phil, I advise you to get into the cars at once. Take a seat on the opposite side, though there is no chance of your being seen by Pietro, who will get here too late. Still, it is best to be on the safe side. I will stay near the ferry and watch Pietro when he lands. Perhaps I will have a little conversation with him.”
“I will go, Paolo.”
“Well, good-by, Phil, and good luck,” said Paul, cheerfully. “If you ever come to New York, come to see me.”
“Yes, Paolo, I will be sure to come.”
“And, Phil, though I don’t think you will ever fall into the power of that old brute again (I am sure you won’t if you take good care of yourself), still, if he does get you back again, come to me the first chance you get, and I will see what I can do for you.”
“Thank you, Paolo. I will remember your kindness always,” said the little fiddler, gratefully.
“That is all right, Phil. Good-by!”
“Good-by!” said Phil, and, shaking the hand of his new friend, he ascended the steps, and took a seat on the opposite side, as Paul had recommended.
“I am sorry to part with Phil,” said Paul to himself. “He’s a fine little chap, and I like him. If ever that old brute gets hold of him again, he shan’t keep him long. Now, Signor Pietro, I’ll go back and see you on your arrival.”
Phil was right in supposing that Pietro would take passage on the next boat. He waited impatiently on the drop till it touched, and sprang on board. He cursed the interval of delay, fearing that it would give Phil a chance to get away. However, there was no help for this. Time and tide wait for no man, but it often happens that we are compelled to wait for them. But at length the boat touched the Jersey shore, and Pietro sprang out and hurried to the gates, looking eagerly on all sides for a possible glimpse of the boy he sought. He did not see him, for the cars were already on their way, but his eyes lighted up with satisfaction as they lighted on Paul, whom he recognized as the companion of Phil. He had seen him talking to the little fiddler. Probably he would know where he had gone. He walked up to Paul, who was standing near, and, touching his cap, said: “Excuse me, signore, but have you seen my little brother?”
“Your little brother?” repeated Paul, deliberately.
“Si, signore, a little boy with a fiddle. He was so high;” and Pietro indicated the height of Phil correctly by his hand.
“There was a boy came over in the boat with me,” said Paul.
“Yes, yes; he is the one, signore,” said Pietro, eagerly.
“And he is your brother?”
“Si, signore.”
“That’s a lie,” thought Paul, “I should know it even if Phil had not told me. Phil is a handsome little chap. He wouldn’t have such a villainous-looking brother as you.”
“Can you tell me where he has gone?” asked Pietro, eagerly.
“Didn’t he tell you where he was going?” asked Paul, in turn.
“I think he means to run away,” said Pietro. “Did you see where he went?”
“Why should he want to run away?” asked Paul, who enjoyed tantalizing Pietro, who he saw was chafing with impatience. “Did you not treat him well?”
“He is a little rascal,” said Pietro. “He is treated well, but he is a thief.”
“And you are his brother,” repeated Paul, significantly.
“Did you see where he went?” asked Pietro, getting angry. “I want to take him back to his father.”
“How should I know?” returned Paul, coolly. “Do you think I have nothing to do but to look after your brother?”
“Why didn’t you tell me that before?” said Pietro, incensed.
“Don’t get mad,” said Paul, indifferently; “it won’t do you any good. Perhaps, if you look round, you will see your brother. I’ll tell him you want him if I see him.”
Pietro looked at Paul suspiciously. It struck him that the latter might be making a fool of him, but Paul looked so utterly indifferent that he could judge nothing from his appearance. He concluded that Phil was wandering about somewhere in Jersey City.
It did not occur to him that he might have taken the cars for some more distant place. At any rate, there seemed no chance of getting any information out of Paul. So he adjusted his hand-organ and walked up the street leading from the ferry, looking sharply on either side, hoping to catch a glimpse of the runaway; but, of course, in vain.
“I don’t think you’ll find Phil to-day, Signor Pietro,” said Paul to himself, as he watched his receding form. “Now, as there is nothing more to be done here, I will go back to business.”
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