Phil the Fiddler

H >> Horatio Alger, Jr. >> Phil the Fiddler


He did not stop to finish his tune, but took to his heels. At that
moment the padrone saw him. With a cry of exultation, he started in
pursuit, and Pietro with him. He thought Phil already in his grasp.

Phil dashed breathless into the kitchen, where Mrs. McGuire was ironing.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"The padrone--Pietro and the padrone!" exclaimed Phil, pale with
affright.

Mrs. McGuire took in the situation at once.

"Run upstairs," she said. "Pat's up there on the bed. He will see they
won't take you."

Phil sprang upstairs two steps at a time, and dashed into the chamber.
Mr. McGuire was lying on the outside of the bed, peacefully smoking a
clay pipe.

"What's the matther?" he asked, repeating his wife's question.

"They have come for me," said Phil.

"Have they?" said Pat. "Then they'll go back, I'm thinkin'. Where are
they?"

But there was no need of a reply, as their voices were already audible
from below, talking with Mrs. McGuire. The distance was so trifling that
they had seen Phil enter the house, and the padrone, having a contempt
for the physical powers of woman, followed boldly.

They met Mrs. McGuire at the door.

"What do you want?" she demanded.

"The boy," said the padrone. "I saw him come in here."

"Did ye? Your eyes is sharp thin."

She stood directly in the passage, so that neither could enter without
brushing her aside.

"Send him out," said the padrone.

"Faith, and I won't," said Bridget. "He shall stay here as long as he
likes."

"I will come in and take him," said the padrone, furiously.

"I wouldn't advise ye to thry it," said Mrs. McGuire, coolly.

"Move aside, woman, or I will make you," said the Italian, angrily.

"I'll stay where I am. Shure, it's my own house, and I have a right to
do it."

"Pietro," said the padrone, with sudden thought, "he may escape from the
front door. Go round and watch it."

By his sign Bridget guessed what he said, though it was spoken in
Italian.

"He won't run away," she said. "I'll tell you where he is, if you want
to know."

"Where?" asked the padrone, eagerly.

"He's upstairs, thin."

The padrone would not be restrained any longer. He made a rush forward,
and, pushing Mrs. McGuire aside, sprang up the stairs. He would have
found greater difficulty in doing this, but Bridget, knowing her husband
was upstairs, made little resistance, and contented herself, after
the padrone had passed, with intercepting Pietro, and clutching him
vigorously by the hair, to his great discomfort, screaming "Murther!" at
the top of her lungs.

The padrone heard the cry, but in his impetuosity he did not heed it. He
expected to gain an easy victory over Phil, whom he supposed to be alone
in the chamber. He sprang toward him, but had barely seized him by the
arm, when the gigantic form of the Irishman appeared, and the padrone
found himself in his powerful grasp.

"What business have ye here, you bloody villain?" demanded Pat;
"breakin' into an honest man's house, without lave or license. I'll
teach you manners, you baste!"

"Give me the boy!" gasped the padrone.

"You can't have him, thin!" said Pat "You want to bate him, you
murderin' ould villain!"

"I'll have you arrested," said the padrone, furiously, writhing vainly
to get himself free. He was almost beside himself that Phil should be
the witness of his humiliation.

"Will you, thin?" demanded Pat. "Thin the sooner you do it the betther.
Open the window, Phil!"

Phil obeyed, not knowing why the request was made. He was soon
enlightened. The Irishman seized the padrone, and, lifting him from the
floor, carried him to the window, despite his struggles, and, thrusting
him out, let him drop. It was only the second story, and there was no
danger of serious injury. The padrone picked himself up, only to meet
with another disaster. A passing policeman had heard Mrs. McGuire's
cries, and on hearing her account had arrested Pietro, and was just in
time to arrest the padrone also, on the charge of forcibly entering the
house. As the guardian of the peace marched off with Pietro on one
side and the padrone on the other, Mrs. McGuire sat down on a chair and
laughed till she cried.

"Shure, they won't come for you again in a hurry, Phil, darlint!" she
said. "They've got all they want, I'm thinkin'."

I may add that the pair were confined in the station-house over night,
and the next day were brought before a justice, reprimanded and fined.



CHAPTER XXIV

THE DEATH OF GIACOMO

Great was the astonishment at the Italian lodging-house that night when
neither the padrone nor Pietro made his appearance. Great was the joy,
too, for the nightly punishments were also necessarily omitted, and the
boys had no one to pay their money to. There was another circumstance
not so agreeable. All the provisions were locked up, and there was no
supper for the hungry children. Finally, at half-past eleven, three
boys, bolder than the rest, went out, and at last succeeded in obtaining
some bread and crackers at an oyster saloon, in sufficient quantities to
supply all their comrades. After eating heartily they went to bed, and
for one night the establishment ran itself much more satisfactorily to
the boys than if the padrone had been present.

The next morning the boys went out as usual, having again bought their
breakfast and dispersed themselves about the city and vicinity, heartily
hoping that this state of things might continue. But it was too good
to last. When they returned at evening they found their old enemy in
command. He looked more ill-tempered and sour than ever, but gave no
explanation of his and Pietro's absence, except to say that he had been
out of the city on business. He called for the boys' earnings of the
day previous, but to their surprise made no inquiries about how they had
supplied themselves with supper or breakfast. He felt that his influence
over the boys, and the terror which he delighted to inspire in them,
would be lessened if they should learn that he had been arrested and
punished. The boys were accustomed to look upon him as possessed of
absolute power over them, and almost regarded him as above law.

Pietro, too, was silent, partly for the same reasons which influenced
the padrone, partly because he was afraid of offending his uncle.

Meanwhile poor Giacomo remained sick. If he had been as robust and
strong as Phil, he would have recovered, but he was naturally delicate,
and exposure and insufficient food had done their work only too well.

Four days afterward (to advance the story a little) one of the boys came
to the padrone in the morning, saying: "Signore padrone, Giacomo is much
worse. I think he is going to die."

"Nonsense!" said the padrone, angrily. "He is only pretending to be
sick, so that he need not work. I have lost enough by him already."

Nevertheless he went to the little boy's bedside.

Giacomo was breathing faintly. His face was painfully thin, his eyes
preternaturally bright. He spoke faintly, but his mind seemed to be
wandering.

"Where is Filippo?" he said. "I want to see Filippo."

In this wish the padrone heartily concurred. He, too, would have been
glad to see Filippo, but the pleasure would not have been mutual.

"Why do you want to see Filippo?" he demanded, in his customary harsh
tone.

Giacomo heard and answered, though unconscious who spoke to him.

"I want to kiss him before I die," he said.

"What makes you think you are going to die?" said the tyrant, struck by
the boy's appearance.

"I am so weak," murmured Giacomo. "Stoop down, Filippo. I want to tell
you something in your ear."

Moved by curiosity rather than humanity, the padrone stooped over, and
Giacomo whispered:

"When you go back to Italy, dear Filippo, go and tell my mother how I
died. Tell her not to let my father sell my little brother to a padrone,
or he may die far away, as I am dying. Promise me, Filippo."

There was no answer. The padrone did indeed feel a slight emotion of
pity, but it was, unhappily, transient. Giacomo did not observe that the
question was not answered.

"Kiss me, Filippo," said the dying boy.

One of the boys who stood nearby, with tears in his eyes, bent over and
kissed him.

Giacomo smiled. He thought it was Filippo. With that smile on his face,
he gave one quick gasp and died--a victim of the padrone's tyranny and
his father's cupidity.(1)

(1) It is the testimony of an eminent Neapolitan physician
(I quote from Signor Casali, editor of L'Eco d'Italia) that
of one hundred Italian children who are sold by their
parents into this white slavery, but twenty ever return
home; thirty grow up and adopt various occupations abroad,
and fifty succumb to maladies produced by privation and
exposure.

Death came to Giacomo as a friend. No longer could he be forced out into
the streets to suffer cold and fatigue, and at night inhuman treatment
and abuse. His slavery was at an end.

We go back now to Phil. Though he and his friends had again gained a
victory over Pietro and the padrone, he thought it would not be prudent
to remain in Newark any longer. He knew the revengeful spirit of his
tyrants, and dreaded the chance of again falling into their hands. He
must, of course, be exposed to the risk of capture while plying his
vocation in the public streets. Therefore he resisted the invitation of
his warm-hearted protectors to make his home with them, and decided to
wander farther away from New York.

The next day, therefore, he went to the railway station and bought a
ticket for a place ten miles further on. This he decided would be far
enough to be safe.

Getting out of the train, he found himself in a village of moderate
size. Phil looked around him with interest. He had the fondness, natural
to his age, for seeing new places. He soon came to a schoolhouse. It was
only a quarter of nine, and some of the boys were playing outside. Phil
leaned against a tree and looked on.

Though he was at an age when boys enjoy play better than work or study,
he had no opportunity to join in their games.

One of the boys, observing him, came up and said frankly, "Do you want
to play with us?"

"Yes," said Phil, brightening up, "I should like to."

"Come on, then."

Phil looked at his fiddle and hesitated.

"Oh, I'll take care of your fiddle for you. Here, this tree is hollow;
just put it inside, and nobody will touch it."

Phil needed no second invitation. Sure of the safety of his fiddle,
which was all-important to him since it procured for him his livelihood,
he joined in the game with zest. It was so simple that he easily
understood it. His laugh was as loud and merry as any of the rest, and
his face glowed with enjoyment.

It does not take long for boys to become acquainted. In the brief
time before the teacher's arrival, Phil became on good terms with the
schoolboys, and the one who had first invited him to join them said:
"Come into school with us. You shall sit in my seat."

"Will he let me?" asked Phil, pointing to the teacher.

"To be sure he will. Come along."

Phil took his fiddle from its hiding-place in the interior of the tree,
and walked beside his companion into the schoolroom.

It was the first time he had ever been in a schoolroom before, and he
looked about him with curiosity at the desks, and the maps hanging
on the walls. The blackboards, too, he regarded with surprise, not
understanding their use.

After the opening exercises were concluded, the teacher, whose attention
had been directed to the newcomer, walked up to the desk where he
was seated. Phil was a little alarmed, for, associating him with his
recollections of the padrone, he did not know but that he would be
punished for his temerity in entering without the teacher's invitation.

But he was soon reassured by the pleasant tone in which he was
addressed.

"What is your name, my young friend?"

"Filippo."

"You are an Italian, I suppose."

"Si, signore."

"Does that mean 'Yes, sir'?"

"Yes, sir," answered Phil, remembering to speak English.

"Is that your violin?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where do you live?"

Phil hesitated.

"I am traveling," he said at last.

"You are young to travel alone. How long have you been in this country?"

"A year."

"And have you been traveling about all that time?"

"No, signore; I have lived in New York."

"I suppose you have not gone to school?"

"No, signore."

"Well, I am glad to see you here; I shall be glad to have you stay and
listen to our exercises."

The teacher walked back to his desk, and the lessons began. Phil
listened with curiosity and attention. For the first time in his life
he felt ashamed of his own ignorance, and wished he, too, might have
a chance to learn, as the children around him were doing. But they had
homes and parents to supply their wants, while he must work for his
livelihood.

After a time, recess came. Then the boys gathered around, and asked Phil
to play them a tune.

"Will he let me?" asked the young fiddler, again referring to the
teacher.

The latter, being applied to, readily consented, and expressed his own
wish to hear Phil. So the young minstrel played and sang several tunes
to the group of children who gathered around him. Time passed rapidly,
and the recess was over before the children anticipated it.

"I am sorry to disturb your enjoyment," said the teacher; "but duty
before pleasure, you know. I will only suggest that, as our young friend
here depends on his violin for support, we ought to collect a little
money for him. James Reynolds, suppose you pass around your hat for
contributions. Let me suggest that you come to me first."

The united offerings, though small individually, amounted to a dollar,
which Phil pocketed with much satisfaction. He did not remain after
recess, but resumed his wanderings, and about noon entered a grocery
store, where he made a hearty lunch. Thus far good fortune attended him,
but the time was coming, and that before long, when life would wear a
less sunny aspect.



CHAPTER XXV

PHIL FINDS A FRIEND

It was the evening before Christmas. Until to-day the winter had been an
open one, but about one o'clock in the afternoon the snow began to fall.
The flakes came thicker and faster, and it soon became evident that an
old-fashioned snowstorm had set in. By seven o'clock the snow lay a foot
deep on the level, but in some places considerably deeper, for a brisk
wind had piled it up in places.

In a handsome house, some rods back from the village street, lived Dr.
Drayton, a physician, whose skill was so well appreciated that he had
already, though still in the prime of life, accumulated a handsome
competence.

He sat this evening in his library, in dressing-gown and slippers, his
wife nearby engaged in some needlework.

"I hope you won't be called out this evening, Joseph," said Mrs.
Drayton, as a gust of wind tattled the window panes.

"I echo that wish, my dear," said the doctor, looking up from the last
number of the Atlantic Monthly. "I find it much more comfortable here,
reading Dr. Holmes' last article."

"The snow must be quite deep."

"It is. I found my ride from the north village this afternoon bleak
enough. You know how the wind sweeps across the road near the Pond
schoolhouse. I believe there is to be a Christmas-eve celebration in the
Town Hall this evening, is there not?"

"No; it has been postponed till to-morrow evening."

"That will be better. The weather and walking will both be better. Shall
we go, Mary?"

"If you wish it," she said, hesitatingly.

Her husband understood her hesitation. Christmas day was a sad
anniversary for them. Four years before, their only son, Walter, a boy
of eight, had died just as the Christmas church bells were ringing out a
summons to church. Since then the house had been a silent one, the quiet
unbroken by childish noise and merriment. Much as the doctor and his
wife were to each other, both felt the void which Walter's death had
created, and especially as the anniversary came around which called to
mind their great loss.

"I think we had better go," said the doctor; "though God has bereft us
of our own child, it will be pleasant for us to watch the happy faces of
others."

"Perhaps you are right, Joseph."

Half an hour passed. The doctor continued reading the Atlantic, while
his wife, occupied with thoughts which the conversation had called up,
kept on with her work.

Just then the bell was heard to ring.

"I hope it is not for you, Joseph," said his wife, apprehensively.

"I am afraid it is," said the doctor, with a look of resignation.

"I thought it would be too good luck for me to have the whole evening to
myself."

"I wish you were not a doctor," said Mrs. Drayton.

"It is rather too late to change my profession, my dear," said her
husband, good-humoredly. "I shall be fifty next birthday. To be sure,
Ellen Jones tells me that in her class at the Normal School there is a
maiden lady of sixty-two, who has just begun to prepare herself for the
profession of a teacher. I am not quite so old as that."

Here the servant opened the door, ushering in a farm laborer.

"Good-evening, Abner," said the doctor, recognizing him, as, indeed, he
knew every face within half a dozen miles. "Anything amiss at home?"

"Mrs. Felton is took with spasms," said Abner. "Can you come right
over?"

"What have you done for her?"

"Put her feet in warm water, and put her to bed. Can you come right
over?"

"Yes," said the doctor, rising and exchanging his dressing-gown for
a coat, and drawing on his boots. "I will go as soon as my horse is
ready."

Orders were sent out to put the horse to the sleigh. This was quickly
done, and the doctor, fully accoutered, walked to the door.

"I shall be back as soon as I can, Mary," he said.

"That won't be very soon. It is a good two-miles' ride."

"I shan't loiter on the way, you may be sure of that. Abner, I am
ready."

The snow was still falling, but not quite so fast as early in the
afternoon. The wind, however, blew quite as hard, and the doctor found
all his wrappings needful.

At intervals on the road he came to deep drifts of snow through which
the horse had some difficulty in drawing the sleigh, but at length he
arrived at the door of his patient. He found that the violence of her
attack was over, and, satisfied of this, left a few simple directions,
which he considered sufficient. Nature would do the rest.

"Now for home!" he said to himself. "I hope this will be my last
professional call this evening. Mary will be impatient for my return."

He gave the reins to his horse, who appeared to feel that he was bound
homeward, and traveled with more alacrity than he had come.

He, too, no doubt shared the doctor's hope that this was the last
service required of him before the morrow.

Doctor Drayton had completed rather more than half his journey, when,
looking to the right, his attention was drawn to a small, dark object,
nearly covered with snow.

Instinctively he reined up his horse.

"Good heavens!" he exclaimed, "it must be a boy. God grant he is not
frozen!"

He leaped from his sleigh, and lifted the insensible body.

"It is an Italian boy, and here is his violin. The poor child may be
dead," he said to himself in a startled tone. "I must carry him home,
and see what I can do for him."

So he took up tenderly our young hero--for our readers will have guessed
that it was Phil--and put both him and his violin into the sleigh. Then
he drove home with a speed which astonished even his horse, who, though
anxious to reach his comfortable stable, would not voluntarily have put
forth so great an exertion as was now required of him.

I must explain that Phil had for the last ten days been traveling about
the country, getting on comfortably while the ground was bare of snow.
To-day, however, had proved very uncomfortable. In the city the snow
would have been cleared off, and would not have interfered so much with
traveling.

He had bought some supper at a grocery store, and, after spending an
hour there, had set out again on his wanderings. He found the walking so
bad that he made up his mind to apply for a lodging at a house not
far back; but a fierce dog, by his barking, had deterred him from the
application. The road was lonely, and he had seen no other house since.
Finally, exhausted by the effort of dragging himself through the deep
snow, and, stiff with cold, he sank down by the side of the road, and
would doubtless have frozen had not the doctor made his appearance
opportunely.

Mrs. Drayton was alarmed when her husband entered the sitting-room,
bearing Phil's insensible form.

She jumped to her feet in alarm.

"Who is it, Joseph?" she asked.

"A poor Italian boy, whom I found by the side of the road."

"Is he dead?" asked the doctor's wife, quickly.

"I think not. I will restore him if there is any life left in him."

It was fortunate for Phil that he had been discovered by a skillful
physician, who knew the most effectual means of bringing him to. The
flame of life was burning low, and a little longer exposure would have
closed the earthly career of our young hero. But he was spared, as we
hope, for a happy and useful career.

By the application of powerful restoratives Phil was at length brought
round. His chilled limbs grew warm, and his heart began to beat more
steadily and strongly. A bed was brought down to the sitting-room, and
he was placed in it.

"Where am I?" he asked faintly, when he opened his eyes.

"You are with friends, my boy. Don't ask questions now. In the morning,
you may ask as many as you like."

Phil closed his eyes languidly, and soon fell into a sound sleep.

Nature was doing her work well and rapidly.

In the morning Phil woke up almost wholly restored.

As he opened his eyes, he met the kind glances of the doctor and his
wife.

"How do you feel this morning?" asked the doctor.

"I feel well," said Phil, looking around him with curiosity.

"Do you think you could eat some breakfast?" asked Dr. Drayton, with a
smile.

"Yes, sir," said Phil.

"Then, my lad, I think I can promise you some as soon as you are
dressed. But I see from your looks you want to know where you are and
how you came here. Don't you remember the snow-storm yesterday?"

Phil shuddered. He remembered it only too well.

"I found you lying by the side of the road about half-past eight in the
evening. I suppose you don't remember my picking you up?"

"No, sir."

"You were insensible. I was afraid at first you were frozen. But I
brought you home, and, thanks to Providence, you are all right again."

"Where is my fiddle?" asked Phil, anxiously.

"It is safe. There it is on the piano."

Phil was relieved to see that his faithful companion was safe. He looked
upon it as his stock in trade, for without it he would not have known
how to make his livelihood.

He dressed quickly, and was soon seated at the doctor's well-spread
table. He soon showed that, in spite of his exposure and narrow escape
from death, he had a hearty appetite. Mrs. Drayton saw him eat with true
motherly pleasure, and her natural love of children drew her toward our
young hero, and would have done so even had he been less attractive.

"Joseph," she said, addressing her husband, "I want to speak to you a
moment."

He followed her out of the room.

"Well, my dear?" he said.

"I want to ask a favor."

"It is granted in advance."

"Perhaps you will not say so when you know what it is."

"I can guess it. You want to keep this boy."

"Are you willing?"

"I would have proposed it, if you had not. He is without friends and
poor. We have enough and to spare. We will adopt him in place of our
lost Walter."

"Thank you, Joseph. It will make me happy. Whatever I do for him, I will
do for my lost darling."

They went back into the room. They found Phil with his cap on and his
fiddle under his arm.

"Where are you going, Philip?" asked the doctor.

"I am going into the street. I thank you for your kindness."

"Would you not rather stay with us?"

Phil looked up, uncertain of his meaning.

"We had a boy once, but he is dead. Will you stay with us and be our
boy?"

Phil looked in the kind faces of the doctor and his wife, and his face
lighted up with joy at the unexpected prospect of such a home, with
people who would be kind to him.

"I will stay," he said. "You are very kind to me."

So our little hero had drifted into a snug harbor. His toils and
privations were over. And for the doctor and his wife it was a glad day
also. On Christmas Day four years before they had lost a child. On this
Christmas, God had sent them another to fill the void in their hearts.



CHAPTER XXVI

CONCLUSION

It was a strange thing for the homeless fiddler to find himself the
object of affectionate care and solicitude--to feel, when he woke up in
the morning, no anxiety about the day's success. He could not have found
a better home. Naturally attractive, and without serious faults, Phil
soon won his way to the hearts of the good doctor and his wife. The
house seemed brighter for his presence, and the void in the heart of the
bereaved mother was partially filled. Her lost Walter would have been of
the same age as Phil, had he lived. For his sake she determined to treat
the boy, who seemed cast by Providence upon her protection, as a son.