Phil, the Fiddler, Jr. Horatio Alger [best novels to read .txt] 📗

“Why did you give your bread to Giuseppe?” he demanded.

“Because I was not hungry,” answered Phil.

“Why were you not hungry? Did you buy some supper?”

“No, signore.”

“Then you should be hungry.”

“A kind lady gave me some supper.”

“How did it happen?”

“I knew her son. His name is Paolo. He asked me to go home with him. Then he gave me a good supper.”

“How long were you there? You might have been playing and brought me some more money,” said the padrone, who, with characteristic meanness, grudged the young fiddler time to eat the meal that cost him nothing.

“It was not long, signore.”

“You can eat what is given you, but you must not waste too much time.”

A boy entered next, who showed by his hesitating manner that he did not anticipate a good reception. The padrone, accustomed to judge by appearances, instantly divined this.

“Well, Ludovico,” he said, sharply, “what do you bring me?”

“Pardon, padrone,” said Ludovico, producing a small sum of money.

“I could not help it.”

“Seventy-five cents,” repeated the padrone, indignantly. “You have been idle, you little wretch!”

“No, padrone. Indeed, I did my best. The people would not give me money.”

“Where did you go?”

“I was in Brooklyn.”

“You have spent some of the money.”

“No, padrone.”

“You have been idle, then. No supper to-night. Pietro, my stick!”

Pietro was one of the older boys. He was ugly physically, and his disposition corresponded with his appearance. He could have few good traits, or he would not have possessed the confidence of the padrone. He was an efficient assistant of the latter, and co-operated with him in oppressing the other boys. Indeed, he was a nephew of the padrone’s, and for this reason, as well as his similarity of disposition, he was treated with unusual indulgence. Whenever the padrone felt suspicious of any of the boys, he usually sent them out in company with Pietro, who acted as a spy, faithfully reporting all that happened to his principal.

Pietro responded with alacrity to the command of the padrone, and produced a stout stick, which he handed to his uncle.

“Now strip off your jacket,” said the padrone, harshly.

“Spare me, padrone! Do not beat me! It was not my fault,” said the unhappy Ludovico, imploringly.

“Take off your jacket!” repeated the padrone, pitilessly.

One look of that hard face might have taught Ludovico, even if he had not witnessed the punishment so often inflicted on other boys, that there was no hope for him.

“Help him, Pietro,” said the padrone.

Pietro seized Ludovico’s jacket, and pulled it off roughly. Then he drew off the ragged shirt which the boy wore underneath, and his bare back was exposed to view.

“Hold him, Pietro!”

In Pietro’s firm grasp, the boy was unable to stir. The padrone whirled the stick aloft, and brought it down upon the naked flesh, leaving behind a fearful wheal.

Ludovico shrieked aloud, and again implored mercy, but in vain, for the stick descended again and again.

Meanwhile the other boys looked on, helpless to interfere. The more selfish were glad that they had escaped, though not at all sure but it would be their turn next evening. There were others who felt a passive sympathy for their unlucky comrade. Others were filled with indignation at the padrone, knowing how cruel and unjust were his exactions. Among these was Phil. Possessed of a warm and sympathetic heart, he never witnessed these cruel punishments without feeling that he would like to see the padrone suffering such pain as he inflicted upon others.

“If I were only a man,” he often thought, “I would wrench the stick from his hand, and give him a chance to feel it.”

But he knew too well the danger of permitting his real sentiments to be reflected in his face. It would only bring upon him a share of the same punishment, without benefiting those who were unfortunate enough to receive it.

When Ludovico’s punishment was ended, he was permitted to go to bed, but without his supper. Nor was his the only case. Five other boys were subjected to the same punishment. The stick had no want of exercise on that evening. Here were nearly forty boys, subjected to excessive fatigue, privation, and brutal treatment daily, on account of the greed of one man. The hours that should been given in part to instruction, and partly to such recreation as the youthful heart craves, were devoted to a pursuit that did nothing to prepare them for the duties of life. And this white slavery—for it merits no better name—is permitted by the law of two great nations. Italy is in fault in suffering this traffic in her children of tender years, and America is guilty as well in not interfering, as she might, at all events, to abridge the long hours of labor required of these boys, and forcing their cruel guardians to give them some instruction.

One by one the boys straggled in. By midnight all had returned, and the boys were permitted to retire to their beds, which were poor enough. This, however, was the least of their troubles. Sound are the slumbers of young however hard the couch on which it rests, especially when, as with all the young Italian boys, the day has been one of fatigue.