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

“I don’t know; when I am older.”

“But where is your fiddle, Filippo?” asked Lucia. “Do you not play?”

Filippo glanced at the organ-grinder, whom he did not dare to take into his confidence. So he answered, evasively:

“Another boy took it. I shall get another this afternoon.”

“Are you with the padrone?”

“Yes.”

“Come, Lucia,” said the man, roughly, ceasing to play, “we must go on.”

Lucia followed her companion obediently, reluctant to leave Phil, with whom she desired to converse longer; but the latter saw that her guardian did not wish the conversation to continue, and so did not follow.

This unexpected meeting with Lucia gave him much to think of. It carried back his thoughts to his humble, but still dear, Italian home, and the mother from whom he had never met with anything but kindness, and a longing to see both made him for the moment almost sad. But he was naturally of a joyous temperament, and hope soon returned.

“I will save money enough to go home,” he said to himself. “It will not take very much—not more than fifty dollars. I can get it soon if I do not have to pay money to the padrone.”

As may be inferred, Phil did not expect to return home in style. A first-class ticket on a Cunarder was far above his expectations. He would be content to go by steerage all the way, and that could probably be done for the sum he named. So his sadness was but brief, and be soon became hopeful again.

He was aroused from his thoughts of home by a hand laid familiarly on his shoulder. Turning, he saw a bootblack, whose adventures have been chronicled in the volume called “Ragged Dick.” They had become acquainted some three months before, Dick having acted as a protector to Phil against some rough boys of his own class.

“Been buyin’ stocks?” asked Dick.

“I don’t know what they are,” said Phil, innocently.

“You’re a green one,” said Dick. “I shall have to take you into my bankin’ house and give you some training in business.”

“Have you got a bankin’ house?” asked Phil, in surprise.

“In course I have. Don’t you see it?” pointing to an imposing-looking structure in front of which they were just passing. “My clerks is all hard to work in there, while I go out to take the air for the benefit of my constitushun.”

Phil looked puzzled, not quite understanding Dick’s chaffing, and looked rather inquiringly at the blacking box, finding it a little difficult to understand why a banker on so large a scale should be blacking boots in the street.

“Shine your boots, sir?” said Dick to a gentleman just passing.

“Not now; I’m in a hurry.”

“Blackin’ boots is good exercise,” continued Dick, answering the doubt in Phil’s face. “I do it for the benefit of my health, thus combinin’ profit with salubriousness.”

“I can’t understand such long words,” said Phil. “I don’t know much English.”

“I would talk to you in Italian,” said Dick, “only it makes my head ache. What’s come of your fiddle? You haven’t sold it, and bought Erie shares, have you?”

“A boy stole it from me, and broke it.”

“I’d like to lick him. Who was it?”

“I think his name was Tim Rafferty.”

“I know him,” said Dick. “I’ll give him a lickin’ next time I see him.”

“Can you?” asked Phil, doubtfully, for his enemy was as large as Dick.

“In course I can. My fists are like sledge-hammers. Jest feel my muscle.”

Dick straightened out his arm, and Phil felt of the muscle, which was hard and firm.

“It’s as tough as a ten-year-old chicken,” said Dick. “It won’t be healthy for Tim to come round my way. What made him steal your fiddle? He ain’t goin’ into the musical line, is he?”

“He was angry because I didn’t want to lend it to him.”

Just then Tim Rafferty himself turned the corner. There was a lull in his business, and he was wandering along the street eating an apple.

“There he is,” said Phil, suddenly espying his enemy.

Dick looked up, and saw with satisfaction that Phil was right. Tim had not yet espied either, nor did he till Dick addressed him.

“Are you round collectin’ fiddles this mornin’?” he asked.

Tim looked up, and, seeing that his victim had found an able champion, felt anxious to withdraw. He was about to turn back, but Dick advanced with a determined air.

“Jest stop a minute, Tim Rafferty,” said he. “I’m a-goin’ to intervoo you for the Herald. That’s what they do with all the big rascals nowadays.”

“I’m in a hurry,” said Tim.

“That’s what the pickpocket said when the cop was gently persuadin’ him to go to the Tombs, but the cop didn’t see it. I want the pleasure of your society a minute or two. I hear you’re in the music business.”

“No, I’m not,” said Tim, shortly.

“What made you borrer this boy’s fiddle, then?”

“I don’t know anything about it,” said Tim, in a fright.

“Some folks forgets easy,” returned Dick. “I know a man what went into Tiffany’s and took up a watch to look at, and carried it off, forgettin’ to pay for it. That’s what he told the judge the next day, and the judge sent him to the island for a few months to improve his memory. The air over to the island is very good to improve the memory.”

“You ought to know,” said Tim, sullenly; “you’ve been there times enough.”

“Have I?” said Dick. “Maybe you saw me there. Was it the ninth time you were there, or the tenth?”

“I never was there,” said Tim.

“Maybe it was your twin brother.” suggested Dick. “What made you break my friend’s fiddle? He wouldn’t have minded it so much, only it belonged to his grandfather, a noble count, who made boots for a livin’.”

“I don’t believe he had a fiddle at all,” said Tim.

“That’s where your forgetfulness comes in,” said Dick “Have you forgot the lickin’ I gave you last summer for stealin’ my blackin’ box?”

“You didn’t lick me,” said Tim.

“Then I’ll lick you harder next time,” said Dick.

“You ain’t