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

Phil did not leave the boat. He lingered in the cabin until the passengers were seated, and after the boat was again under way began to play. This time, however, he was not as fortunate as before. While in the midst of a tune one of the men employed on the boat entered the cabin. At times he would not have interfered with him, but he happened to be in ill humor, and this proved unfortunate for Phil.

“Stop your noise, boy,” he said.

Phil looked up.

“May I not play?”

“No; nobody wants to hear you.”

The young fiddler did not dare to disobey. He saw that for the present his gains were at an end. However, he had enough to satisfy the rapacity of the padrone, and could afford to stop. He took a seat, and waited quietly till the boat landed. One of the lady passengers, as she passed him on her way out of the cabin, placed ten cents in his hand. This led him to count up his gains. He found they amounted to precisely two dollars and fifty cents.

“I need not play any more,” he thought. “I shall not be beaten to-night.”

He found his seat so comfortable, especially after wandering about the streets all day, that he remained on the boat for two more trips. Then, taking his violin under his arm, he went out on the pier.

It was half-past seven o’clock. He would like to have gone to his lodging, but knew that it would not be permitted. In this respect the Italian fiddler is not as well off as those who ply other street trades. Newsboys and bootblacks are their own masters, and, whether their earnings are little or great, reap the benefit of them themselves. They can stop work at six if they like, or earlier; but the little Italian musician must remain in the street till near midnight, and then, after a long and fatiguing day, he is liable to be beaten and sent to bed without his supper, unless he brings home a satisfactory sum of money.

Phil walked about here and there in the lower part of the city. As he was passing a barroom he was called in by the barkeeper.

“Give us a tune, boy,” he said.

It was a low barroom, frequented by sailors and a rough set of customers of similar character. The red face of the barkeeper showed that he drank very liberally, and the atmosphere was filled with the fumes of bad cigars and bad liquor. The men were ready for a good time, as they called it, and it was at the suggestion of one of them that Phil had been invited in.

“Play a tune on your fiddle, you little ragamuffin,” said one.

Phil cared little how he was addressed. He was at the service of the public, and what he chiefly cared for was that he be paid for his services.

“What shall I play?” he asked.

“Anything,” hiccoughed one. “It’s all the same to me. I don’t know one tune from another.”

The young fiddler played one of the popular airs of the day. He did not undertake to sing, for the atmosphere was so bad that he could hardly avoid coughing. He was anxious to get out into the street, but he did not wish to refuse playing. When he had finished his tune, one of those present, a sailor, cried, “That’s good. Step up, boys, and have a drink.”

The invitation was readily accepted by all except Phil. Noticing that the boy kept his place, the sailor said, “Step up, boy, and wet your whistle.”

Phil liked the weak wines of his native land, but he did not care for the poisonous decoctions of be found in such places.

“I am not thirsty,” he said.

“Yes, you are; here, give this boy a glass of brandy.”

“I do not want it,” said Phil.

“You won’t drink with us,” exclaimed the sailor, who had then enough to be quarrelsome. “Then I’ll make you;” and he brought down his fist so heavily upon the counter as to make the glasses rattle. “Then I’ll make you. Here, give me a glass, and I’ll pour it down his throat.”

The fiddler was frightened at his vehemence, and darted to the door. But the sailor was too quick for him. Overtaking Phil, he dragged him back with a rough grasp, and held out his hand for the glass. But an unexpected friend now turned up.

“Oh, let the boy go, Jack,” said a fellow sailor. “If he don’t want to drink, don’t force him.”

But his persecutor was made ugly by his potations, and swore that Phil should drink before he left the barroom.

“That he shall not,” said his new friend.

“Who is to prevent it?” demanded Jack, fiercely.

“I will.”

“Then I’ll pour a glass down your throat, too,” returned Jack, menacingly.

“No need of that. I am ready enough to drink. But the boy shan’t drink, if he don’t want to.”

“He shall!” retorted the first sailor, with an oath.

Still holding Phil by the shoulder with one hand, with the other he took a glass which had just been filled with brandy; he was about to pour it down his throat, when the glass was suddenly dashed from his hand and broke upon the floor.

With a fresh oath Jack released his hold on Phil, and, maddened with rage, threw himself upon the other. Instantly there was a general melee. Phil did not wait to see the result. He ran to the door, and, emerging into the street, ran away till he had placed a considerable distance between himself and the disorderly and drunken party in the barroom. The fight there continued until the police, attracted by the noise, forced an