Phil, the Fiddler by Jr. Horatio Alger (ereader for comics .TXT) 📕

As the clock struck twelve Phil reached the necktie stand of his friend, Paul Hoffman.

“Just in time,” said Paul. “Are you hungry?”

“A little.”

“That’s right. You’re going to dine with me; and I want you to bring a good appetite with you.”

“What will your mother say?” asked Phil, doubtfully.

“Wait and see. If you don’t like what she says you can go off without eating. Where have you been?”

“I went down to Wall Street.”

“On business?” inquired Paul, with a smile.

“No,” said Phil, seriously. “I saw Lucia.”

“Who is she?”

“I forgot. You don’t know Lucia. She lived in my home in Italy, and I used to play with her. She told me of my mother.”

“That’s lucky, Phil. I hope your mother is well.”

“She is not sick, but she is thin. She thinks of me,” said Phil.

“Of course she does. You will go home and see her some day.”

“I hope so.”

“Of course you will,” said Paul, confidently.

“I saw the boy who stole my fiddle,” continued Phil.

“Tim Rafferty?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“I was with a bootblack—the one they call ‘Ragged Dick.’ Do you know him?”

“Yes; I know Dick. He is a bully fellow, always joking.”

“Dick wanted to lick him, but a policeman came, and he went away.”

“Does Dick know that he stole your fiddle?”

“Yes.”

“Then he will be sure to punish him. It will save me the trouble.”

The walk was not long. Soon they were at Paul’s door.

“I have brought company to dinner, mother,” said Paul, entering first.

“I am glad to see you, Phil,” said Mrs. Hoffman. “Why have you not come before?”

“How is that, Phil? Will you stay now?” said Paul.

Mrs. Hoffman looked at Paul inquiringly.

“Phil was afraid he would not be welcome,” he exclaimed.

“He is always welcome,” said Mrs. Hoffman.

“Where is your fiddle?” asked Jimmy.

“A boy took it,” said Phil, “and threw it into the street, and a wagon went over it and broke it.”

Jimmy was quite indignant for his friend, when the story had been told.

“It’s lucky for Tim Rafferty that he is not here,” said Paul, “or he might suffer.”

“If I was a big boy I’d lick him,” said Jimmy, belligerently.

“I never saw you so warlike before, Jimmy,” said Paul.

To Phil this sympathy seemed pleasant. He felt that he was in the midst of friends, and friends were not so plentiful as not to be valued.

“What are you going to have for dinner, mother?” asked Paul.

“I am sorry, Paul, that I have no warm meat. I have some cold roast beef, some hot potatoes, and an apple pudding.”

“You needn’t apologize, mother. That’s good enough for anybody. It’s as good as Phil gets at his boarding house, I am sure. He has got rather tired of it, and isn’t going to stay.”

“Are you going to leave the padrone?” asked Mrs. Hoffman, with interest.

“Si, signora,” said Phil.

“Will he let you go?”

“I shall run away,” said Phil.

“You see, mother, Phil would be sure of a beating if he went home without his fiddle. Now he doesn’t like to be beaten, and the padrone gives harder beatings than you do, mother.”

“I presume so,” said Mrs. Hoffman, smiling. “I do not think I am very severe.”

“No, you spoil the rod and spare the child.”

“Is Phil going to stay in the city?”

“No; the padrone would get hold of him if he did. He is going to New Jersey to make his fortune.”

“But he will need a fiddle.”

“I am going to lend him money enough to buy one. I know a pawnbroker who has one for sale. I think I can get it for three or four dollars. When Phil gets it he is going around giving concerts. How much can you make in a day, Phil?”

“Sometimes I make two dollars,” answered Phil.

“That is excellent, especially when you are your own padrone. You will be able to save up money. You will have to buy a pocketbook, Phil.”

“Where will you sleep, Phil?” asked Jimmy, interested.

Phil shrugged his shoulders. He had not thought of that question particularly.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I can sleep anywhere.”

“Of course he will stop at the first-class hotels, Jimmy,” said Paul, “like all men of distinction. I shouldn’t wonder if he married an heiress