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

“Never mind; I can get along till then.”

“Can I do no business with you this morning?” asked Eliakim, disappointed.

“I don’t know,” said Paul, looking carelessly around. “My friend here would like a fiddle, if he can get one cheap. What do you ask for that one up there?”

Eliakim took down the fiddle with alacrity. He had had it on hand for a year without securing a customer. It had originally been pawned by a poor musician, for a dollar and a quarter, but the unfortunate owner had never been able to redeem it. Among his customers, the pawnbroker had not found one sufficiently musical to take it off his hands. Here was a slight chance, and he determined to effect a sale if he could.

“It is a splendid instrument,” he said, enthusiastically, brushing off the dust with a dirty cotton handkerchief. “I have had many chances to sell it.”

“Why didn’t you sell it, then?” demanded Paul, who did not believe a word of this.

“Because it was only pawned. I kept it for the owner.”

“Oh, well; if you can’t sell it, it doesn’t matter.”

“It is for sale now,” said Eliakim, quickly. “He has not come for it, and I shall keep it no longer. Just try it. See what a sp-l-endid instrument it is!” said the pawnbroker, dwelling on the adjective to give emphasis to it.

Paul tried it, but not knowing how to play, of course created only discord. He did not offer it to Phil, because the young Italian boy would have made it sound too well and so enhanced the price.

“It don’t sound very well,” said he, indifferently; “but I suppose it will do to learn on. What do you want for it?”

“Five dollars,” said Eliakim, studying the face of Paul, to observe the effect of his announcement.

“Five dollars,” repeated Paul. “Take it back, then, and wait till A. T. Stewart wants one. I haven’t got five dollars to throw away.”

But the pawnbroker did not expect to get his first price. He named it, in order to have a chance to fall.

“Stay,” he said, as Paul made a motion to leave; “what will you give me for it?”

“I’ll give you a dollar and a half,” said Paul, turning back.

“A dollar and a half!” exclaimed Eliakim, holding up both hands in horror. “Do you want to ruin me?”

“No, I think you want to ruin me. I am willing to pay a fair price.”

“You may have it for three dollars and a half.”

“No doubt you’d be glad to get that. Come, Phil, we’ll go.”

“Stay; you may have it for three dollars, though I shall lose by it.”

“So should I, if I paid you that price. I can wait till some other time.”

But Eliakim did not intend to let this chance slip. He had found the fiddle rather unsalable, and feared if he lost his chance of disposing of it, it might remain on his hands for a year more. He was willing, therefore, to take less than the profit he usually calculated upon in the sale of articles which remained unredeemed.

“You may have it for two dollars and a half,” he said.

As far as Paul could judge, though he did not know much about the price of violins, this was a reasonable price. But he knew that Eliakim must have got it for considerably less, or he would not so soon have come down to this sum. He did not hesitate, therefore, to try to get it a little cheaper.

“I’ll give you two dollars and a quarter,” he said, “and not a penny more.”

Eliakim tried hard to get ten cents more, but Paul saw that he was sure of his purchase, and remained obdurate. So, after a pretense of putting up the fiddle, the pawnbroker finally said, “You may have it, but I tell you that I shall lose money.”

“All right,” said Paul; “hand it over.”

“Where is the money?” asked Eliakim, cautiously.

Paul drew from his pocket a two-dollar bill and twenty-five cents in currency, and received the fiddle. The pawnbroker scrutinized the money closely, fearing that it might be bad; but finally, making up his mind on that point, deposited it in his money drawer.

“Well, Phil, we may as well go,” said Paul. “We’ve got through our business.”

The pawnbroker heard this, and a sudden suspicion entered his mind that Paul had been too sharp for him.

“I might have got twenty-five cents more,” he thought regretfully; and this thought disturbed the complacency he felt at first.

“Well, Phil, how do you like it?” asked Paul, as they emerged into the street.

“Let me try it,” said Phil, eagerly.

He struck up a tune, which he played through, his face expressing the satisfaction he felt.

“Is it as good as your old one?”

“It is much better,” said Phil. “I will pay you for it;” and he drew out the money the sailors had given him in the morning.

“No, Phil,” said his friend, “you may need that money. Keep it, and pay me when you have more.”

“But I shall be away.”

“You will come to the city some day. When you do you will know where to find me. Now go and play a tune to Jimmy. He is waiting for you. If you remain in the streets, your old enemy, Tim Rafferty, may want to borrow your fiddle again.”

“You are very kind to me, Paolo,” said Phil, raising his dark eyes with a sudden impulse of gratitude.

“It’s nothing, Phil,” said Paul, modestly; “you would do the same for me if I needed it.”

“Yes, I would,” said Phil; “but I am poor, and I cannot help you.”

“You won’t be poor always, Phil,” said Paul, cheerfully, “nor I either, I hope. I mean to be a merchant some time on a bigger scale than now. As for you, you will be a great player, and give concerts at the Academy of Music.”

Phil laughed, but still seemed pleased at the prophecy.

“Well, Phil, I must bid you good-by for a little while, or my clerks will be cheating me. I will see you at supper.”

“Addio, Paolo,” said Phil.

“Addio,” said Paul, laughing. “Wouldn’t I make a good Italian?”