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

Though Phil was the besieged party, his position was decidedly preferable to that of Pietro. The afternoon was passing, and he was earning nothing. He finally uncovered his organ and began to play. A few gathered around him, but they were of that class with whom money is not plenty. So after a while, finding no pennies forthcoming, he stopped suddenly, but did not move on, as his auditors expected him to. He still kept his eyes fixed on Mrs. McGuire’s dwelling. He did this so long as to attract observation.

“You’ll know the house next time, mister,” said a sharp boy.

Pietro was about to answer angrily, when a thought struck him.

“Will you do something for me?” he asked.

“How much?” inquired the boy, suggestively.

“Five cents,” answered Pietro, understanding his meaning.

“It isn’t much,” said the boy, reflectively. “Tell me what you want.”

Though Pietro was not much of a master of English, he contrived to make the boy understand that he was to go round to the back door and tell Mrs. McGuire that he, Pietro, was gone. He intended to hide close by, and when Phil came out, as he hoped, on the strength of his disappearance, he would descend upon him and bear him off triumphantly.

Armed with these instructions, the boy went round to the back door and knocked.

Thinking it might be Phil’s enemy, Mrs. McGuire went to the door, holding in one hand a dipper of hot suds, ready to use in case of emergency.

“Well, what do you want?” she asked, abruptly, seeing that it was a boy.

“He’s gone,” said the boy.

“Who’s gone?”

“The man with the hand-organ, ma’am.”

“And what for do I care?” demanded Bridget, suspiciously.

This was a question the boy could not answer. In fact, he wondered himself why such a message should have been sent. He could only look at her in silence.

“Who told you to tell the man was gone?” asked Bridget, with a shrewdness worthy of a practitioner at the bar.

“The Italian told me.”

“Did he?” repeated Bridget, who saw into the trick at once. “He’s very kind.”

“He didn’t want you to know he told me,” said the boy, remembering his instructions when it was too late.

Mrs. McGuire nodded her head intelligently.

“True for you,” said she. “What did he pay you for tellin’ me?”

“Five cents.”

“Thin it’s five cints lost. Do you want to earn another five cints?”

“Yes,” said the boy, promptly.

“Thin do what I tell you.”

“What is it?”

“Come in and I’ll tell you.”

The boy having entered, Mrs. McGuire led him to the front door.

“Now,” said she, “when I open the door, run as fast as you can. The man that sint you will think it is another boy, and will run after you. Do ye mind?”

The young messenger began to see the joke, and was quite willing to help carry it out. But even the prospective fun did not make him forgetful of his promised recompense.

“Where’s the five cents?” he asked.

“Here,” said Bridget, and diving into the depths of a capacious pocket, she drew out five pennies.

“That’s all right,” said the boy. “Now, open the door.”

Bridget took care to make a noise in opening the door, and, as it opened, she said in a loud and exultant voice, “You’re all safe now; the man’s gone.”

“Now run,” she said, in a lower voice.

The boy dashed out of the doorway, but Mrs. McGuire remained standing there. She was not much surprised to see Pietro run out from the other side of the house, and prepare to chase the runaway. But quickly perceiving that he was mistaken, he checked his steps, and turning, saw Mrs. McGuire with a triumphant smile on her face.

“Why don’t you run?” she said. “You can catch him.”

“It isn’t my brother,” he answered, sullenly.

“I thought you was gone,” she said.