Phil the Fiddler | Page 8

my father
only thought of the money."
Filippo and Giacomo were from the same town in Calabria. They were
the sons of Italian peasants who had been unable to resist the offers of
the padrone, and for less than a hundred dollars each had sold his son
into the cruelest slavery. The boys were torn from their native hills,
from their families, and in a foreign land were doomed to walk the
streets from fourteen to sixteen hours in every twenty-four, gathering
money from which they received small benefit. Many times, as they
trudged through the streets, weary and hungry, sometimes cold, they
thought with homesick sadness of the sunny fields in which their
earliest years had been passed, but the hard realities of the life they
were now leading soon demanded their attention.

Naturally light-hearted, Filippo, or Phil, bore his hard lot more
cheerfully than some of his comrades. But Giacomo was more delicate,
and less able to bear want and fatigue. His livelier comrade cheered
him up, and Giacomo always felt better after talking with Phil.
As the two boys were walking together, a heavy hand was laid on the
shoulder of each, and a harsh voice said: "Is this the way you waste
your time, little rascals?"
Both boys started, and looking up, recognized the padrone. He was a
short man, very dark with fierce black eyes and a sinister countenance.
It was his habit to walk about the streets from time to time, and keep a
watch, unobserved, upon his young apprentices, if they may be so
called. If he found them loitering about, or neglecting their work, they
were liable to receive a sharp reminder.
The boys were both startled at his sudden appearance, but after the first
start, Phil, who was naturally courageous, recovered his self-possession.
Not so with Giacomo, who was the more afraid because he knew he
had gained but little money thus far.
"We are not wasting our time, padrone," said Phil, looking up
fearlessly.
"We will see about that. How long have you been together?"
"Only five minutes."
"How much money have you, Filippo?"
"A dollar and twenty cents."
"Good; you have done well. And how is it with you, Giacomo?"
"I have forty cents."
"Then you have been idle," said the padrone, frowning.
"No, signore," said the boy, trembling. "I have played, but they did not

give me much money."
"It is not his fault," said Phil, coming boldly to the defense of his
friend.
"Attend to your own affairs, little scrape-grace," said the padrone,
roughly. "He might have got as much as you."
"No, padrone; I was lucky. A kind lady gave me fifty cents."
"That is not my affair. I don't care where you get the money. But if you
don't bring home all I expect, you shall feel the stick."
These last words were addressed to Giacomo, who understood their
import only too well. In the miserable lodging where he herded with
thirty or forty others scarcely a night passed without the brutal
punishment of one or more unfortunate boys, who had been
unsuccessful in bringing home enough to satisfy the rapacity of the
padrone. But of this an account will hereafter be given.
"Now, go to work, both of you," said the padrone, harshly.
The two boys separated. Giacomo went uptown, while Phil kept on his
way toward the Astor House. The padrone made his way to the nearest
liquor shop, where he invested a portion of the money wrung from the
hard earnings of his young apprentices.
Toward the close of the afternoon Phil found himself in front of the
Astor House. He had played several times, but was not fortunate in
finding liberal auditors. He had secured but ten cents during this time,
and it seemed doubtful whether he would reach the sum he wanted. He
crossed over to the City Hall Park, and, feeling tired, sat down on one
of the benches. Two bootblacks were already seated upon it.
"Play us a tune, Johnny," said one.
"Will you give me pennies?" asked Phil doubtfully, for he did not care,
with such a severe taskmaster, to work for nothing.

"Yes, we'll give you pennies."
Upon this, Phil struck up a tune.
"Where's your monkey?" asked one of the boys.
"I have no monkey."
"If you want a monkey, here's one for you," said Tim Rafferty, putting
his hand on his companion's shoulder.
"He's too big," said Phil, laughing.
"Hould yer gab, Tim Rafferty," said the other. "It's you that'll make a
better monkey nor I. Say, Johnny, do you pay your monkeys well?"
"Give me my pennies," said Phil, with an eye to business.
"Play another tune, then."
Phil obeyed directions. When he had finished, a contribution was taken
up, but it only amounted to seven