Phil the Fiddler | Page 9

cents. However, considering the
character of the audience, this was as much as could be expected.
"How much have you made to-day, Johnny?" asked Tim.
"A dollar," said Phil.
"A dollar! That's more nor I have made. I tell you what, boys, I think
I'll buy a fiddle myself. I'll make more money that way than blackin'
boots."
"A great fiddler you'd make, Tim Rafferty."
"Can't I play, then? Lend me your fiddle, Johnny, till I try it a little."
Phil shook his head.
"Give it to me now; I won't be hurtin' it."

"You'll break it."
"Then I'll pay for it."
"It isn't mine."
"Whose is it, then?"
"The padrone's."
"And who's the padrone?"
"The man I live with. If the fiddle is broken, he will beat me."
"Then he's an ould haythen, and you may tell him so, with Tim
Rafferty's compliments. But I won't hurt it."
Phil, however, feared to trust the violin in unskillful hands. He knew
the penalty if any harm befell it, and he had no mind to run the risk. So
he rose from the seat, and withdrew to a little distance, Tim Rafferty
following, for, though he cared little at first, he now felt determined to
try the fiddle.
"If you don't give it to me I'll put a head on you," he said.
"You shall not have it," said Phil, firmly, for he, too, could be
determined.
"The little chap's showing fight," said Tim's companion. "Look out,
Tim; he'll mash you."
"I can fight him wid one hand," said Tim.
He advanced upon our young hero, who, being much smaller, would
probably have been compelled to yield to superior force but for an
interference entirely unexpected by Tim.

CHAPTER IV
AN INVITATION TO SUPPER
Tim had raised his fist to strike the young fiddler, when he was
suddenly pushed aside with considerable force, and came near
measuring his length on the ground.
"Who did that?" he cried, angrily, recovering his equilibrium.
"I did it," said a calm voice.
Tim recognized in the speaker Paul Hoffman, whom some of my
readers will remember as "Paul the Peddler." Paul was proprietor of a
necktie stand below the Astor House, and was just returning home to
supper.
He was a brave and manly boy, and his sympathies were always in
favor of the oppressed. He had met Phil before, and talked with him,
and seeing him in danger came to his assistance.
"What made you push me?" demanded Tim, fiercely.
"What were you going to do to him?" rejoined Paul, indicating the
Italian boy.
"I was only goin' to borrer his fiddle."
"He would have broken it," said Phil.
"You don't know how to play," said Paul. "You would have broken his
fiddle, and then he would be beaten."
"I would pay for it if I did," said Tim.
"You say so, but you wouldn't. Even if you did, it would take time, and
the boy would have suffered."
"What business is that of yours?" demanded Tim, angrily.

"It is always my business when I see a big boy teasing a little one."
"You'll get hurt some day," said Tim, suddenly.
"Not by you," returned Paul, not particularly alarmed.
Tim would have gladly have punished Paul on the spot for his
interference, but he did not consider it prudent to provoke hostilities.
Paul was as tall as himself, and considerably stronger. He therefore
wisely confined himself to threatening words.
"Come along with me, Phil," said Paul, kindly, to the little fiddler.
"Thank you for saving me," said Phil, gratefully. "The padrone would
beat me if the fiddle was broke."
"Never mind about thanks, Phil. Tim is a bully with small boys, but he
is a coward among large ones. Have you had any supper?"
"No," said Phil.
"Won't you come home and take supper with me?"
Phil hesitated.
"You are kind," he said, "but I fear the padrone."
"What will he do to you?"
"He will beat me if I don't bring home enough money."
"How much more must you get?"
"Sixty cents."
"You can play better after a good supper. Come along; I won't keep you
long."
Phil made no more objection. He was a healthy boy, and his

wanderings had given him a good appetite. So he thanked Paul, and
walked along by his side. One object Paul had in inviting him was, the
fear that Tim Rafferty might take advantage of his absence to renew his
assault upon Phil, and with better success than before.
"How old are you, Phil?" he asked.
"Twelve years."
"And who taught you to play?"
"No one. I heard the other boys play, and so I learned."
"Do you like it?"
"Sometimes; but I get tired of it."
"I don't wonder. I should think playing day after day might tire