Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Phil, the Fiddler by Jr. Horatio Alger (top 10 books of all time TXT) 📖
- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
Book online «Phil, the Fiddler by Jr. Horatio Alger (top 10 books of all time TXT) 📖». Author Jr. Horatio Alger
“Have I slept, Filippo?” he asked, rubbing his eyes, and looking about him in momentary bewilderment.
“Yes, Giacomo. You have slept for two hours and more. It is eleven o’clock.”
“Then we must go back.”
“Yes; take your violin, and we will go.”
They passed out into the cold street, which seemed yet colder by contrast with the warm hotel they just left, and, crossing to the sidewalk that skirts the park, walked up Centre street.
Giacomo was seized with a fit of trembling. His teeth chattered with the cold. A fever was approaching, although neither he nor his companion knew it.
“Are you cold, Giacomo?” asked Phil, noticing how he trembled.
“I am very cold. I feel sick, Filippo.”
“You will feel better to-morrow,” said Phil; but the thought of the beating which his little comrade was sure to receive saddened him more than the prospect of being treated in the same way himself.
They kept on their way, past the Tombs with its gloomy entrance, through the ill-lighted street, scarcely noticed by the policeman whom they passed—for he was accustomed to see boys of their class out late at night—until at last they reached the dwelling of the padrone, who was waiting their arrival with the eagerness of a brutal nature, impatient to inflict pain.
CHAPTER XI THE BOYS RECEPTION
Phil and Giacomo entered the lodging-house, wholly unconscious of the threatening storm, The padrone scowled at them as they entered but that was nothing unusual. Had he greeted them kindly, they would have had reason to be surprised.
“Well,” he said, harshly, “how much do you bring?”
The boys produced two dollars and a half which he pocketed.
“Is this all?” he asked.
“It was cold,” said Phil, “and we could not get more.”
The padrone listened with an ominous frown.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Do you want your supper?”
Phil was puzzled by his manner, for he expected to be deprived of his supper on account of bringing less money than usual. Why should the padrone ask him if he wanted his supper? Though he was not hungry, he thought it best to answer in the affirmative.
“What would you like?” asked the padrone.
Again Phil was puzzled, for the suppers supplied by the padrone never varied, always consisting of bread and cheese.
“Perhaps,” continued the padrone, meeting no answer, “you would like to have coffee and roast beef.”
All was clear now. Phil understood that he had been seen going in or out of the restaurant, though he could not tell by whom. He knew well enough what to expect, but a chivalrous feeling of friendship led him to try to shield his young companion, even at the risk of a more severe punishment to be inflicted upon himself.
“It was my fault,” he said, manfully. “Giacomo would not have gone in but for me.”
“Wicked, ungrateful boy!” exclaimed the padrone, wrathfully. “It was my money that you spent. You are a thief!”
Phil felt that this was a hard word, which he did not deserve. The money was earned by himself, though claimed by the padrone. But he did not venture to say this. It would have been revolutionary. He thought it prudent to be silent.
“Why do you say nothing?” exclaimed the padrone, stamping his foot. “Why did you spend my money?”
“I was hungry.”
“So you must live like a nobleman! Our supper is not good enough for you. How much did you spend?”
“Thirty cents.”
“For each?”
“No, signore, for both.”
“Then you shall have each fifteen blows, one for each penny. I will teach you to be a thief. Pietro, the stick! Now, strip!”
“Padrone,” said Phil, generously, “let me have all the blows. It was my fault; Giacomo only went because I asked him.”
If the padrone had had a heart, this generous request would have touched it; but he was not troubled in that way.
“He must be whipped, too,” he said. “He should not have gone with you.”
“He is sick, padrone,” persisted Phil. “Excuse him till he is better.”
“Not a word more,” roared the padrone, irritated at his persistence. “If he is sick, it is because he has eaten too much,” he added, with a sneer. “Pietro, my stick!”
The two boys began to strip mechanically, knowing that there was no appeal. Phil stood bare to the waist. The padrone seized the stick and began to belabor him. Phil’s brown face showed by its contortions the pain he suffered, but he was too proud to cry out. When the punishment was finished his back was streaked with red, and looked maimed and bruised.
“Put on your shirt!” commanded the tyrant.
Phil drew it on over his bleeding back and resumed his place among his comrades.
“Now!” said the padrone, beckoning to Giacomo.
The little boy approached shivering, not so much with cold as with the fever that had already begun to prey upon him.
Phil turned pale and sick as he looked at the padrone preparing to inflict punishment. He would gladly have left the room, but he knew that it would not be permitted.
The first blow descended heavily upon the shrinking form of the little victim. It was followed by a shriek of pain and terror.
“What are you howling at?” muttered the padrone, between his teeth. “I will whip you the harder.”
Giacomo would have been less able to bear the cruel punishment than Phil if he had been well, but being sick, it was all the more terrible to him. The second blow likewise was followed by a shriek of anguish. Phil looked on with pale face, set teeth, and blazing eyes, as he saw the barbarous punishment of his comrade. He felt that he hated the padrone with a fierce hatred. Had his strength been equal to the attempt, he would have flung himself upon the
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