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
As Phil was watching him, suddenly he heard steps, and Bridget McGuire entered the chamber. She bore in her hand the same tin dipper before noticed, filled with steaming hot water. Phil regarded her with some surprise.
“Would you like to see some fun now?” she asked, her face covered by a broad smile.
“Yes,” said Phil.
“Open the windy, aisy, so he won’t hear.”
Phil obeyed directions, and managed not to attract the attention of his besieger below, who chanced at the moment to be looking toward the door in the rear.
“Now,” said Bridget, “take this dipper and give him the binifit of it.”
“Don’t let him see you do it,” cautioned his protector.
Phil took the idea and the dipper at once.
Phil, holding the dipper carefully, discharged the contents with such good aim that they drenched the watching Pietro. The water being pretty hot, a howl of pain and rage rose from below, and Pietro danced about frantically. Looking up, he saw no one, for Phil had followed directions and drawn his head in immediately. But Mrs. McGuire, less cautious, looked out directly afterward.
“Will ye go now, or will ye stand jist where I throw the hot water?”
In reply, Pietro indulged in some rather emphatic language, but being in the Italian language, in which he was more fluent, it fell unregarded upon the ears of Mrs. McGuire.
“I told you to go,” she said. “I’ve got some more wather inside.”
Pietro stepped back in alarm. He had no disposition to take another warm shower bath, and he had found out to his cost that Bridget McGuire was not a timid woman, or easily frightened.
But he had not yet abandoned the siege. He shifted his ground to the front of the house, and took a position commanding a view of the front door.
CHAPTER XXII THE SIEGE IS RAISED
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.
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