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
But there was no need of a reply, as their voices were already audible from below, talking with Mrs. McGuire. The distance was so trifling that they had seen Phil enter the house, and the padrone, having a contempt for the physical powers of woman, followed boldly.
They met Mrs. McGuire at the door.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
“The boy,” said the padrone. “I saw him come in here.”
“Did ye? Your eyes is sharp thin.”
She stood directly in the passage, so that neither could enter without brushing her aside.
“Send him out,” said the padrone.
“Faith, and I won’t,” said Bridget. “He shall stay here as long as he likes.”
“I will come in and take him,” said the padrone, furiously.
“I wouldn’t advise ye to thry it,” said Mrs. McGuire, coolly.
“Move aside, woman, or I will make you,” said the Italian, angrily.
“I’ll stay where I am. Shure, it’s my own house, and I have a right to do it.”
“Pietro,” said the padrone, with sudden thought, “he may escape from the front door. Go round and watch it.”
By his sign Bridget guessed what he said, though it was spoken in Italian.
“He won’t run away,” she said. “I’ll tell you where he is, if you want to know.”
“Where?” asked the padrone, eagerly.
“He’s upstairs, thin.”
The padrone would not be restrained any longer. He made a rush forward, and, pushing Mrs. McGuire aside, sprang up the stairs. He would have found greater difficulty in doing this, but Bridget, knowing her husband was upstairs, made little resistance, and contented herself, after the padrone had passed, with intercepting Pietro, and clutching him vigorously by the hair, to his great discomfort, screaming “Murther!” at the top of her lungs.
The padrone heard the cry, but in his impetuosity he did not heed it. He expected to gain an easy victory over Phil, whom he supposed to be alone in the chamber. He sprang toward him, but had barely seized him by the arm, when the gigantic form of the Irishman appeared, and the padrone found himself in his powerful grasp.
“What business have ye here, you bloody villain?” demanded Pat; “breakin’ into an honest man’s house, without lave or license. I’ll teach you manners, you baste!”
“Give me the boy!” gasped the padrone.
“You can’t have him, thin!” said Pat “You want to bate him, you murderin’ ould villain!”
“I’ll have you arrested,” said the padrone, furiously, writhing vainly to get himself free. He was almost beside himself that Phil should be the witness of his humiliation.
“Will you, thin?” demanded Pat. “Thin the sooner you do it the betther. Open the window, Phil!”
Phil obeyed, not knowing why the request was made. He was soon enlightened. The Irishman seized the padrone, and, lifting him from the floor, carried him to the window, despite his struggles, and, thrusting him out, let him drop. It was only the second story, and there was no danger of serious injury. The padrone picked himself up, only to meet with another disaster. A passing policeman had heard Mrs. McGuire’s cries, and on hearing her account had arrested Pietro, and was just in time to arrest the padrone also, on the charge of forcibly entering the house. As the guardian of the peace marched off with Pietro on one side and the padrone on the other, Mrs. McGuire sat down on a chair and laughed till she cried.
“Shure, they won’t come for you again in a hurry, Phil, darlint!” she said. “They’ve got all they want, I’m thinkin’.”
I may add that the pair were confined in the station-house over night, and the next day were brought before a justice, reprimanded and fined.
CHAPTER XXIV THE DEATH OF GIACOMO
Great was the astonishment at the Italian lodging-house that night when neither the padrone nor Pietro made his appearance. Great was the joy, too, for the nightly punishments were also necessarily omitted, and the boys had no one to pay their money to. There was another circumstance not so agreeable. All the provisions were locked up, and there was no supper for the hungry children. Finally, at half-past eleven, three boys, bolder than the rest, went out, and at last succeeded in obtaining some bread and crackers at an oyster saloon, in sufficient quantities to supply all their comrades. After eating heartily they went to bed, and for one night the establishment ran itself much more satisfactorily to the boys than if the padrone had been present.
The next morning the boys went out as usual, having again bought their breakfast and dispersed themselves about the city and vicinity, heartily hoping that this state of things might continue. But it was too good to last. When they returned at evening they found their old enemy in command. He looked more ill-tempered and sour than ever, but gave no explanation of his and Pietro’s absence, except to say that he had been out of the city on business. He called for the boys’ earnings of the day previous, but to their surprise made no inquiries about how they had supplied themselves with supper or breakfast. He felt that his influence over the boys, and the terror which he delighted to inspire in them, would be lessened if they should learn that he had been arrested and punished. The boys were accustomed to look upon him as possessed of absolute power over them, and almost regarded him as above law.
Pietro, too, was silent, partly for the same reasons which influenced the padrone, partly because he was afraid of offending his uncle.
Meanwhile poor Giacomo remained sick. If he had been as robust and strong as Phil, he would have recovered, but he was naturally delicate, and exposure and insufficient food had done their work only too well.
Four days afterward (to advance the story a little) one of the boys came to the padrone in the morning, saying: “Signore padrone, Giacomo is much worse. I think he is going to die.”
“Nonsense!” said the padrone, angrily. “He is only pretending to be sick, so that he need not work. I have lost enough by him already.”
Nevertheless he went to the little boy’s bedside.
Giacomo was breathing faintly. His face was painfully thin, his eyes preternaturally bright. He spoke faintly, but his mind seemed to be wandering.
“Where is Filippo?” he said. “I want to see Filippo.”
In this wish the padrone heartily concurred. He, too, would have been glad
Comments (0)