The Young Musician


or

Fighting His Way

CHAPTER I.

A CANDIDATE FOR THE POORHOUSE.

“As for the boy,” said Squire Pope, with his usual autocratic air,
“I shall place him in the poorhouse.”

“But, Benjamin,” said gentle Mrs. Pope, who had a kindly and
sympathetic heart, “isn’t that a little hard?”

“Hard, Almira?” said the squire, arching his eyebrows. “I
fail to comprehend your meaning.”

“You know Philip has been tenderly reared, and has always had a
comfortable home—”

“He will have a comfortable home now, Mrs. Pope. Probably you are not
aware that it cost the town two thousand dollars last year to maintain the
almshouse. I can show you the item in the town report.”

“I don’t doubt it at all, husband,” said Mrs. Pope gently.
“Of course you know all about it, being a public man.”

Squire Pope smiled complacently. It pleased him to be spoken of as a public
man.

“Ahem! Well, yes, I believe I have no inconsiderable influence in town
affairs,” he responded. “I am on the board of selectmen, and am
chairman of the overseers of the poor, and in that capacity I shall convey
Philip Gray to the comfortable and well-ordered institution which the town has
set apart for the relief of paupers.”

“I don’t like to think of Philip as a pauper,” said Mrs.
Pope, in a deprecating tone.

“What else is he?” urged her husband. “His father
hasn’t left a cent. He never was a good manager.”

“Won’t the furniture sell for something, Benjamin?”

“It will sell for about enough to pay the funeral expenses and
outstanding debts—that is all.”

“But it seems so hard for a boy well brought up to go to the
poorhouse.”

“You mean well, Almira, but you let your feelings run away with you. You
may depend upon it, it is the best thing for the boy. But I must write a letter
in time for the mail.”

Squire Pope rose from the breakfast-table and walked out of the room with his
usual air of importance. Not even in the privacy of the domestic circle did he
forget his social and official importance.

Who was Squire Pope?

We already know that he held two important offices in the town of Norton. He
was a portly man, and especially cultivated dignity of deportment. Being in
easy circumstances, and even rich for the resident of a village, he was
naturally looked up to and credited with a worldly sagacity far beyond what he
actually possessed.

At any rate, he may be considered the magnate of Norton. Occasionally he
visited New York, and had been very much annoyed to find that his rural
importance did not avail him there, and that he was treated with no sort of
deference by those whom he had occasion to meet. Somehow, the citizens of the
commercial metropolis never suspected for a single moment that he was a great
man.

When Squire Pope had finished his letter, he took his hat, and with measured
dignity, walked to the village post-office.

He met several of his neighbors there, and greeted them with affable
condescension. He was polite to those of all rank, as that was essential to his
retaining the town offices, which he would have been unwilling to resign.

From the post-office the squire, as he remembered the conversation which had
taken place at the breakfast-table, went to make an official call on the boy
whose fate he had so summarily decided.

Before the call, it may be well to say a word about Philip Gray, our hero, and
the circumstances which had led to his present destitution.

His father had once been engaged in mercantile business, but his health failed,
his business suffered, and he found it best—indeed, necessary—to
settle up his affairs altogether and live in quiet retirement in Norton.

The expenses of living there were small, but his resources were small, also,
and he lived just long enough to exhaust them.

It was this thought that gave him solicitude on his death-bed, for he left a
boy of fifteen wholly unprovided for.

Let us go back a week and record what passed at the last interview between
Philip and his father before the latter passed into the state of
unconsciousness which preceded death.

“Are you in pain, father?” asked Philip, with earnest sympathy, as
his father lay outstretched on the bed, his face overspread by the deathly
pallor which was the harbinger of dissolution.

“Not of the body, Philip,” said Mr. Gray. “That is spared me,
but I own that my mind is ill at ease.”

“Do you mind telling me why, father!”

“No; for it relates to you, my son, or, rather, to your future. When my
affairs are settled, I fear there will be nothing left for your support. I
shall leave you penniless.”

“If that is all, father, don’t let that trouble you.”

“I am afraid, Philip, you don’t realize what it is to be thrown
upon the cold charities of the world.”

“I shall work for my living,” said Philip confidently.

“You will have to do that, I’m afraid, Philip.”

“But I am not afraid to work, father. Didn’t you tell me one day
that many of our most successful men had to work their way up from early
poverty!”

“Yes, that is true; but a boy cannot always get the chance to earn his
living. Of one thing I am glad; you have a good education for a boy of your
age. That is always a help.”

“Thanks to you, father.”

“Yes; though an invalid, I have, at all events, been able to give private
attention to your education, and to do better for you than the village school
would have done. I wish I had some relative to whom I might consign you, but
you will be alone in the world.”

“Have I no relatives?” asked Philip.

“Your mother was an only child, and I had but one brother.”

“What became of him, father?”

“He got into trouble when he was a young man, and left the country. Where
he went to I have no idea. Probably he went first to Europe, and I heard a
rumor, at one time, that he had visited Australia. But that was twenty years
ago, and as I have heard nothing of him since, I think it probable that he is
dead. Even if he were living, and I knew where he was, I am not sure whether he
would make a safe guardian for you.”

“Have you any advice to give me, father?” asked Philip, after a
pause. “Whatever your wishes may be, I will try to observe them.”

“I do not doubt it, Philip. You have always been an obedient son, and
have been considerate of my weakness. I will think it over, and try to give you
some directions which may be of service to you. Perhaps I may be able to think
of some business friend to whom I can commend you.”

“You have talked enough, father,” said Philip, noticing his
father’s increasing pallor and the evident exertion with which he spoke.
“Rest now, and to-morrow we can talk again.”

Mr. Gray was evidently in need of rest. He closed his eyes and apparently
slept. But he never awoke to consciousness. The conversation above recorded was
the last he was able to hold with his son. For two days he remained in a kind
of stupor, and at the end of that time he died.

Philip’s grief was not violent. He had so long anticipated his
father’s death that it gave him only a mild shock.

Friends and neighbors made the necessary arrangements for the funeral, and the
last services were performed. Then, at length, Philip realized that he had lost
his best earthly friend, and that he was henceforth alone in the world. He did
not as yet know that Squire Pope had considerately provided him with a home in
the village poorhouse.

CHAPTER II.

PHILIP AT HOME.

When the funeral was over, Frank Dunbar, whom Philip regarded as his most
intimate friend, came up to him.

“Philip,” he said, “my mother would like to have you spend a
few days with us while you are deciding what to do.”

“Thank you, Frank!” answered Philip. “But until the auction I
shall remain at home. I shall soon enough be without a home.”

“But it will be very lonely for you,” objected Frank.

“No; I shall have my thoughts for company. When I am alone I can think
best of my future plans.”

“Won’t you come to our house to meals, then?”

“Thank you, Frank! I will do that.”

“When is the auction to be?”

“To-day is Monday. It is appointed for Thursday.”

“I hope there will be something left for you.”

“There will be about enough left to pay my father’s small debts and
his funeral expenses. I would not like to have him indebted to others for
those. I don’t think there will be anything over.”

Frank looked perplexed.

“I am sorry for you, Phil,” he said. “I wish we were rich,
instead of having hard work to make both ends meet. You would not lack for
anything then.”

“Dear Frank,” said Philip earnestly, “I never doubted your
true friendship. But I am not afraid that I shall suffer. I am sure I can earn
my living.”

“But why do you shut yourself up alone, Philip?” asked Frank, not
satisfied to leave his friend in what he considered the gloomy solitude of a
house just visited by death.

“I want to look over my father’s papers. I may find out something
that I ought to know, and after the auction it will be too late. Father had
some directions to give me, but he did not live long enough to do it. For three
days I have the house to myself. After that I shall perhaps never visit it
again.”

“Don’t be downhearted, Philip,” said Frank, pressing his hand
with boyish sympathy.

“I don’t mean to be, Frank. I am naturally cheerful and hopeful. I
shall miss my poor father sadly: but grieving will not bring him back. I must
work for my living, and as I have no money to depend upon, I cannot afford to
lose any time in forming my plans.”

“You will come over to our house and take your meals!”

“Yes, Frank.”

Frank Dunbar’s father was a small farmer, who, as Frank had said, found
it hard work to make both ends meet. Among all the village boys, he was the one
whom Philip liked best, though there were many others whose fathers were in
better circumstances. For this, however, Philip cared little. Rich or poor,
Frank suited him, and they had always been known as chums, to adopt the term
used by the boys in the village.

It may be thought that as Philip’s circumstances were no better, such an
intimacy was natural enough. But Philip Gray possessed special gifts, which
made his company sought after. He was a fine singer, and played with
considerable skill on the violin—an accomplishment derived from his
father, who had acted as his teacher. Then he was of a cheerful temperament,
and this is a gift which usually renders the possessor popular, unless marred
by positive defects or bad qualities. There were two or three young snobs in
the village who looked down upon Philip on account of his father’s
poverty, but most were very glad to associate with our hero, and have him visit
their homes. He was courteous to all, but made no secret of his preference for
Frank Dunbar.

When Philip parted from Frank, and entered the humble dwelling which had been
his own and his father’s home for years, there was a sense of loneliness
and desolation which came over him at first.

His father was the only relative whom he knew, and his death, therefore, left
the boy peculiarly, alone in the world. Everything reminded him of his dead
father. But he did not allow himself to dwell upon thoughts that would depress
his spirits and unfit him for the work that lay before him.

He opened his father’s desk and began to examine his papers. There was no
will, for there was nothing to leave, but in one compartment of the desk was a
thick wallet, which he opened.

In it, among some receipted bills, was an envelope, on which was written, in
his father’s well-known hand:

“The contents of this envelope are probably of no value, but it will be
as well to preserve the certificate of stock. There is a bare possibility that
it may some day be worth a trifle.”

Philip opened the envelope and found a certificate for a hundred shares of the
Excelsior Gold Mine, which appeared to be located in California. He had once
heard his father speak of it in much the same terms as above.

“I may as well keep it,” reflected Philip. “It will probably
amount to nothing, but there won’t be much trouble in carrying around the
envelope.” He also found a note of hand for a thousand dollars, signed by
Thomas Graham.

Attached to it was a slip of paper, on which he read, also in his
father’s writing:

“This note represents a sum of money lent to Thomas Graham, when I was
moderately prosperous. It is now outlawed, and payment could not be enforced,
even if Graham were alive and possessed the ability to pay. Five years since,
he left this part of the country for some foreign country, and is probably
dead, and I have heard nothing from him in all that time. It will do no harm,
and probably no good, to keep his note.”

“I will keep it,” decided Philip. “It seems that this and the
mining shares are all that father had to leave me. They will probably never
yield me a cent, but I will keep them in remembrance of him.”

Phillip found his father’s watch. It was an old-fashioned gold watch, but
of no great value even when new. Now, after twenty years’ use, it would
command a very small price at the coming sale.

Ever since Philip had been old enough to notice anything, he remembered this
watch, which was so closely identified with his father that more than anything
else it called him to mind. Philip looked at it wistfully as it lay in his
hand. “I wish I could keep it,” he said to himself. “No one
else will value it much, but it would always speak to me of my father. I wonder
if I might keep it?”

Philip had a mind to put it into his pocket, but the spirit of honesty forbade.

“It must be sold,” he said, with a sigh. “Without it there
wouldn’t be enough to pay what we owe, and when I leave Norton, I
don’t want any one to say that my father died in his debt.”

There was nothing else in the desk which called for particular notice or
appeared to be of any special value. After a careful examination, Philip closed
it and looked around at the familiar furniture of the few rooms which the house
contained.

There was one object which he personally valued more than anything else. This
was his violin, on which he had learned all that he knew of playing. His father
had bought it for him four years before. It was not costly, but it was of good
tone, and Philip had passed many pleasant hours in practicing on it.

“I can take this violin, at any rate,” said Philip to himself.
“It belongs to me, and no one else has a claim on it. I think I will take
it with me and leave it at Frank Dunbar’s, so that it needn’t get
into the sale.”

He put back the violin into the case and laid it on one side. Then he sat down
in the arm-chair, which had been his father’s favorite seat, and tried to
fix his mind upon the unknown future which lay before him.

He had sat there for half an hour, revolving in his mind various thoughts and
plans, when he heard a tap on the window, and looking up, saw through the pane
the coarse, red face of Nick Holden, a young fellow of eighteen, the son of the
village butcher.

“Let me in!” said Nick; “I want to see you on
business.”

CHAPTER III.

NICK HOLDEN’S CALL.

Philip had never liked Nick Holden. He was a coarse, rough-looking boy, his
reddish face one mass of freckles, and about as unattractive as a person could
be, without absolute deformity. This, however, was not the ground for
Philip’s dislike.

With all his unattractiveness, Nick might have possessed qualities which would
have rightly made him popular. So far from this, however, he was naturally
mean, selfish, and a bully, with very slight regard for truth.

Will it be believed that, in spite of his homely face, Nick really thought
himself good-looking and aspired to be a beau? For this reason he had often
wished that he possessed Philip’s accomplishment of being able to play
upon the violin.

His conversational powers were rather limited, and he felt at a loss when he
undertook to make himself fascinating to the young ladies in the village. If he
could only play on the violin like Philip he thought he would be irresistible.

He had therefore conceived the design of buying Philip’s instrument for a
trifle, judging that our hero would feel compelled to sell it.

The reader will now understand the object which led to Nick’s call so
soon after the funeral of Mr. Gray. He was afraid some one else might forestall
him in gaining possession of the coveted instrument.

When Philip saw who his visitor was, he was not overjoyed. It was with
reluctance that he rose and gave admission to Nick.

“I thought I would call around and see you, Phil,” said Nick, as he
sat down in the most comfortable chair in the room.

“Thank you,” responded Phil coldly.

“The old man went off mighty sudden,” continued Nicholas, with
characteristic delicacy.

“Do you mean my father?” inquired Philip.

“Of course I do. There ain’t any one else dead, is there!”

“I had been expecting my poor father’s death for some time,”
said Philip gravely.

“Just so! He wa’n’t very rugged. We’ve all got to come
to it sooner or later. I expect dad’ll die of apoplexy some
time—he’s so awful fat,” remarked Nicholas cheerfully.
“If he does, it’s lucky he’s got me to run the business.
I’m only eighteen, but I can get along as well as anybody. I’m
kinder smart in business.”

“I am glad you are smart in anything,” thought Philip; for he knew
that Nick was a hopeless dunce in school duties.

“I hope your father’ll live a good while,” he said politely.

“Yes, of course,” said Nick lightly. “I’d be sorry to
have the old man pop off; but then you never can tell about such a thing as
that.”

Philip did not relish the light way in which Nick referred to such a loss as he
was suffering from, and, by way of changing the subject, said:

“I believe you said you came on business, Nicholas?”

“Yes; that’s what I wanted to come at. It’s about your
fiddle.”

“My violin!” said Philip, rather surprised.

“Oh, well, fiddle or violin! what’s the odds? I want to buy
it.”

“What for?”

“To play on, of course! What did you think I wanted it for?”

“But you can’t play, can you?”

“Not yet; but I expect you could show me some—now, couldn’t
you?”

“What put it into your head to want to play on the violin?” asked
Philip, with some curiosity.

“Why, you see, the girls like it. It would be kind of nice when I go to a
party, or marm has company, to scrape off a tune or two—just like you do.
It makes a feller kinder pop’lar with the girls, don’t you
see?” said Nick, with a knowing grin.

“And you want to be popular with the young ladies!” said Philip,
smiling, in spite of his bereavement, at the idea being entertained by such a
clumsy-looking caliban as Nick Holden.

“Of course I do!” answered Nick, with another grin. “You see
I’m gettin’ along—I’ll be nineteen next month, and I
might want to get married by the time I’m twenty-one, especially if the
old man should drop off sudden.”

“I understand all that, Nicholas—”

“Call me Nick. I ain’t stuck up if I am most a man. Call me pet
names, dearest.”

And Nicholas laughed loudly at his witty quotation.

“Just as you prefer. Nick, then, I understand your object. But what made
you think I wanted to sell the violin?”

It was Nick’s turn to be surprised.

“Ain’t there goin’ to be an auction of your father’s
things?” he said.

“Yes; but the violin is mine, and I am not going to sell it.”

“You’ll have to,” said Nick.

“What do you mean by that, Nicholas Holden?” said Philip quickly.

“Because you’ll have to sell everything to pay your father’s
debt. My father said so this very morning.”

“I think I know my own business best,” said Philip coldly. “I
shall keep the violin.”

“Maybe it ain’t for you to say,” returned Nick, apparently
not aware of his insolence. “Come, now, I’ll tell you what
I’ll do. My father’s got a bill against yours for a dollar and
sixty-four cents. I told father I had a use for the fiddle, and he says if
you’ll give it to me, he’ll call it square. There, what do you say
to that?”

Nicholas leaned back in his chair and looked at Philip through his small, fishy
eyes, as if he had made an uncommonly liberal offer. As for Philip, he hardly
knew whether to be angry or amused.

“You offer me a dollar and sixty-four cents for my violin?” he
repeated.

“Yes. It’s second-hand, to be sure, but I guess it’s in
pretty fair condition. Besides, you might help me a little about learnin’
how to play.”

“How much do you suppose the violin cost?” inquired Philip.

“Couldn’t say.”

“It cost my father twenty-five dollars.”

“Oh, come, now, that’s too thin! You don’t expect a feller to
believe such a story as that?”

“I expect to be believed, for I never tell anything but the truth.”

“Oh, well, I don’t expect you do, generally, but when it comes to
tradin’, most everybody lies,” observed Nick candidly.

“I have no object in misrepresenting, for I don’t want to sell the
violin.”

“You can’t afford to keep it! The town won’t let you!”

“The town won’t let me?” echoed Philip, now thoroughly
mystified.

“Of course they won’t. The idea of a pauper bein’ allowed a
fiddle to play on! Why, it’s ridiculous!”

“What do you mean?” demanded Philip, who now began to comprehend
the meaning of this thick-witted visitor. “What have I got to do with the
town, or with paupers?”

“Why, you’re goin’ to the poorhouse, ain’t you?”

“Certainly not!” answered Philip, with flashing eyes.

“I guess you’re mistaken,” said Nick coolly. “Squire
Pope was over to our shop this mornin’, and he told dad that the
seleckmen were goin’ to send you there after the auction.”

Philip’s eyes flashed angrily. He felt insulted and outraged. Never for a
moment had he conceived the idea that any one would regard him as a candidate
for the poorhouse.

He had an honorable pride in maintaining himself, and would rather get along on
one meal a day, earned by himself in honest independence, than be indebted to
public charity even for a luxurious support.

“Squire Pope doesn’t know what he’s talking about,”
retorted Philip, who had to exercise some self-restraint not to express himself
more forcibly “and you can tell him so when you see him. I am no more
likely to go to the poorhouse than you are!”

“Come, that’s a good one,” chuckled Nick. “Talk of me
goin’ to the poorhouse, when my father pays one of the biggest taxes in
town! Of course, it’s different with you.”

“You’ll have to excuse me now,” said Philip, determined to
get rid of his disagreeable companion. “I have something to do.”

“Then you won’t sell me the fiddle, Phil?”

“No, I won’t,” answered our hero, with scant ceremony.

“Then I’ll have to bid it off at the auction. Maybe I’ll get
it cheaper.”

And Mr. Nicholas Holden at length relieved Philip of his company.

CHAPTER IV.

THE AUCTION.

It so happened that Nick Holden met Squire Pope on the village street, and,
being rather disappointed at the result of his negotiations with Philip,
thought it might be a good idea to broach the subject to the squire, who, as he
knew, had taken it upon himself to superintend the sale of Mr. Gray’s
goods.

“I say, squire, I’ve just been over to see Phil Gray.”

“Ahem! Well, how does he seem to feel?”

“Kinder stuck up, I reckon. He said he wouldn’t go to the
poorhouse, and I might tell you so.”

“I apprehend,” said the squire, in his stately way, “he will
be under the necessity of going, whether he likes it or not.”

“Just so; that’s what I told him!” interjected Nick.

“And he should be grateful for so comfortable a home,” continued
the public man.

“Well, I dunno,” said Nick. “They do say that old Tucker most
starves the paupers. Why his bills with dad are awful small.”

“The town cannot afford to pamper the appetites of its
beneficiaries,” said the squire. “Where is Philip now?”

“I guess he’s at home. I offered to buy his fiddle, but he said he
was going to keep it. I offered him a dollar and sixty-four cents—the
same as dad’s bill against his father, but he wouldn’t take
it.”

“Really, Nicholas, your offer was very irregular—extremely
irregular. It should have been made to me, as the administrator of the late Mr.
Gray, and not to a boy like Philip.”

“Will you sell me the fiddle for dad’s bill, squire?” asked
Nicholas eagerly.

“You are premature, Nicholas—”

“What’s that?”

“I mean you must wait till the auction. Then you will have a chance to
bid on the instrument, if you want to secure it.”

“Phil says it’s his, and won’t be for sale at the
auction.”

“Then Philip is mistaken. He is only a boy. The estate will be settled by
those who are older and wiser than he.”

“I guess you’ll find him hard to manage, squire,” said Nick,
laughing.

“We shall see—we shall see,” returned the squire.

And, with a dignified wave of the hand, he continued on his walk.

After the visit of Nicholas, Philip thought it most prudent to convey the
violin which he prized so much to the house of his friend, Frank Dunbar, where
he had been invited to take his meals.

He was willing to have the furniture sold to defray his father’s small
debts, but the violin was his own. It had not even been given him by his
father. Though the latter purchased it, the money which it cost had been given
to Philip by a friend of the family. He rightly thought that he had no call to
sell it now.

“Frank,” said he to his boy-friend, “I want you to put away
my violin safely, and keep it until after the auction.”

“Of course I will, Phil; but won’t you want to play on it!”

“Not at present. I’ll tell you why I want it put away.”

And Philip told his friend about Nick’s application to purchase it, and
the liberal offer he had made.

“Nick’s generosity never will hurt him much,” said Frank,
laughing. “What in the world did he want of your violin?”

“He wants to make himself popular with the girls.”

“He’ll never do that, even if he learns to play like an
angel!” said Frank. “You ought to hear the girls talk about him. He
couldn’t get a single one of them to go home with from singing-school
last winter. He teased my sister to go, but she told him every time she was
engaged to some one else.”

The two days that intervened between the funeral and the auction passed, and
the last scene connecting Philip with the little cottage which had been his
home was to take place.

In a country town, an auction—however inconsiderable—draws together
an interested company of friends and neighbors; and, though no articles of
value were to be sold, this was the case at the present sale.

Philip didn’t at first mean to be present. He thought it would only give
him pain; but at the last moment he came, having been requested to do so by
Squire Pope, as information might be required which he could give.

The bulk of the furniture was soon disposed of, at low prices, to be sure, but
sufficiently high to make it clear that enough would be realized to pay the
small bills outstanding.

Philip’s lip quivered when his father’s watch was put up. He would
have liked to buy it, but this was impossible; for he had only about a dollar
of his own.

Nick Holden’s eyes sparkled when he saw the watch. He had forgotten about
that, but as soon as he saw it he coveted it. He had a cheap silver watch of
his own, which he had bought secondhand about three years before. He had
thought that he might some day possess a gold watch, but he was not willing to
lay out the necessary sum of money.

By dint of actual meanness, he had laid up two hundred dollars, which he now
had in the savings-bank in the next village, and he could therefore have bought
one if he had chosen; but, like Gilpin,

“Although he was on pleasure bent, he had a frugal mind.”

Now, however, there seemed a chance of getting a gold watch at a low price.
Nick reasoned rightly that at an auction it would go much below its value, and
it would be a good thing for him to buy it—even as an investment—as
he would probably have chances enough to trade it off at a handsome profit.

“I shouldn’t wonder if I could double my money on it,” he
reflected.

Accordingly, when the watch was put up, Nick eagerly bid two dollars.

Philip’s lip curled when he heard this generous bid, and he heartily
hoped that this treasured possession of his dead father might not fall into
such hands.

Nick rather hoped that no one would bid against him, but in this he was
destined to be disappointed.

“Five dollars!” was next heard.

And this bid came from Mr. Dunbar, the father of his friend Frank.
Philip’s eyes brightened up, for there was no one he would sooner see the
possessor of the watch than his kind friend.

Nick looked chopfallen when he heard this large increase on his original bid,
and hesitated to continue, but finally mustered up courage to say, in a rather
feeble tone:

“Five and a quarter.”

“Five dollars and a quarter bid!” said the auctioneer. “Do I
hear more?”

“Six dollars,” said Mr. Dunbar quietly.

The bid was repeated, and the auctioneer waited for a higher one, but Nick
retired ignominiously from the contest.

He wasn’t sure whether he could get much over six dollars for it himself,
and he foresaw that Mr. Dunbar intended to have it, even if it cost
considerable more.

“It’s kinder hard on a feller,” he complained to the man
standing next him. “What does Mr. Dunbar want of the watch? He’s
got one already.”

“Perhaps he thinks it is a good bargain at the price.”

“It’s what I’ve been wantin’ all along,” said
Nick. “He might have let me have it.”

“Why don’t you bid more?”

“I wanted to get it cheap.”

“And the auctioneer wants to get as much as he can for the articles, and
so do Philip’s friends,” This was a consideration which, of course,
had no weight with Nicholas. However, he had one comfort. He would bid on the
violin, and probably no one else would bid against it. He did not see it, to be
sure, but concluded, of course, that it would be bid off. When the sale drew
near the end, he went to Philip, and said:

“Whereabouts is the fiddle, Phil?”

“It isn’t here,” answered our hero.

“Ain’t it goin’ to be sold?”

“Of course not! It’s mine. I told you that once already.”

“We’ll see!” said Nicholas angrily.

And going up to Squire Pope, he held a brief conversation with that gentleman.

The squire nodded vigorously, and walked over to Philip.

“Philip,” said he, “go and bring your violin.”

“What will I do that for!” asked our hero quietly.

“So that it may be sold.”

“It is not to be sold,” returned Philip quietly. “It belongs
to me.”

“Nothing belongs to you except your clothes!” said the squire
angrily. “I require you to go and fetch the instrument.”

“And I decline to do it,” said Philip.

“Do you know who I am,” demanded the squire, with ruffled dignity.

“I know you perfectly well,” answered Philip “but I am the
owner of the violin, and I don’t mean to have it sold.”

“YOU will repent this!” said Squire Pope, who felt that his lawful
authority and official dignity were set at naught.

Philip bowed and left the house. He did not know what steps the squire might
take, but he was resolved not to give up his cherished violin.

CHAPTER V.

AN ALLIANCE AGAINST PHILIP.

Squire Pope was not a bad man, nor was he by nature a tyrant, but he was so
fully convinced of his own superior judgment that he was in all things
obstinately bent on having his own way. He had persuaded himself that our young
hero, Philip, would be better off in the poorhouse than in a place where he
could earn his own living, and no one could convince him to the contrary.

As to the boy’s feelings on the subject, he considered those of no
importance. He had good reason to know that Philip would object to being an
inmate of the almshouse, but he was determined that he should go there.

In like manner, before the auction was over, he saw clearly that it would
realize a sum more than sufficient to pay the funeral expenses of the late Mr.
Gray and the few small bills outstanding against his estate, and that there was
no necessity that Philip’s violin should be sold, but none the less he
resolved that it should be sold.

“Shall I allow a young lad to dictate to me?” Squire Pope asked
himself, in irritation. “Certainly not! I know better what is right than
he. It is ridiculous that a town pauper should own a violin. Why, the next
thing, we shall have to buy pianos for our almshouses, for the use of the
gentlemen and ladies who occupy them. A violin, indeed!”

This Squire Pope regarded as irresistible logic and withering sarcasm combined.

He saw Philip go out of the cottage, but, as the sale was not over, he was
unable to follow him.

“Never mind, I’ll fix him as soon as I have time,” he said to
himself.

“Back so soon? Is the auction over!” asked his friend, Frank
Dunbar, who was engaged in splitting wood in the rear of the house.

“No, Frank, not quite; but it’s almost over..Who do you think bid
on father’s gold watch?”

“I don’t know.”

“Nick Holden.”

“He didn’t get it, did he?”

“I am glad to say not. Your father bought it.”

“Did he! Why, he’s got one watch already.”

“I am glad he’s got it. I couldn’t bear to think of Nick
Holden carrying my father’s watch. He was disappointed about one thing
besides.”

“What was that?”

“The violin. He went to Squire Pope, and complained that it was not in
the sale.”

“That’s just like his impudence. What did the squire say?”

“He came to me and ordered me to get it, so that it might be sold.”

“Shall I get it for you, then?”

“Not much!” answered Philip emphatically. “It is mine, as I
have already told you. If the auction doesn’t bring in enough to settle
up everything, I may agree to sell it for a fair price; but I am sure, from the
prices, that it won’t be necessary.”

“Squire Pope’s a dreadful obstinate man,” said Frank
doubtfully. “He may insist upon your selling the violin.”

“Let him do it!” said Philip contemptuously. “I should like
to see him get it. Where have you put it, Frank?”

“Where Squire Pope won’t be apt to find it—in an old chest up
in the garret. It’s full of old clothes, belonging to my grandfather, and
hasn’t been looked into by any one except me for years. I put it away
under all the clothes at the bottom. No one knows where it is except you and
me, not even mother.”

“That’s good. I guess we can defy the squire, then.”

Half an hour later, Mr. Dunbar came home from the auction.

Philip went to meet him.

“Thank you for buying father’s watch,” he said. “But
for you, Nick Holden would have had it, and I should have been sorry for
it.”

“He was badly disappointed,” said Mr. Dunbar smiling. “But I
didn’t buy the watch for myself, Philip.”

“For whom, then?” asked Philip, in some surprise.

“For the one that has the best right to it—for you,” and the
farmer took the watch from his pocket, and handed it to Philip.

“But I haven’t the money to pay for it, Mr. Dunbar,” said our
hero.

“Then I give it to you as a present,” said Mr. Dunbar.

“I am very grateful,” said Philip; “but I ought not to accept
it. You are too kind to me.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“Besides, it wouldn’t be safe for me to take it. Squire Pope will
try to get my violin away from me in order to sell it, and he would be sure to
try to do the same by the watch if he found that I had it.”

“But, Philip, I don’t need the watch myself.”

“Then, Mr. Dunbar, will you be kind enough to keep it for me, and when I
can afford to pay for it, and there is no danger of its being taken from me, I
will ask you for it. I shall be very glad, indeed, when I am older, to carry my
father’s watch, for I have seen it in his hands so often that it will
constantly remind me of him.”

“Perhaps that will be the best arrangement,” said Mr. Dunbar.
“You might have it stolen from you, if you carried it yourself just at
present. As you request, I will keep it, subject to your order; but I would
rather let it be a gift from me, and not require you to pay for it.”

“We won’t talk about that now,” said Philip, smiling.
“At any rate, you must let me thank you for your great kindness to
me.”

“Don’t speak of that, Phil,” said the farmer kindly. “I
had a great respect and liking for your father, and I verily believe my Frank
loves you as well as if you were his own brother. So, come what may, you have a
friend in our family.”

“I indorse all that father says,” Frank said.

And he extended his hand to Philip, who grasped it heartily.

It warmed his heart to think that he had such good friends, though he was an
orphan and alone in the world.

After supper, Mr. Dunbar went to the village store, while Frank and Philip
remained at home.

Suddenly Frank said:

“Philip, you are going to have a visitor, I guess.”

“A visitor!”

“Yes; I saw Squire Pope stumping along the road, nourishing his
gold-headed cane. He is headed this way, and it’s likely he is going to
honor you with a call. He’s got somebody with him, too. Who is it!”

Philip shaded his eyes with his hand, for the Sun was near its setting, and
shining with dazzling brightness from the quarter toward which he was looking.

“It’s Nick Holden!” he said.

“So it is! What can he want?”

“I understand very well. He wants my violin. He couldn’t get it at
the sale, so he has come here to see if he can’t make me give it to
him.”

“And will you?”

“You ought to know me better than to ask, Frank,” said Philip
firmly. “Nick might as well have stayed away, for he won’t
accomplish anything.”

Nick, however, held a different opinion. After Philip left the cottage, he had
gone to Squire Pope, and cunningly asked:

“Are you going to let Philip keep his fiddle in spite of you,
squire?”

“What do you mean, Nicholas?” demanded the squire, in a stately
way.

“Why, seems to me he’s kinder settin’ up his will agin yours.
You say the fiddle shall be sold, and he says it shan’t. He told me he
didn’t care what you said, he should keep it.”

“Did he say that, Nicholas?” asked the squire, who felt that his
dignity was outraged by such insolence.

“I’m sartain he did. He’s pretty big feelin’, Phil is.
He always wants to have his own way.”

“He will find that he can’t defy me with impunity,” said the
squire stiffly.

“Just so. Then you’ll sell me the fiddle?”

“I will!” said the squire emphatically.

“You won’t ask too much, will you?” asked Nick anxiously.

Now Squire Pope, who knew nothing of the price of violins, and had a very
inadequate idea of their value, after some haggling on the part of Nick, agreed
to sell him the instrument for two dollars and a half, and to see that it was
delivered that evening.

“Do you know where it is, Nicholas?” he asked.

“Why, Phil is staying over at Frank Dunbar’s, and I guess
he’s got it there somewhere. I guess we’d better go over there and
get it.”

“Very well, Nicholas. After supper, if you will come to my house, I will
go over there, and see that you have the instrument.”

“All right, squire!” said Nick gleefully, “Phil will find
that he can’t have his own way this time.”

“I apprehend he will,” said the squire complacently.

Now the reader understands how it happened that Squire Pope and Nick Holden
made a call on Philip. As to what passed at the interview, we must refer him to
the next chapter.

CHAPTER VI.

FUSS ABOUT A FIDDLE.

“Ahem! Good evening!” said Squire Pope to Frank Dunbar, taking no
notice of Philip’s cold but polite salutation.

“Good evening! Will you go into the house?” said Frank.

“I believe not. I have not time.”

“I am sorry father isn’t home. He just started for the
village.”

“Ahem! it was not to see your father that I called,” answered
Squire Pope. “I wish to have a few words with this young man,”
indicating Philip stiffly.

“I am at your service, Squire Pope,” said Philip, with ceremonious
politeness.

“We came about the fiddle,” interrupted Nick Holden, who always
wanted to have a share in the conversation.

Squire Pope frowned, for he did not relish Nick’s interference.

“Nicholas,” he said severely, “I apprehend I am competent to
manage the business we have come upon.”

“Don’t get riled, squire,” said Nick, by no means abashed by
this rebuke. “I thought you were kinder slow about comin’ to the
point.”

“Your interruption was very indecorous. I do not require any assistance
or any suggestions.”

“All right, squire!”

Squire Pope now turned to our hero, and said:

“As I was about to say, when interrupted by Nicholas, I have come to
require you to give up the Violin which, without authority and against my
express command, you withheld from the auction.”

“The violin is mine, Squire Pope,” said Philip firmly, “and I
mean to keep it!”

“You talk like an ignorant boy. As a minor, you had no claim to the
possession of any article except your clothing. I judged it best that the
violin should be sold at the auction, and it is presumptuous for you to set up
your judgment against mine!”

“I don’t take that view of it,” said Philip, and then he
stopped.

He knew it was of no use to argue against the squire, who was obstinate to the
verge of pig-headedness, if I may be allowed to use the expression. He felt
that it would be only wasting his breath.

“It is quite immaterial how you view the subject,” said the squire
pompously. “My mind is made up, and my resolution is not likely to be
shaken by a boy.”

“Then, sir,” answered Philip, in a respectful tone but with a
slight smile, “it is hardly worth while for me to say any more.”

“I am glad you have arrived at so sensible a conclusion,” said
Squire Pope. “I take it that you have the violin here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then bring it out and give it to me.”

Now came the critical point, when Philip must array himself in determined
opposition to Squire Pope. He felt that he was entirely in the right; still he
regretted the necessity of the antagonism.

Philip had one thing in his favor: He had plenty of self-control, and, although
he was very indignant at the course of the squire, which he regarded as
unjustifiable, he made up his mind to be as respectful as circumstances would
permit.

“I don’t think you understand me, Squire Pope,” he said.
“I refuse to give up the violin!”

“You refuse to give up the violin!” repeated Squire Pope, scarcely
believing the testimony of his ears. “Do I hear you aright?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I never saw such impudence!” ejaculated Nick Holden, wishing to
egg on the squire.

“Do you mean to defy me to my face?” demanded Squire Pope, growing
very red.

“I don’t wish to defy you or anybody else,” returned Philip;
“but I shall stand up for my rights.”

“Misguided boy!” said the squire severely; “you will yet rue
this rash and heedless course. Frank,” he continued, turning to Frank
Dunbar, “do you know where Philip’s violin is!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do me the favor to bring it out and place it in my hands.”

“You must excuse me, Squire Pope,” answered Frank. “It
belongs to Philip, and I have no right to meddle with it.”

“If Philip has told you this, he has misrepresented,” said the
squire, rather discouraged by this second rebuff. “The violin does not
belong to Philip. It belongs to this young man.”

And, with a wave of his hand, he designated Nick Holden.

It was not polite, but Frank Dunbar was so surprised by this announcement that
he whistled.

As for Philip, he regarded Nick calmly; but there didn’t seem to be any
sign of yielding in his look.

“It belongs to Nicholas, because I have sold it to him,” continued
Squire Pope doggedly.

“That’s so!” corroborated Nick complacently. “The
squire sold me the fiddle for two-fifty. It’s mine now, and you’d
better fetch it along out, or there’ll be trouble.”

Philip turned to Squire Pope, and said quietly:

“As you had no right to sell it, the sale amounts to nothing. If you had
a right, I should say you were not very shrewd to sell an instrument that cost
twenty-five dollars—and was considered a bargain at the price—for
two dollars and fifty cents.”

“The violin cost twenty-five dollars!” ejaculated the squire, in
genuine surprise.

For, as it has already been stated, he had no idea whatever of the usual price
for a violin.

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t you believe him, squire,” said Nicholas, afraid that
he would lose what he knew to be a good bargain. “No fiddle that was ever
made cost twenty-five dollars. It’s ridiculous!”

“It does seem a large price,” said the squire guardedly.

Squire Pope would doubtless have been surprised to learn that certain violins
of celebrated make—such as the Cremonas—have sold for thousands of
dollars. Probably he would have disbelieved it.

Nevertheless, he began to think that he had been too precipitate in accepting
Nick Holden’s offer.

If he should sacrifice, or sell at an utterly inadequate price, any article
belonging to the boy whom he considered his ward, he knew that he would be
blamed, and he began to consider how he could recede from the bargain.

“Nicholas,” he said, “I didn’t exactly sell the violin
to you. I will ascertain what is a fair price for it, and then I will consider
your proposal.”

“You sold it right out, squire,” said Nick, “and I can prove
it. Didn’t you just say it was mine. There, now!”

Nick turned triumphantly to Frank and Phil, but, for very good reasons, they
did not care to side with him.

“I say, you haven’t treated me right,” persisted Nick, who
had no particular respect nor veneration for the squire, and was not to be
deterred from speaking as he felt. “I offered you two-fifty, and you said
I should have it, and you got me to call at your house to come here for
it.”

“I cannot sacrifice the property of my ward,” said Squire Pope.
“I must ascertain how much the violin is worth.”

“A bargain is a bargain, every time!” said Nick, irritated.

“I will let you have it as cheap as anybody,” said the squire, who
thought it possible that Nick might be the only one who desired to purchase it.
“That ought to satisfy you. Philip, go and bring me the violin, and I
will carry it home and dispose of it to the best advantage.”

“You must excuse me, Squire Pope. I shall not let it leave my
possession.” Just then Squire Pope espied Mr. Dunbar returning from the
village, and hailed him as a probable ally. He laid the matter before him, and
requested him to compel Philip to get the violin.

“You must excuse me, squire,” said Mr. Dunbar coldly. “Philip
is my guest, and he shall be protected in his rights as long as he remains
here.”

Without a word, Squire Pope walked off, in angry discomfiture, in one
direction, while Nick, equally dissatisfied, walked off in another.

“They don’t seem happy!” said Frank slyly.

“I wish I knew where it was going to end,” returned Philip gravely.

“It seems to me,” said Frank, “the squire is making a great
fuss about a fiddle, for a man of his dignity.”

“He doesn’t care about the violin. He wants to have his own
way,” said Philip, thus hitting the nail on the head.

CHAPTER VII.

MR. JOE TUCKER

Before going further, I will introduce to the reader, a citizen of Norton, who
filled a position for which he was utterly unfitted. This man was Joe Tucker,
in charge of the almshouse.

He had not been selected by the town authorities on the ground of fitness, but
simply because he was willing to work cheap. He received a certain low weekly
sum for each one of his inmates, and the free use of apartments for himself and
family, with the right to cultivate the ten acres of land connected with the
establishment, and known as the Town Farm.

His family consisted of three persons—himself, his wife, and a son,
Ezekiel, familiarly known as Zeke, now sixteen years old. The leading family
trait was meanness.

Mr. Tucker supplied a mean table even for a poorhouse, and some of the hapless
inmates complained bitterly. One had even had the boldness to present a
complaint to the selectmen, and that body, rather reluctantly, undertook to
investigate the justness of the complaint. They deputed Squire Pope to visit
the poorhouse and inquire into the matter.

Now, though Squire Pope thought himself unusually sharp, it was the easiest
thing in the world for a cunning person like Joe Tucker to satisfy him that all
was right.

“Mr. Tucker,” said Squire Pope pompously, “I am deputed by
the selectmen, and I may add by the overseers of the poor, to investigate a
complaint made by one of the paupers in relation to the fare you offer
them.”

“Who is it!” inquired Mr. Tucker.

“It is Ann Carter. She says you don’t allow her sugar in her tea,
and only allow one slice of bread at supper, and that the meat is so bad she
can’t eat it.”

“Just like the old woman!” exclaimed Mr. Tucker indignantly.
“Oh, she’s a high-strung pauper, she is! Expects all the delicacies
of the season for seventy-five cents a week. She’d ought to go to the
Fifth Avenoo Hotel in New York, and then I’ll bet a cent she
wouldn’t be satisfied.”

It is observable that even in his imaginary bets Mr. Tucker maintained his
economical habits, and seldom bet more than a cent. Once, when very much
excited, he had bet five cents, but this must be attributed to his excited
state of mind.

“So you regard her complaints as unreasonable, do you, Mr. Tucker?”
observed the investigating committee.

“Unreasonable? I should think they was. I allow, Squire Pope, we
don’t live like a first-class hotel”—Mr. Tucker’s
language was rather mixed—“but we live as well as we can afford to.
As to sugar, we don’t allow the paupers to put it in for themselves, or
they’d ruin us by their extravagance. Mrs. Tucker puts sugar in the
teapot before she pours it out. I s’pose Ann Carter would put as much in
one cup of tea as Mrs. T. uses for the whole teapotful, if she had her
way.”

This was very probably true, as the frugal Mrs. Tucker only allowed one
teaspoonful for the entire supply.

“That looks reasonable, Mr. Tucker,” said the squire approvingly.
“Now about the bread and the meat?”

“The paupers has plenty of bread,” said Mr. Tucker. “Our
bread bill is actually enormous.”

“And as to the meat?”

“We don’t give ’em roast turkey every day, and we don’t
buy tenderloin steaks to pamper their appetites,” said Mr. Tucker,
“though we’re perfectly willing to do it if the town’ll pay
us so we can afford it. Do you think the town’ll agree to pay me
twenty-five cents more a week for each one, squire?”

“Certainly not. It can’t be thought of,” said the squire
hastily, knowing that if the selectmen advocated such a measure they would
probably lose their reelection.

“If it would, we might live a little better, so that Ann Carter
wouldn’t have to complain, though, bless your soul! that woman is always
complainin’.”

“Ahem! Mr. Tucker, you present the matter to me in a new light. I really
feel that Ann Carter is very unreasonable in her complaints.”

“I knowed you’d do me justice, squire,” said Mr. Tucker
effusively. “You’re a sharp man. You ain’t a-goin’ to
be taken in by any of them paupers’ rigmarole. I always said, Squire
Pope, that you was the right man in the right place, and that the town was
lucky to have so intelligent and public-spirited a citizen fillin’ her
most important offices.”

“Mr. Tucker,” said the squire, “you gratify me. It has ever
been my aim to discharge with conscientious fidelity the important trusts which
the town has committed to my charge—”

“I’ll bear witness to that, squire.”

“And your sincere tribute gives me great satisfaction.”

“I hope you’ll report things right to the board, Squire
Pope?” said Mr. Joe Tucker insinuatingly.

“Be assured I will, Mr. Tucker. I consider you a zealous and trustworthy
official, striving hard to do your duty in the place the town has assigned
you.”

“I do, indeed, squire,” said Mr. Tucker, pulling on a red
handkerchief and mopping some imaginary tears. “Excuse my emotions, sir,
but your generous confidence quite unmans me. I—I—trust now that I
shall be able to bear meekly the sneers and complaints of Ann Carter and her
fellow paupers.”

“I will stand by you, Mr. Tucker,” said Squire Pope cordially, for
the man’s flattery, coarse as it was, had been like incense to his
vanity. “I will stand by you, and uphold you by my testimony.”

“Thank you, squire. With such an impartial advocate I will continue to do
my duty and fear nothing.”

As Squire Pope left the almshouse, Mr. Tucker winked at himself in the glass,
and said quizzically:

“I guess I’m all right now. The vain old fool thinks he’s a
second Solomon, and thinks I regard him as such. Oh, it takes me to get round
him!”

Squire Pope wrote an elaborate report, in which he stated that, after searching
investigation, he had ascertained that the complaints of Ann Carter were
absolutely groundless, and gave it as his conviction that Mr. Tucker’s
treatment of her and her associate paupers was characterized by remarkable
consideration and humanity.

Such officials as he have much to answer for, and yet there are plenty just as
false to their responsibilities as he.

It was two days after Squire Pope’s ineffectual attempt to possess
himself of Philip’s violin, that our hero was walking along a country
road, on his return from an errand which, he had undertaken for his
friend’s father, when his attention was drawn to the yelping of a small
dog, that seemed in fear or pain.

Looking over the stone wall, Philip saw Zeke Tucker amusing himself by
thrusting the dog’s head into a pool of dirty water, and holding it there
till the animal was nearly strangled. The dog’s suffering appeared to
yield the most exquisite amusement to the boy, who burst into peal after peal
of rude laughter as he watched the struggles of his victim.

Philip, like every decent boy, had a horror of cruelty, and the sight stirred
him to immediate anger and disgust.

“What are you doing there, Zeke Tucker?” he demanded sternly.

“None of your business!” answered Zeke, frowning.

“You’d better answer my question,” said Philip, who had by
this time jumped over the wall.

“Then I will. I’m havin’ a little fun. What have you got to
say about it?” retorted Zeke.

And once more he plunged the head of the poor dog into the filthy pool.

The next moment he found himself floundering on his back, while the dog,
slipping from his grasp, was running across the meadows. “What did you do
that for!” demanded Zeke, springing up, his face flaming with rage.

“I rather think you understand well enough,” answered Philip
contemptuously.

“What business have you to touch me? I can have you arrested, you low
pauper!”

“What’s that? What did you call me?” demanded Philip.

“I called you a pauper.”

“By what right?”

“Squire Pope told my father he was going to bring you over to the
poorhouse to live. You just see if my father doesn’t give it to you
then!”

“Thank you,” said Phil contemptuously; “but I don’t
propose to board at your establishment, not even to obtain the pleasure of your
society.”

“Maybe you can’t help yourself,” said Zeke gleefully.

For he saw what had escaped the notice of Philip, whose back was
turned—namely, a four-seated carryall, containing his father and Squire
Pope, which had just halted in the road, hard by.

“Mr. Tucker,” said Squire Pope, in a low tone, “now will be
the best opportunity to capture the boy and carry him to the almshouse.”

“All right—I’m ready,” said Tucker readily.

For another boarder would bring him sixty cents a week more.

They stopped the horses and prepared for business.

CHAPTER VIII.

IN THE ENEMY’S HANDS

Philip heard a step, and turned to see whose it was; but, when he recognized
Mr. Tucker, the latter’s hand was already on his collar.

“What have you been doin’ to Zeke? Tell me that, you young
rascal,” said Mr. Tucker roughly.

“He pitched into me savage, father,” answered Zeke, who had picked
himself up, and was now engaged in brushing the dust from his coat.

“Pitched into ye, did he?” repeated Joe Tucker grimly. “I
reckon he didn’t know your father was ’round. What have you got to
say for yourself, eh?”

Philip regarded his captor contemptuously, and didn’t struggle to escape,
knowing that he was not a match for a man five inches taller than himself. But
contempt he could not help showing, for he knew very well that Zeke had
inherited his mean traits largely from his father.

“I’ll thank you to remove your hand from my collar, sir,”
said Philip. “When you have done that, I will explain why I pitched into
Zeke, as he calls it.”

“Don’t you let go, father!” said Zeke hastily.
“He’ll run away, if you do.”

“If I do, you can catch me between you,” returned Philip coolly.

“I reckon that’s so,” said Mr. Tucker, withdrawing his hand,
but keeping wary watch of our hero.

“Now go ahead!” said he.

Philip did so.

“I saw Zeke torturing a small dog,” he explained, “and I
couldn’t stand by and let it go on.”

“What was he doin’ to him?” inquired Mr. Tucker.

“Putting the poor animal’s head into this dirty pool, and keeping
it there till it was nearly suffocated.”

“Was you doin’ that, Zeke?” asked his father.

“I was havin’ a little fun with him,” said Zeke candidly.

“It might have been fun to you, but it wasn’t to him,” said
Phil.

“Why didn’t you ask Zeke to stop, and not fly at him like a
tiger?” demanded Mr. Tucker.

“I did remonstrate with him, but he only laughed, and did it
again.”

“He hadn’t no right to order me,” said Zeke. “It
wa’n’t no business of his if I was havin’ a little fun with
the dog.”

“And I had a little fun with, you,” returned
Philip—“You couldn’t have complained if I had dipped your
head in the water also.”

“I ain’t a dog!” said Zeke.

“I should respect you more if you were,” said Philip.

“Are you goin’ to let him talk to me like that!” asked Zeke,
appealing to his father.

“No, I ain’t,” said Mr. Tucker angrily. “You’ve
committed an assault and battery on my son, you rascal, and you’ll find
there ain’t no fun in it for you. I could have you arrested and put in
jail, couldn’t I, squire?”

“Ahem! Well, you could have him fined; but, as he is to be under your
care, Mr. Tucker, you will have a chance of making him conduct himself
properly.”

“What do you mean by that, Squire Pope?” asked Philip quickly.

“Young man, I do not choose to be catechized,” said Squire Pope, in
a dignified manner; “but I have no objections to tell you that I have
made arrangements with Mr. Tucker to take you into the poorhouse.”

“I’ve heard that before, but I couldn’t believe it,”
said Philip proudly.

“I guess you’ll have to believe it pretty soon, he, he!”
laughed Zeke, with a grin which indicated his high delight. “I guess
dad’ll make you stand round when he gits you into the poor-house.”

“Don’t you consider me capable of earning my own living, Squire
Pope?” asked Philip.

“Ahem! Yes, you will be one of these days. You won’t have to stay
in the almshouse all your life.”

“You’ll have a chance to earn your livin’ with me.”
said Mr. Tucker. “I shall give you something to do, you may
depend.”

“You can make him saw and split wood, father, and do the chores and milk
the cow,” suggested Zeke.

“I have no objection to doing any of those things for a farmer,”
said Philip, “but I am not willing to do it where I shall be considered a
pauper.”

“Kinder uppish!” suggested Mr. Tucker, turning to Squire Pope.
“Most all of them paupers is proud; but it’s pride in the wrong
place, I reckon.”

“If it is pride to want to earn an independent living, and not live on
charity, then I am proud,” continued Philip.

“Well, squire, how is it to be,” asked Mr. Tucker.

“Philip,” said Squire Pope pompously, “you are very young,
and you don’t know what is best for you. We do, and you must submit. Mr.
Tucker, take him and put him in the wagon, and we’ll drive over to the
poorhouse.”

“What! now?” asked Philip, in dismay.

“Just so,” answered Joe Tucker. “When you’ve got your
bird, don’t let him go, that’s what I say.”

“That’s the talk, dad!” said Zeke gladfully.
“We’ll take down his pride, I guess, when we’ve got him
home.”

Joe Tucker approached Philip, and was about to lay hold of him, when our hero
started back.

“You needn’t lay hold of me, Mr. Tucker,” he said. “I
will get into the wagon if Squire Pope insists upon it.”

“I’m glad you’re gettin’ sensible,” said the
squire, congratulating himself on finding Philip more tractable than he
expected.

“And you will go to the poorhouse peaceful, and without making a
fuss?” asked Joe.

“Yes, I will go there; but I won’t stay there.”

“You won’t stay there!” ejaculated the squire.

“No, sir! In treating me as a dependent on charity, you are doing what
neither you nor any other man has a right to do,” said Philip firmly.

“You don’t appear to remember that I am a selectman and overseer of
the poor,” said the Squire.

“I am aware that you hold those offices; but if so, you ought to save
money to the town, and not compel them to pay for my support, when I am willing
and able to support myself.”

Squire Pope looked a little puzzled. This was putting the matter in a new
light, and he could not help admitting to himself that Philip was correct, and
that perhaps his fellow citizens might take the same view.

On the other hand, the squire was fond of having his own way, and he had now
gone so far that he could not recede without loss of dignity.

“I think,” he answered stiffly, “that I understand my duty as
well as a boy of fifteen. I don’t mean to keep you here long, but it is
the best arrangement for the present.”

“Of course it is,” said Zeke, well pleased with the humiliation of
his enemy.

“Shut up, Zeke!” said his father, observing from the squire’s
expression that he did not fancy Zeke’s interference.

“All right, dad,” said Zeke good-naturedly, seeing that things had
turned out as he desired.

“Jump in!” said Mr. Tucker to Philip.

Our hero, without a word, obeyed. He was firmly resolved that Squire Pope
should not have his way, but he did not choose to make himself ridiculous by an
ineffectual resistance which would only have ended in his discomfiture.

Seated between Mr. Tucker and the squire, he was driven rapidly toward the
poorhouse.

CHAPTER IX.

THE POORHOUSE.

There was no room for Zeke to ride—that is, there was no seat for
him—but he managed to clamber into the back part of the wagon, where he
sat, or squatted, rather uncomfortably, but evidently in the best of
spirits—if any inference could be drawn from his expression.

The poorhouse was not far away. It was a three-story frame house, which badly
needed painting, with a dilapidated barn, and shed near by.

A three-story farmhouse is not common in the country, but this dwelling had
been erected by a Mr. Parmenter, in the expectation of making a fortune by
taking summer boarders.

There was room enough for them, but they did not come. The situation was the
reverse of pleasant, the soil about was barren, and there were no shade or
fruit trees. It was a crazy idea, selecting such a spot for a summer
boarding-house, and failure naturally resulted.

There had, indeed, been two boarders—a man and his wife—who paid
one week’s board, and managed to owe six before the unlucky landlord
decided that they were a pair of swindlers. He had spent more money than he
could afford on his house, and went steadily behind-hand year after year, till
the town—which was in want of a poorhouse—stepped in and purchased
the house and farm at a bargain. So it came to be a boarding-house, after all,
but in a sense not contemplated by the proprietor, and, at present,
accommodated eleven persons—mostly old and infirm—whom hard fortune
compelled to subsist on charity.

Mr. Tucker had this advantage, that his boarders, had no recourse except to
stay with him, however poor his fare or harsh his treatment, unless they were
in a position to take care of themselves.

When Philip came in sight of the almshouse—which he had often seen, and
always considered a very dreary-looking building—he was strengthened in
his determination not long to remain a tenant.

Mr. Tucker drove up to the front door with a flourish.

A hard-featured woman came out, and regarded the contents of the wagon with
curiosity.

“Well, Abigail, can you take another boarder!” asked Mr. Tucker, as
he descended from the wagon.

“Who is it?”

“Well, it ain’t likely to be Squire Pope!” said Joe
facetiously; “and Zeke and I are regular boarders on the free
list.”

“Is it that boy?”

“Yes; it’s Phil Gray.”

“Humph! boys are a trial!” remarked Mrs. Tucker, whose experience
with Zeke had doubtless convinced her of this fact.

“I sha’n’t trouble you long, Mrs. Tucker,” said Philip.
“I don’t intend to stay.”

“You don’t, hey?” retorted Joe Tucker, with a wolfish grin
and an emphatic nod of the head. “We’ll see about
that—won’t we, Squire Pope?”

“The boy is rather rebellious, Mrs. Tucker,” said the selectman.
“He appears to think he knows better what is good for him than we do. You
may look upon him as a permanent boarder. What he says is of no account.”

Philip said nothing, but he looked full at the squire with an unflinching gaze.
If ever determination was written upon any face, it was on his.

“Come down there!” said Mrs. Tucker, addressing our hero.
“You’re at home now.”

“Mr. Dunbar won’t know what has become of me,” said Philip,
with a sudden thought. “They will be anxious. May I go back there and
tell them where I am?”

“Do you think I am green enough for that?” Mr. Tucker, touching the
side of his nose waggishly. “We shouldn’t be likely to set eyes on
you again.”

“I will promise to come back here this evening,” said Philip.

“And will you promise to stay?” asked Squire Pope doubtfully.

“No, sir,” answered Philip boldly. “I won’t do that,
but I will engage to come back. Then Mr. Tucker will have to look out for me,
for I tell you and him frankly I don’t mean to stay.”

“Did you ever hear such talk, squire!” asked Mr. Tucker, with a
gasp of incredulity. “He actually defies you, who are a selectman and an
overseer of the poor.”

“So he does, Mr. Tucker. I’m shocked at his conduct.”

“Shall we let him go?”

“No, of course not.”

“I agree with you, squire. I know’d you wouldn’t agree to it.
What shall I do about his wantin’ to run away?”

“It will be best to confine him just at first, Mr. Tucker.”

“I’ll shut him up in one of the attic rooms,” said Mr.
Tucker.

“I think it will be the best thing to do, Mr. Tucker.”

Philip took all this very coolly. As to the way in which they proposed to
dispose of him for the present he cared very little, as he did not intend stay
till morning if there was any possible chance of getting away. The only thing
that troubled him was the doubt and anxiety of his good friends, the Dunbars,
when he did not return to the house.

“Squire Pope,” he said, turning to that official, “will you
do me a favor?”

“Ahem! Explain yourself,” said the squire suspiciously.

“Will you call at Mr. Dunbar’s and tell them where I am.”

Now, for obvious reasons, the squire did not like to do this. He knew that the
Dunbars would manifest great indignation at the arbitrary step which he had
adopted, and he did not like to face their displeasure, especially as his
apology would perforce be a lame one.

“I don’t think I am called upon to do you a favor, seeing how
you’ve acted, Philip,” he said hesitatingly. “Besides, it
would be out of my way, and I ought to get home as soon as possible.”

“Then you refuse, sir?”

“Well, I’d rather not.”

“Will you get word to them, Mr. Tucker?” asked Philip, turning to
him.

“I hain’t got time,” answered Mr. Tucker, who feared that the
Dunbars would come for Philip and release him in the course of the evening.

Philip was nonplused. Always considerate of the feelings of others, he was
unwilling that his friends should suffer anxiety on his account.

As Mr. Tucker and Squire Pope walked away together, our hero turned to Zeke.

“I suppose it’s no use to ask you to do me a favor, Zeke?” he
said.

“Do you want me to tell Frank Dunbar where you are?”

“Yes, I wish you would.”

“Then I’ll do it.”

“You’re a better fellow than I thought you were, Zeke,” said
Philip, surprised.

“No, I ain’t! Do you want to know why I’m willin’ to
go?”

“Why?”

“I know Frank Dunbar’ll feel bad, and I hate him.”

“So that is your object, is it, Zeke?”

“You’ve got it.”

“Well, whatever your motive may be, I shall be much obliged to you if you
go. Here’s ten cents for you!”

Zeke grasped at the coin with avidity, for his father was very parsimonious,
and his mother no less so, and he seldom got any ready money.

“Thank you!” said Zeke, with unusual politeness. “I’ll
go right off. But, I say, don’t you tell dad where I’ve gone, or he
might prevent me, and don’t you let on you’ve given me this dime,
or he’d try to get it away.”

“No, I won’t say anything about it,” answered Philip.

“A curious family this is!” he thought, “There doesn’t
seem to be much confidence in each other.”

Zeke sauntered away carelessly, to avert suspicion but when he had got round a
bend of the road he increased his speed, never looking back, lest he should see
his father signaling for him.

Philip breathed a sigh of relief.

“I’ve got a messenger at last,” he said. “Now my
friends will know what has become of me when I don’t come home to
supper.”

He was a little curious to learn what they were going to do with him, but he
was not long kept in suspense.

CHAPTER X.

BAD TIDINGS.

Leaving Philip for a short time in the hands of his captor, we will follow Zeke
on his errand. He didn’t have to go as far as Mr. Dunbar’s house,
for he met Frank Dunbar about a quarter of a mile this side of it.

Now, between Frank Dunbar and Zeke Tucker there was no love lost. There had
been a difficulty between them, originating at school, which need not be
particularly referred to. Enough that it led to Zeke’s cordially
disliking Frank, while the latter, who was a frank, straightforward boy, could
not see anything in Mr. Tucker’s promising son to enlist either his
respect or his liking.

There was a small river running through Norton, which crossed the main
thoroughfare, and had to be bridged over. Frank Dunbar, fishing-line in hand,
was leaning over the parapet, engaged in luring the fish from their river home.
He looked up, when he saw Zeke approaching him. Not having any particular
desire to hold a conversation with him, he withdrew his eyes, and again watched
his line. Zeke, however, approached him with a grin of anticipated enjoyment,
and hailed him in the usual style:

“Hello, Frank!”

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said Frank Dunbar indifferently.

“Yes it’s me. I suppose you thought it was somebody else,”
chuckled Zeke, though Frank could see no cause for merriment.

“Well, I see who it is now,” he responded.

“Where is Phil Gray?” inquired Zeke, chuckling again.

“Do you want to see him?” asked Frank, rather surprised.

“Oh, no! I shall see him soon enough.”

And again Zeke chuckled.

Frank looked up.

He was expecting Philip to join him, and was, in fact, waiting for him now.
Zeke’s mysterious merriment suggested that he might have met
Philip—possibly bore some message from him.

“Do you know anything about Phil?” asked Frank, looking fixedly at
his visitor.

“I reckon I do. I know all about him,” said Zeke, with evident
enjoyment.

“Well. If you have any message from him, let me hear it.”

“You can’t guess where he is,” blurted out Zeke.

“He isn’t in any trouble, is he?” asked Frank quickly.

“No; he’s safe enough. But you needn’t expect to see him
tonight.”

“Why not?” demanded Frank, not yet guessing what was likely to
detain his friend.

“Because he’s at our house,” chuckled Zeke. “Dad and
Squire Pope have carried him to the poorhouse, and he’s goin’ to
stay there for good.”

This was a surprise. In his astonishment, Frank nearly let go his rod. He was
eager now to question Zeke further.

“You don’t mean to say Phil has been carried to the poorhouse
against his will?” he exclaimed.

“I reckon he was anxious to go,” said Zeke.

“Where was he when your father and Squire Pope committed this
outrage?” said Frank indignantly.

“I thought you’d be mad,” said Zeke, with the same unpleasant
chuckle.

“Answer my question, or I’ll pitch you into the river,” said
Frank sternly.

He did not mean what he said, but Zeke drew back in alarm.

“Quit now! I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it,” said
Zeke hastily. “Me and him was over in Haywood’s pasture when dad
come along with the squire in his wagon. Well, they made Phil get in, and
that’s all of it, except I promised I’d come and tell your folks,
so you needn’t get scared or nothin’ when he didn’t come back
to-night.”

“He will come back to-night,” said Frank. “He won’t
stay in the poorhouse.”

“Yes, he will. He can’t help himself. Dad’s goin’ to
lock him up in the attic. I guess he won’t jump out of the window. Where
you goin’! You ain’t got through fishin’, be you?”

“Yes, I’m through,” answered Frank, as he drew his line out
of the water. “Just tell Phil when you go home that he’s got
friends outside who won’t see him suffer.”

“Say, ain’t you goin’ to give me nothin’ for
comin’ to tell you!” asked Zeke, who was always intent on the main
chance.

Frank flung a nickel in his direction, which Zeke picked up with avidity.

“I guess it pays to run errands when you can get paid twice,” he
reflected complacently.

CHAPTER XI.

PHILIP’S NEW ROOM.

We return to Phil.

“Foller me, boy!” said Mr. Tucker, as he entered the house, and
proceeded to ascend the front steps.

Philip had formed his plans, and without a word of remonstrance, he obeyed. The
whole interior was dingy and dirty. Mrs. Tucker was not a neat woman, and
everything looked neglected and slipshod.

In the common room, to the right, the door of which was partly open, Philip saw
some old men and women sitting motionless, in a sort of weary patience. They
were “paupers,” and dependent for comfort on the worthy couple, who
regarded them merely as human machines, good to them for sixty cents a week
each.

Mr. Tucker did not stop at the first landing, but turned and began to ascend a
narrower and steeper staircase leading to the next story.

This was, if anything, dirtier and more squalid than the first and second.
There were several small rooms on the third floor, into one of which Mr. Tucker
pushed his way. “Come in,” he said. “Now you’re at
home. This is goin’ to be your room.”

Philip looked around him in disgust, which he did not even take the trouble to
conceal.

There was a cot-bed in the corner, with an unsavory heap of bed-clothing upon
it, and a couple of chairs, both with wooden seats, and one with the back gone.

That was about all the furniture. There was one window looking out upon the
front.

“So this is to be my room, is it?” asked our hero.

“Yes. How do you like it?”

“I don’t see any wash-stand, or any chance to wash.”

“Come, that’s rich!” said Mr. Tucker, appearing to be very
much amused. “You didn’t think you was stoppin’ in the Fifth
Avenoo Hotel, did you?”

“This don’t look like it.”

“We ain’t used to fashionable boarders, and we don’t know how
to take care of ’em. You’ll have to go downstairs and wash in the
trough, like the rest of the paupers do.”

“And wipe my face on the grass, I suppose?” said Philip coolly,
though his heart sank within him at the thought of staying even one night in a
place so squalid and filthy.

“Come, that’s goin’ too far,” said Mr. Tucker, who felt
that the reputation of the boarding-house was endangered by such insinuations.
“We mean to live respectable. There’s two towels a week allowed,
and that I consider liberal.”

“And do all your boarders use the same towel?” asked Phil, unable
to suppress an expression of disgust.

“Sartain. You don’t think we allow ’em one apiece, do
you!”

“No, I don’t,” said Philip decidedly.

He had ceased to expect anything so civilized in Mr. Tucker’s
establishment.

“Now you’re safe in your room, I reckon I’d better go
downstairs,” said Tucker.

“I will go with you.”

“Not much you won’t! We ain’t a-goin’ to give you a
chance of runnin’ away just yet!”

“Do you mean to keep me a prisoner?” demanded Philip.

“That’s just what we do, at present,” answered his genial
host.

“It won’t be for long, Mr. Tucker.”

“What’s that you say? I’m master here, I’d have you to
know!”

Just then a shrill voice was heard from below:

“Come down, Joe Tucker! Are you goin’ to stay upstairs all
day?”

“Comin’, Abigail!” answered Mr. Tucker hastily, as he backed
out of the room, locking the door behind him. Philip heard the click of the key
as it turned in the lock, and he realized, for the first time in his life, that
he was a prisoner.

CHAPTER XII.

A PAUPER’S MEAL

Half an hour later Philip heard a pounding on the door of his room.

He was unable to open it, but he called out, loud enough for the outsider to
hear:

“Who is it?”

“It’s me—Zeke,” was the answer that came back.

“Did you tell the Dunbars where I was?” asked Philip eagerly.

“Yes.”

“I shouldn’t think you had time to go there and back,” said
Philip, fearing that Zeke had pocketed his money and then played him false.
But, as we know, he was mistaken in this.

“I didn’t go there,” shouted Zeke. “I met Frank on the
bridge.”

“What did he say?”

“He was mad,” answered Zeke, laughing. “I thought he would
be.”

“Did he send any message to me?” asked Philip.

“No; he stopped fishin’ and went home.” Here the conversation
was interrupted. The loud tones in which Zeke had been speaking, in order to be
heard through the door, had attracted attention below.

His father came to the foot of the attic stairs and demanded suspiciously:

“What you doin’ there, Zeke?”

“Tryin’ to cheer up Phil Gray,” answered Zeke jocosely.

“He don’t need any cheerin’ up. He’s all right. I
reckon you’re up to some mischief.”

“No, I ain’t.”

“Come along down.”

“All right, dad, if you say so. Lucky he didn’t hear what I was
sayin’ about seein’ Frank Dunbar,” thought Zeke.
“He’d be mad.”

Presently there was another caller at Philip’s room, or, rather, prison.
This time it was Mr. Tucker himself. He turned the key in the lock and opened
the door. Philip looked up inquiringly.

“Supper’s ready,” announced Joe. “You can come down if
you want to.”

Philip was provided with an appetite, but he did not relish the idea of going
downstairs and joining the rest of Mr. Tucker’s boarders. It would seem
like a tacit admission that he was one of their number. Of course, he
couldn’t do without eating, but he had a large apple in his pocket when
captured, and he thought that this would prevent his suffering from hunger for
that night, at least, and he did not mean to spend another at the Norton
poorhouse. The problem of to-morrow’s supply of food might be deferred
till then.

“I don’t care for any supper,” answered Philip.

“Perhaps you expect your meals will be brought up to you?” said Mr.
Tucker, with a sneer.

“I haven’t thought about it particularly,” said Philip
coolly.

“You may think you’re spitin’ me by not eatin’
anything,” observed Mr. Tucker, who was rather alarmed lest Philip might
have made up his mind to starve himself.

This would be embarrassing, for it would make an investigation necessary.

“Oh, no,” answered Philip, smiling; “that never came into my
mind.”

“I don’t mind bringin’ you up your supper for once,”
said Tucker. “Of course, I can’t do it reg’lar, but this is
the first night.”

“I suppose I shall be better able to make my escape if I eat,”
thought Philip. “Probably the most sensible thing is to accept this
offer.”

“How much are you to get for my board, Mr. Tucker?” he asked.

“Only sixty cents,” grumbled Tucker. “It ain’t enough,
but the town won’t pay any more. You’ve no idea what appetites them
paupers has.”

“You made a mistake when you agreed to take me,” said Philip
gravely. “I’m very hearty, you’ll be sure to lose money on
me.”

Mr. Tucker looked uneasy.

“Well, you see I expect to have you earn part of your board by
doin’ chores,” he said, after a pause.

“That will give me a good chance to run away,” remarked Philip
calmly. “You’ll have to let me out of this room to work, you
know.”

“You wouldn’t dare to run away!” said Tucker, trying to
frighten Philip by a blustering manner.

“That shows you don’t know me, Mr. Tucker!” returned our
hero. “I give you fair warning that I shall run away the first chance I
get.”

Philip’s tone was so calm and free from excitement that Mr. Tucker could
not help seeing that he was in earnest, and he looked perplexed.

“You don’t look at it in the right light,” he said,
condescending to conciliate his new boarder. “If you don’t make no
trouble, you’ll have a good time, and I’ll let you off, now
an’ then, to play with Zeke. He needs a boy to play with.”

Philip smiled, for the offer did not attract him very much.

“You are very kind,” he said, “but I don’t think that
even that will reconcile me to staying here with you. But, if you’ll
agree to let me pay you for the supper, you may bring me up some.”

“The town will pay me,” said Tucker.

“That’s just what I don’t want the town to do,” said
Philip quickly. “I will make you an offer. At sixty cents a week the
meals for one day will not cost over ten cents. I’ll pay you ten cents
for supper and breakfast.”

“You’re a cur’us boy,” said Tucker. “You want to
pay for your vittles in a free boardin’-house.”

“It isn’t free to me. At any rate, I don’t want it to be.
What do you say?”

“Oh, I ain’t no objections to take your money,” said Tucker,
laughing. “I didn’t know you was so rich.”

“I am not rich, but I think I can pay my board as long as I stay
here.”

This Philip said because he had decided that his stay should be a very brief
one.

“Just as you say!” chuckled Mr. Tucker.

As he went downstairs he reflected:

“I can take the boy’s money and charge his board to the town, too.
There’s nothin’ to hender, and it’ll be so much more in my
pocket. I wish the rest of the paupers would foller his example.”

He went downstairs and explained to Mrs. Tucker that he wanted Philip’s
supper.

“Tell him to come down to the table like the rest of the folks!”
retorted Mrs. Tucker. “He ain’t too lazy, is he?”

“No; but it’s safer to keep him in his room for the first
twenty-four hours. He’s a desperate boy, but I reckon he’ll get
tamed after a while.”

“I’ll desperate him!” said Mrs. Tucker scornfully. “I
don’t believe in humorin’ him.”

“Nor I, Abigail. He’d like to come down, but I won’t let him.
We can manage him between us.”

“I should smile if we couldn’t,” said Mrs. Tucker. “If
you want any supper for him, you can get it yourself. I’ve got too much
to do. No, Widder Jones, you can’t have another cup of tea, and you
needn’t beg for it. One cup’s plenty for you, and it’s all
we can afford.”

“Only this once,” pleaded the poor old woman. “I’ve got
a headache.”

“Then another cup of tea would only make it worse. If you’ve got
through your supper, go back to your seat and give more room for the
rest.”

While Mrs. Tucker was badgering and domineering over her regular boarders, her
husband put two slices of dry bread on a plate, poured out a cup of tea, not
strong enough to keep the most delicate child awake, and surreptitiously
provided an extra luxury in the shape of a thin slice of cold meat. He felt
that, as he was to receive double price, he ought to deal generously by our
hero.

He carried this luxurious supper to the third story, and set it down before
Philip.

Philip promptly produced a dime, which Mr. Tucker pocketed with satisfaction.
He waited till his young guest had finished his repast, in order himself to
carry down the dishes.

There was no butter for the bread, and the tea had been sweetened scantily.
However, Philip had the appetite of a healthy boy, and he ate and drank
everything that had been provided.

“I’ll be up in the morning,” said Mr. Tucker. “We go to
bed early here. The paupers go to roost at seven, and me and my wife and Zeke
at eight. You’d better go to bed early, too.”

CHAPTER XIII.

A FRIENDLY MISSION.

Philip was glad to hear that all in the almshouse went to bed so early. He had
not yet given up the hope of escaping that night, though he had as yet arranged
no definite plan of escape.

Meanwhile, he had an active friend outside. I refer, of course, to Frank
Dunbar. Frank had no sooner heard of his friend’s captivity than he
instantly determined, if it were a possible thing, to help him to escape.

He would not even wait till the next day, but determined after it was dark to
visit the poor-house and reconnoiter. First, he informed his parents what had
befallen Phil. Their indignation was scarcely less than his.

“Squire Pope is carrying matters with a high hand,” said the
farmer. “According to my idea, he has done no less than kidnap Philip,
without the shadow of a legal right.”

“Can’t he be prosecuted?” asked Frank eagerly.

“I am not sure as to that,” answered his father, “but I am
confident that Philip will not be obliged to remain, unless he chooses, a
dependent upon the charity of the town.”

“It is outrageous!” said Mrs. Dunbar, who was quite as friendly to
Philip as her husband and son.

“In my opinion,” said Mr. Dunbar, “Squire Pope has done a
very unwise thing as regards his own interests. He desires to remain in office,
and the people will not be likely to reelect him if his policy is to make
paupers of those who wish to maintain themselves. Voters will be apt to think
that they are sufficiently taxed already for the support of those who are
actually unable to maintain themselves.”

“If I were a voter,” exclaimed Frank indignantly, “I
wouldn’t vote for Squire Pope, even for dog-catcher! The meanest part of
it is the underhanded way in which he has taken Phil. He must have known he was
acting illegally, or he would have come here in open day and required Phil to
go with him.”

“I agree with you, Frank. Squire Pope may be assured that he has lost my
vote from henceforth. Hitherto I have voted for him annually for selectman,
knowing that he wanted the office and considering him fairly faithful.”

“Father,” said Frank, after a thoughtful pause, “do you think
Philip would be justified in escaping from the poorhouse?”

“I do,” answered Mr. Dunbar. “In this free country I hold
that no one ought to be made an object of charity against his will.”

“Philip is strong enough and smart enough to earn his own living,”
said Frank.

“That is true. I will myself give him his board and clothes if he will
stay with me and work on the farm.”

“I wish he would. He would be a splendid companion for me; but I think he
wants to leave Norton, and try his fortune in some larger place.”

“I can’t blame him. If his father were living and he had a good
home, I should not think it wise; but, as matters stand, it may not be a bad
plan for him.”

“Father,” said Frank, after supper, “I am going out and I may
not be back very early.”

“Are you going to see Philip?”

“Yes; but I want to see him alone. If possible, I will see him without
attracting the attention of Joe Tucker.”

“You won’t get into any trouble, Frank?” said his mother
anxiously.

“No, mother; I don’t know what trouble I can get into.”

“You may very likely fail to see Philip,” suggested his father.
“I hear that Tucker and his boarders go to bed very early.”

“So much the better!” said Frank, in a tone of satisfaction.
“The only one I want to see is Philip, and he isn’t likely to go to
sleep very early.”

Mr. Dunbar smiled to himself.

“Frank has got some plan in his head,” he thought. “I
won’t inquire what it is, for he has good common sense, and won’t
do anything improper.”

About eight o’clock, Frank, after certain preparations, which will
hereafter be referred to, set out for the poorhouse, which was about a mile
distant.

CHAPTER XIV.

PHILIP MAKES HIS ESCAPE.

It grew darker and darker in Philip’s chamber, but no one came to bring
him a light. It was assumed that he would go to bed before he required one.

By seven o’clock the paupers had settled themselves for the night, and
when eight o’clock struck, Mr. and Mrs. Tucker sought their beds. It was
no particular trial for Joe Tucker to go to bed early, for he was naturally a
lazy man, and fond of rest; while his wife, who worked a great deal harder than
he, after being on her feet from four o’clock in the morning, found it a
welcome relief to lie down and court friendly sleep. Zeke wasn’t always
ready to go to bed. In fact, he would much rather have gone up to the village
now and then, but if he had done so he would have had to stay out all night.
There was one thing his parents were strict about, and that was retiring at
eight o’clock.

Philip, however, did not retire at that hour. It was earlier than his usual
hour for bed. Besides, he was in hopes his friend Frank would make his
appearance, and help him, though he didn’t exactly understand how, to
make his escape.

At half-past eight it was dark. The stars were out, and the moon was just
making its appearance. Philip had opened his window softly, and was looking
out, when all at once he saw a boyish figure approaching.

Could it be Frank Dunbar?

He hoped so, but in the indistinct light could not be quite certain.

The boy, whoever it might be, approached cautiously, till he stood within fifty
feet of the house.

Then Philip saw that it was indeed Frank, and his heart beat joyfully. It was
something to see a friend, even though they were separated by what seemed to
him to be an impassable gulf.

About the same time, Frank recognized his friend, in the boyish figure at the
window.

“Is that you, Phil?” he asked, in a guarded voice, yet loud enough
to be heard.

“Yes, Frank; I have been expecting you. I knew you wouldn’t desert
me.”

“I should think not. I didn’t come before, because I didn’t
want to be seen by any of Tucker’s folks.”

“They are all abed now, and I hope asleep.”

“Can’t you come downstairs, and steal away?”

“No; my chamber door is locked on the outside.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Can’t you help me in any way?”

“I’ll see. Suppose you had a rope—could you swing out of the
window?”

“Yes; I could fasten it to the bedstead, and fix that just against the
window.”

“Then I think I can help you. Can you catch a ball?”

“Yes; but what good will that do?”

“You’ll see. Make ready now, and don’t miss it.”

He produced a ball of common size, and after taking aim, threw it lightly up
toward Philip’s window. The first time it didn’t come within reach.
The second Philip caught it skilfully, and by the moonlight saw that a stout
piece of twine was attached to it. At the end of the twine Frank had connected
it with a clothesline which he had borrowed from home.

“Now pull away, Phil,” urged Frank.

Philip did, and soon had the stout line in his possession.

“It will hold; it’s new and strong,” said Frank.
“Father only bought it last week. I didn’t think, then, what use we
should have for it.”

Philip, however, was not afraid. He was so anxious to escape that, even if
there had been any risk to run, he would readily have incurred it for the sake
of getting away from the poor-house, in which he was unwilling to spend a
single night. He fastened one end of the rope firmly to his bedstead, as he had
proposed, then cautiously got upon the window-sill and lowered himself,
descending hand over hand till he reached the ground.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he detached himself from the rope and stood
beside Frank Dunbar.

Just then the boys heard a second-story window open, and saw Mr. Tucker’s
head projecting from it.

CHAPTER XV.

ESCAPE AND FLIGHT.

Though the boys had made as little noise as possible, conversing in an
undertone, they had been heard by Mrs. Tucker. Her husband, as was his custom,
had gone to sleep; but Mrs. Tucker, who, during the day, had discovered the
loss of ten cents from her bureau drawer in which she kept her savings, had
been kept awake by mental trouble. Some of my readers may think so small a loss
scarcely worth keeping awake for, but Mrs. Joe Tucker was a strictly economical
and saving woman—some even called her penurious—and the loss of ten
cents troubled her.

She would have laid it to one of “them paupers,” as she was wont
contemptuously to refer to them, except that she never allowed one of them to
enter the sacred precincts of her chamber.

A horrible thought entered her mind. Could it be Zeke, the boy whom she thought
such a paragon, though no one else had been able to discover his virtues or
attractions? She did not like to think of it, but it did occur to her that
Zeke, the previous day, had asked her for ten cents, though he would not own
the purpose for which he wanted it. The boy might have been tempted to take the
money. At any rate, she would go and see.

Zeke slept in a small room adjoining. When his mother entered, with a candle in
her hand, he was lying asleep, with his mouth wide open, and one arm dropped
over the side of the bed.

Mrs. Tucker took a look at him, and saw that he was wrapped in slumber and
unable to notice what she proposed to do. His clothes were thrown down
carelessly on a chair near-by.

Mrs. Tucker searched first in the pockets of his pants, and, though she
discovered a large variety of miscellaneous articles, “of no use to any
one except the owner,” she didn’t discover any traces of the
missing dime. She began to hope that he had not taken it, after all, although,
in that case, the loss would continue to be shrouded in obscurity. But, on
continuing her search, she discovered in one of the pockets of his vest a
silver ten-cent piece.

Mrs. Tucker’s eyes flashed, partly with indignation at Zeke’s
dishonesty, partly with joy at the recovery of the missing coin.

“I’ve found you out, you bad boy!” she said, in a low voice,
shaking her fist at the sleeping boy. “I wouldn’t have believed
that my Zeke would have robbed his own mother. We must have a reckoning
to-morrow.”

She was half-inclined to wake Zeke up and charge him with his crime,
confronting him with the evidence of it which she had just discovered; but on
second thoughts she decided that she might as well let him sleep, as the next
day would do just as well.

Poor Zeke! he was not guilty, after all, though whether his honesty was strict
enough to resist a powerful temptation, I am not sure.

The dime which Mrs. Tucker had discovered was the same one that Philip had
given to Zeke in return for his service in notifying Frank Dunbar of his
captivity. In another pocket was the five-cent piece given him by Frank, but
that had escaped his mother’s attention.

The reader will understand now how it happened that Mrs. Tucker was kept awake
beyond her usual time. She was broad awake when Frank Dunbar arrived, and she
heard something through the partially open window of the conference between the
two boys. She heard the voices that is to say, but could not tell what was
said.

With her mind dwelling upon Zeke’s supposed theft, however, she was more
easily frightened than usual, and immediately jumped to the conclusion that
there were burglars outside, trying to get in.

The absurdity of burglars attempting to rob the town poorhouse did not occur to
her in panic. She sat up in bed, and proceeded to nudge her husband in no
gentle fashion.

“Mr. Tucker!” she exclaimed.

Her husband responded by an inarticulate murmur, but did not wake.

“Mr. Tucker!” she exclaimed, in a louder voice, giving him a still
more vigorous shake.

“Eh! What! What’s the matter?” said Tucker, opening his eyes
at last, and staring vacantly at his wife.

“What’s the matter!” retorted his wife impatiently.
“The matter is that there’s burglars outside!”

“Let ’em stay outside!” said Joe Tucker, in a sleepy tone.

“Did any one ever hear such a fool?” exclaimed Mrs. Tucker,
exasperated. “They’re trying to get in. Do you hear that, Mr.
Tucker?”

“Trying to get in! Is the door locked?” asked Joe, a little
alarmed.

“You must get up and defend the house,” continued Mrs. Tucker.

Now, Mr. Tucker was not a brave man. He had no fancy for having a hand-to-hand
conflict with burglars, who might be presumed to be desperate men. It occurred
to him that it would be decidedly better to stay where he was and run no risk.

“Never mind, Abigail,” he said, soothingly. “The burglars
can’t do us any harm. They can’t do any more than carry off a
pauper or two, and I don’t, believe they’ll do that.”

“I wouldn’t mind that, Mr. Tucker; but I’ve left the spoons
down-stairs!” answered his wife.

“How many are there!”

“Six. I want you to go down and get them and bring them up here, where
they will be safe.”

“But suppose I should meet some of the burglars!” suggested Tucker,
trembling.

“Then you must defend yourself like a man!”

“You might find me in the morning weltering in my gore!” said Joe,
with an uneasy shudder.

“Are we to have the spoons stolen, then!” demanded Mrs. Tucker
sharply.

“If you care so much for the spoons, Abigail, you’d better go
down-stairs yourself and get ’em. I don’t value them as much as my
life.”

“I don’t know but I will, if you’ll look out of the window
and see whether you can see any of the burglars outside,” responded Mrs.
Tucker. “If they haven’t got in yet, I’ll take the
risk.”

“Where did you hear ’em, Abigail?”

“Right outside. Open the window and look out, and you may see
’em.”

Mr. Tucker was not entirely willing to do this, but still he preferred it to
going down-stairs after the spoons, and accordingly he advanced, and, lifting
the window, put his head out, as described at the close of the last chapter.

Philip and Frank were just ready to go when they heard the window rising, and
naturally looked up in some trepidation.

“It’s old Tucker!” said Frank, in a low voice.

Philip looked up, and saw that his friend was right.

Mr. Tucker had not yet discovered them, but the whisper caught his ear, and
looking down he caught sight of the two boys.

In his alarm, and the obscurity of the night, he did not make out that they
were boys and not men, and was about to withdraw his head in alarm, when a
mischievous impulse seized Frank Dunbar.

“Give me the ball, Philip!” he said quickly.

Philip complied with his request, not understanding his intention.

Now, Frank belonged to a baseball club, and had a capital aim. He threw up the
ball and struck Mr. Tucker fairly in the nose. The effect upon the terrified
Joe was startling.

Full as his mind was of burglars, he fancied that it was something a great deal
more deadly that had struck him.

“Oh, Abigail! I’m shot through the brain!” he moaned in
anguish, as he poked in his head and fell back upon the floor.

“What do you mean, Joe?” asked his wife, in alarm, as she hastened
to her prostrate husband, whose hand was pressed convulsively upon the injured
organ, which, naturally ached badly with the force of the blow.

“I’m a dead man!” moaned Mr. Tucker; “and it’s
all your fault. You made me go to the window.”

“I don’t believe you’re shot at all! I didn’t hear any
report,” said Mrs. Tucker. “Let me see your face.”

Mr. Tucker withdrew his hand mournfully.

“You’ve only been struck with a rock or something,” said she,
after a careful examination.

“It’s bleeding!” groaned Joe, seeing a dark stain on his
night-dress.

“Suppose it is—it won’t kill you. I’ll look out
myself.”

But she saw nothing. Philip and Frank had immediately taken to flight, and
vanished in the darkness.

“They’ve run away!” announced Mrs. Tucker. “My spoons
are safe.”

“But my nose isn’t,” groaned Mr. Tucker.

“You won’t die this time,” said Mrs. Tucker, not very
sympathetically. “Soak your nose in the wash-basin, and you’ll be
all right in the morning.”

The two boys were destined to have another adventure that night.

CHAPTER XVI.

A NIGHT ADVENTURE.

“I didn’t mean to hit him,” said Frank, as he and Philip
hurried away from the poorhouse, “I only intended to give him a
fright.”

“I think you have. I wonder whether he recognized us!”

“I don’t believe it. He had hardly got his head out of the window
before I let drive.”

“Then he won’t imagine I have escaped.”

“What are your plans, Phil? Suppose they try to take you back to the
poorhouse?”

“They won’t get the chance. Before five o’clock to-morrow
morning I shall leave Norton.”

“Leave town?” exclaimed Frank, in surprise. “And so
soon?”

“Yes. There is nothing for me to do here.”

“Father would like to have you stay and assist him on the farm. He said
so to me. He wouldn’t be able to pay much, but I think we would have a
good time together.”

Philip pressed his friend’s hand warmly.

“I know we should, Frank,” he said, “but if I remained here,
it would only remind me of my poor father. I would rather go out into the world
and try my fortune.”

“Isn’t it risky, Phil?” objected Frank doubtfully.

“I suppose it is; but I am willing to work, and I don’t expect
much.”

“Suppose you fall sick?”

“Then, if I can, I will come back to you and your good father and mother,
and stay till I am well.”

“Promise me that, Phil?”

“I promise.”

“I wish I could go with you, Phil,” said Frank, with a boyish
impulse.

“No, it wouldn’t be wise for you. You have a good home, and you
will be better off there than among strangers.”

“It might be your home, too, Phil.”

“Thank you; but I shall be better away from Norton for a time.”

A minute later, Frank said suddenly:

“There’s Squire Pope coming. He will see you.”

“I don’t care. He won’t take me back.”

“Get behind the stone wall, and I will wait and interview him.”

Philip immediately followed the advice of his friend. He was curious to hear
what the squire would say.

Squire Pope’s eyesight was not good, and it was only when he came near
that he recognized Frank Dunbar. He stopped short, for there was a subject on
which he wished to speak.

“Frank Dunbar!” he said.

“Do you wish to speak to me, sir?” inquired Frank coldly.

“Yes. Where have you been?”

“Out walking,” answered Frank shortly.

“Have you been to the poorhouse?”

“I have.”

“Did you see Philip?”

“I saw him looking out of a third-story window.”

Squire Pope chuckled, if, indeed, such a dignified man can be said to chuckle.

“What did he say?” he condescended to inquire.

“That he wouldn’t stay.”

“He will have to,” responded Squire Pope complacently. “Mr.
Tucker will see to that.”

“Probably Mr. Tucker will wake up some fine morning and find Phil’s
room empty,” said Frank quietly.

“I’ll take the risk of it,” returned the squire serenely.
“But there’s a matter I want to speak to you about. You’ve
got Philip’s fiddle in your possession.”

“Suppose I have.”

“I wish you to bring it round to my house in the morning, and I’ll
give you something for your trouble.”

“You must excuse me, Squire Pope. If it were your property, I would bring
it to you and charge nothing for my trouble.”

“Young man,” said the squire sternly. “I am Philip’s
legal guardian, and I have a right to receive his violin. You will get into
trouble if you resist my authority.”

“If you will give me Philip’s order for it, you shall have it,
sir.”

“Frank Dunbar, you are trifling with me. Philip is now a pauper, and has
no right to hold property of any kind. He cannot give a legal order.”

“Then you are guardian to a pauper?”

“In my capacity of overseer of the poor.”

“In my capacity as Philip’s friend, I refuse to consider you his
guardian. You may call him a pauper, but that doesn’t make him
one.”

“He is an inmate of the Norton Poorhouse.”

Frank laughed.

“I don’t want to be disrespectful, Squire Pope,” he said;
“but I can’t help telling you that you undertook a bigger job than
you thought for, when you made up your mind to make a pauper of Philip
Gray.”

Squire Pope was indignant at the coolness of Frank.

“I shall come to your house to-morrow morning,” he said, “and
convince you to the contrary.”

“Very well, sir.”

Frank Dunbar bowed, and the squire went his way.

“That’s a very impudent boy!” he soliloquized. “Just
like the Gray boy. It wouldn’t do him any harm to put him under Joe
Tucker’s care, too.”

After the squire had passed on, Philip came out from behind the stone wall.

“Did you hear what passed between your guardian and myself?” asked
Frank.

“Yes, I heard every word.”

“He little thought that the bird had flown, Phil.”

“He will make all the trouble he can. That is one more reason why I think
it best to leave town.”

“I wouldn’t let Squire Pope drive you out of town.”

“I would stay and face the music if it suited me, but I want to go
away.”

“Suppose we cut across this field. It will be a little nearer.”

“All right.”

There was a pathway through a pasture-lot, comprising some ten acres, poor
land, covered with puny bushes, and a few gnarled trees, producing
cider-apples. It belonged to an old bachelor farmer, who lived in solitary
fashion, doing his own cooking, and in general taking care of himself. He was
reputed to have money concealed about his premises, which was quite probable,
as he spent little, and was known to have received, four years before, a
considerable legacy from the estate of a brother who had died, a successful
merchant in the city of New York.

The boys had to pass by the small and weather-stained house where he lived, as
the path ran very near it.

When within a few rods of the house, the boys were startled by a sharp cry of
terror, which appeared to proceed from inside the house.

Both simultaneously stood still.

“What’s that!” exclaimed both in concert.

“Somebody must be trying to rob Mr. Lovett,” suggested Frank.

“Can’t we do something!” said Phil quickly.

“We can try.”

There were two stout sticks or clubs lying on the ground at their feet. They
stooped, picked them up, and ran to the house. A glance showed that one of the
windows on the north side had been raised.

The window sill was low. Pausing a moment before springing over it into the
room, they looked in and this was what they saw:

The farmer lay half-prostrate on the floor, half supporting himself by a chair,
which he had mechanically grasped as he was forced downward. Over him stood a
ruffianly looking tramp, whom Phil remembered to have seen about the streets
during the day, with a stick uplifted. He had not heard the approach of the
boys.

“Give me two hundred dollars, and I’ll go,” he said to the
man at his feet.

“I cannot do it. I haven’t got as much here.”

“That’s a lie!” said the other coarsely. “I heard all
about you to-day. You’re a miser, and you’ve got no end of money
stowed away here. Get it for me, quick, or I’ll dash your brains
out.”

Just then the prostrate farmer saw what the tramp could not see, his back being
turned to the window, the faces of the two boys looking through the window.
Fresh courage came to him. Single-handed, and taken at advantage, he was no
match for the ruffian who had entered his house; but with these two young
auxiliaries he felt that all was not lost.

CHAPTER XVII.

A REFORMED BURGLAR.

“What do you say!” demanded the tramp impatiently. “Speak
quick! I can’t stay here all night.”

“Let me up, and I’ll see if I can find the money for you.”

“I thought I’d bring you to terms,” said the tramp, laughing
grimly.

He allowed his victim to rise, as he certainly would not have done if he had
looked behind him and seen the two boys at the window.

“Now’s our time,” answered Philip.

He gave a light spring into the room, followed by Frank.

Of course, the tramp heard them, and turned in sudden alarm. As he turned, the
farmer snatched the club from his hand, and he found himself unexpectedly
unarmed and confronted by three enemies.

“It’s my turn now,” said Lovett. “Do you
surrender?”

The tramp saw that the game was up and made a dash for the open window, but
Philip skillfully inserted a stick between his legs, and tripped him up, and,
with the help of Mr. Lovett, held him, struggling desperately, till Frank
fetched a rope, with which he was securely bound.

“Confound you!” he said, scowling at the two boys. “But for
you I would have succeeded and got away with my booty.”

“That’s true!” said the farmer. “I owe my escape from
robbery, and, perhaps, bodily injury, to you.”

“I am glad we were at hand,” said Philip.

“And now, my friend,” said the farmer, “I may as well say
that you were quite mistaken in supposing I kept a large amount of money in
this lonely house. I should be a fool to do it, and I am not such a fool as
that.”

“Where do you keep your money, then?” growled the tramp.

“In different savings-banks. I am ready to tell you, for it will do you
no good.”

“I wish I’d known it sooner. I came here on a fool’s
errand.”

“I am glad you have found it out.”

“Now, what are you going to do with me!”

“Keep you here till I can deliver you into the hands of the law.”

“That won’t do you any good.”

“It will give you a home, where you cannot prey on the community.”

“I don’t mean to do so any more. I’m going to turn over a new
leaf and become an honest man—that is, if you’ll let me go.”

“Your conversion is rather sudden. I haven’t any faith in
it.”

“Listen to me,” said the man, “and then decide. Do you think
I am a confirmed lawbreaker?”

“You look like it.”

“Yes, I do; but I am not. Never in my life have I been confined in any
prison or penitentiary. I have never been arrested on any charge. I see you
don’t believe me. Let me tell you how I came to be what I am: Two years
since I was a mechanic, tolerably well-to-do, owning a house with a small
mortgage upon it. It was burned to the ground one night. I built another, but
failed to insure it. Six months since, that, too, burned down, and left me
penniless and in debt. Under this last blow I lost all courage. I left the town
where I had long lived, and began a wandering life. In other words, I became a
tramp. Steadily I lost my self-respect till I was content to live on such help
as the charitable chose to bestow on me. It was not until to-day that I formed
the plan of stealing. I heard in the village that you kept a large sum of money
in your house, and an evil temptation assailed me. I had become tired of
wandering, and determined to raise a sum which would enable me to live at ease
for a time, I should have succeeded but for these two boys.”

“And you are sorry you did not succeed?”

“I was, five minutes since, but I feel differently now. I have been saved
from crime. Now, I have told you my story. Do with me as you will.”

The man’s appearance was rough, but there was something in his tone which
led Mr. Lovett to think that he was speaking the truth.

“Boys,” he said, “you have heard what this man says. What do
you think of it?”

“I believe him!” said Philip promptly.

“Thank you, boy,” said the tramp. “I am glad some one has
confidence in me.”

“I believe you, too,” said Frank.

“I have not deceived you. Your words have done me more good than you
think. It is my first attempt to steal, and it shall be my last.”

“If you want to become an honest man, God forbid that I should do aught
to prevent you!” said the farmer. “I may be acting unwisely, but I
mean to cut this rope and let you go.”

“Will you really do this?” said the tramp, his face lighting up
with mingled joy and surprise.

“I will.”

He knelt on the floor, and drawing from his pocket a large jack-knife, cut the
rope.

The tramp sprang to his feet.

“Thank you,” he said, in a husky voice. “I believe you are a
good man. There are not many who would treat me as generously, considering what
I tried to do just now. You sha’n’t repent it. Will you give me
your hand!”

“Gladly,” said the farmer; and he placed his hand in that of the
visitor, lately so unwelcome. “I wish you better luck.”

“Boys, will you give me your hands, too?” asked tke tramp, turning
to Philip and Frank.

Tke boys readily complied with his request, and repeated the good wishes of the
farmer.

The stranger was about to leave the house, when Lovett said:

“Stay, my friend, I wish to ask you a question.”

“Very well, sir.”

“Have you any money?”

“Not a cent.”

“Then take this,” said the farmer, drawing from his vest pocket a
five-dollar bill. “I lend it to you. Some time you will be able to repay
it, if you keep to your resolution of leading an honest life. When that time
comes, lend it to some man who needs it as you do now.”

“Thank you, sir. I will take it, for it will help me greatly at this
time. Good-by! If you ever see me again, you will see a different man.”

He leaped through the window and was gone.

“I don’t know if I have done a wise thing, but I will take the
risk,” said the farmer. “And now, boys, I want to make you some
return for your assistance to-night.” Both Frank and Philip earnestly
protested that they would receive nothing in the conversation that ensued.
Philip made known his intention to leave Norton the next morning.

“What are your plans? Where do you mean to go?” asked the farmer.

“I don’t know, sir. I shall make up my mind as I go along. I think
I can make my living somehow.”

“Wait here five minutes,” said Lovett, and he went into an
adjoining room.

Within the time mentioned, he returned, holding in his hand a sealed letter.

“Philip,” he said, “put this envelope in your pocket, and
don’t open it till you are fifty miles from here.”

“Very well, sir,” answered Philip, rather puzzled, but not so much
surprised as he might have been if he had not known the farmer’s
reputation for eccentricity.

“I suppose it contains some good advice,” he thought. “Well,
good advice is what I need.”

The two boys went home immediately upon leaving the farmhouse. Though so much
had happened, it was not late, being not quite half-past nine.

Philip received a cordial welcome from Mr. and Mrs. Dunbar, who, however,
hardly expected to see him so soon. “Are you willing to receive a pauper
beneath your roof?” asked Philip, smiling.

“That you will never be while you have health and strength, I’ll be
bound,” said Mr. Dunbar. “I like your pride and independence,
Philip.”

They tried to induce Philip to give up his resolution to leave Norton the next
morning, but did not succeed.

“I will come back some time,” he said. “Now I feel better to
go.”

At five o’clock the next morning, with a small bundle swung over his
shoulder, attached to a stick, Philip Gray, carrying his violin, left the
village, which, for some years, had been his home. Frank accompanied him for
the first mile of his journey. Then the two friends shook hands and
parted—not without sorrow, for who could tell when they would meet again?

CHAPTER XVIII.

A PROFESSIONAL ENGAGEMENT.

A depressing feeling of loneliness came to Phil after he had parted with Frank.
He was going out into the world with no one to lean upon, and no one to
sympathize with him or lend him a helping hand. No wonder he felt friendless
and alone. But this mood did not last long.

“I shall find friends if I deserve them,” he reflected, “and
I don’t mean to do anything dishonorable or wrong. I am willing to work,
and I believe I can make a living.”

Leaving him to proceed, we go back to the poor-house, where his absence was not
noticed till morning.

Joe Tucker, in spite of the blow which his nasal organ had received, slept
pretty comfortably, and was awakened at an early hour by his vigilant spouse.

“You’d better go up and wake that boy and set him to work, Mr.
Tucker,” she said. “There are plenty of chores for him to
do.”

“You are right, Abigail,” said Mr. Tucker, with approval. He
reflected that he could assign to Philip some of the work which generally fell
to himself, and the reflection was an agreeable one. He had tried to get work
out of Zeke, but he generally found that it was harder to keep him at work than
it was to do the job himself.

After he had made his toilet—not a very elaborate one—Mr. Tucker
went up-stairs to arouse his young prisoner. He found the key in the outside of
the door. Everything seemed right.

“I wonder how he feels this morning?” chuckled Mr. Tucker.
“Wonder whether he’s tamed down a little?”

He turned the key in the lock and threw open the door. He glanced at the bed,
started in amazement to find that it had not been slept in, and then his wonder
ceased, for the telltale rope explained how the boy had escaped.

He ran down-stairs in anger and excitement.

“What’s the matter with you, Joe Tucker?” demanded his wife.
“Are you drunk or crazy?”

“Enough to make me both, wife,” he answered. “The boy’s
gone!”

“Gone!” exclaimed Mrs. Tucker, stopping short, with a saucepan in
her hand.

“Gone!” ejaculated Zeke, his mouth wide open.

“I don’t believe it,” said Mrs. Tucker positively. “He
couldn’t go. He’d have to jump out of the third-story
window.”

“Sure enough!” said Zeke.

“I can’t help it—he’s gone,” declared Mr. Tucker.
“He tied a clothesline to the bedstead and let himself down from the
window. Now, I want to know who left a clothesline in the room?”

“There wasn’t any,” said Mrs. Tucker.

“Maybe he had one in his pocket,” suggested Zeke.

But this suggestion was not considered worthy of notice by his parents.

“Now I know who hit me in the nose!” exclaimed Mr. Tucker, light
flashing upon him. “There was two of ’em—the ones I took for
burglars.”

“Then the other one must have been Frank Dunbar,” said Mrs. Tucker.

“Zeke,” said his father, “go right off and tell Squire Pope
that Philip Gray has escaped. Ask him if I can’t have him arrested for
assault and battery. It’s likely he’s at Frank Dunbar’s now.
We’ll have him back before the day is out, and then I’ll see he
don’t get out!”

“All right, dad! As soon as I’ve had breakfast I’ll
go.”

The result of Zeke’s message was that Squire Pope hurried over to the
poorhouse and held a conference with Mr. and Mrs. Tucker.

The next step was that he and Joe rode over to Mr. Dunbar’s, to demand
the return of the fugitive.

They found Frank splitting wood in the yard. To him they made known their
errand, requesting him to call Philip out.

“He isn’t here,” answered Frank.

“Isn’t here? I don’t believe it!” said the squire
hastily.

“Sorry you doubt my word, Squire Pope, but it’s just as I
say.”

“Where is he, then?” demanded the squire suspiciously.

“He has left town.”

“Left town?” repeated the squire and Joe Tucker, in dismay.
“Where is he gone!”

“He’s probably ten miles away by this time,” answered Frank,
enjoying their perplexity. “I guess you’d better wait till he comes
back.”

Joe and the squire conferred together, but no satisfactory result was arrived
at, except it wouldn’t pay to pursue Philip, for two reasons—one,
because they were quite uncertain in what direction he had gone; another,
because, even if overtaken, they would have no authority to apprehend him,
since he had been guilty of no crime.

Finally a bright idea came to the squire.

“Bring me out his fiddle,” he said to Frank. “I’m his
guardian, and I will take care of it for him.”

“He carried it away with him,” said Frank. The squire’s lower
jaw fell. He was defeated at all points. “I guess we can’t do
nothing, under the circumstances, squire,” said Joe Tucker, scratching
his head.

“I shall have to reflect upon it,” said Squire Pope, in a
crestfallen tone.

“That’s as good as a circus,” thought Frank, as his roguish
glance followed the two baffled conspirators as they rode out of the yard.
“It’s a pity Phil was not here to enjoy it.”

At the end of the second day, Philip was some forty miles distant from Norton.
He had not walked all the way, but had got a lift for a few miles from a
tin-peddler, with whom he had a social chat.

It cannot be said that he was depressed, or that he regretted having left
Norton, but he certainly did feel uncomfortable, and his discomfort sprang from
a very homely cause.

To tell the plain truth, he was hungry. He had not had anything to eat for six
hours except an apple, which he had picked up by the roadside, and during those
six hours he had walked not far from fifteen miles.

“I believe I never was so hungry before,” thought Philip.
“The question is, where is my supper to come from?”

Although he knew pretty well the state of his finances, he began to search his
pockets to see if he could not somewhere find a stray dime, or, better still, a
quarter, with which to purchase the meal of which he stood so much in need. But
his search was unproductive, or, rather, it only resulted in the discovery of a
battered cent.

“So that penny constitutes my whole fortune,” thought Philip.

There were two houses in sight, one on each side of the road.

Probably they would have given Philip a supper at either, but our hero’s
honest pride revolted at the idea of begging for a meal, much as he stood in
need of it. He might as well be a pauper, as he justly reflected. So he pushed
on.

Evidently he was drawing near a village, for houses began to appear at nearer
intervals.

“Hello, my boy! Where are you traveling!” asked a hearty voice.

Philip turned round, and his glance rested on a stout young farmer, whose face,
though very much sunburned, was pleasant and good-natured.

“I don’t know,” answered Philip.

“Don’t know?” was repeated in surprise.

“I am in search of work.”

“Oh, that’s it! Are you a musician?” asked the young man,
looking at the violin.

“Yes; a little of one.”

“Are you looking for a job at fiddling?” asked the young man.

“Yes, if I can find one,” answered Philip, smiling.

“Can you play dancing-music?”

“Yes.”

“Then I guess I can get you a job for this evening.”

“I wish you could,” said Philip hopefully, catching at a way out of
his troubles.

“You see, there’s to be a little dance in School-house Hall
to-night,” said the farmer; “or there was to be one, but the
fiddler’s took sick, and we was afraid we’d have to give it up.
Now, if you’ll take his place, we can have it, after all.”

“I’ll do it,” said Philip promptly.

“What’ll you charge?”

“How much was the other one going to charge?”

“Five dollars. You see, he would have to come six miles.”

“I’ll come for three dollars and my supper and lodging,” said
Philip.

“All right! You shall have supper and lodging at our house. There it is,
down that lane. Come right along, for supper must be on the table. After supper
I’ll go and tell the committee I’ve engaged you.”

Philip’s spirits rose. Help had come from an unexpected quarter. He felt
that a new career was opening before him.

CHAPTER XIX.

NEW ACQUAINTANCES.

On his way to the farmhouse, Philip ascertained that his companion’s name
was Abner Webb, and that he and his brother Jonas carried on a farm of about a
hundred acres. Abner appeared to be about twenty-five years old.

“You seem pretty young to be a fiddler,” said the young man,
surveying Philip with a glance of curiosity.

“I am almost sixteen.”

“I am twenty-five, and I can’t play at all.”

“It isn’t all in the age,” returned our hero. “Did you
ever try to learn?”

“Yes, I took one or two lessons, but I had to give it up for a bad job. I
couldn’t get into it somehow.”

“You didn’t try very long,” said Philip, smiling.

“I reckon I’d never do much at it. How long have you been a
fiddler?”

“I’ve been playing three or four years.”

“Sho! You don’t say so! Do you like it?”

“Yes; very much.”

“Well, I’m glad you happened along. It would have been a pity to
have our dance spoiled.”

By this time they had reached the farmhouse, and Abner went in, followed by our
hero.

A young woman, his brother’s wife, looked at Philip in some surprise.

“You see, I’ve got a fiddler, after all,” said Abner
gleefully. “We won’t have to put off the dance.”

As he spoke, his brother Jonas came into the room, and the explanation was
repeated.

“That’s good,” said Jonas heartily. “You’d better
go down to the store after supper, Abner, and tell the boys, for they’ve
just heard that Paul Beck can’t come.”

“You just save me some supper, and I’ll go now. The boy’ll
stay with us to-night. That’s the bargain I made with him.”

“He’s heartily welcome,” said Jonas Webb, a pleasant-faced
man, with sandy complexion, who was probably from two to three years older than
his brother. “You’ve happened along just at the right time.”

“I am glad of it,” said Philip; and there is no doubt he was
sincere, for we know how much he stood in need of employment, though he
naturally did not care to let his new friends know of his destitution.

“My brother didn’t tell me your name,” said Jonas.

“My name is Philip Gray,” answered our hero.

“Do you go round playing for dances?” inquired Jonas.

“I have only just begun.”

Philip didn’t think it necessary to say that the idea of making money in
this way had never occurred to him till this very day.

“Sit right up to supper, Jonas, and you, too, Mr. Gray,” said Mrs.
Webb.

Philip was by no means loath, for the dishes which he saw on the table had had
the effect of stimulating his appetite, already sharpened by his long walk and
long fast.

Philip, as the guest, was first helped to a bountiful supply of cold meat, a
hot biscuit, and some golden butter, not to mention two kinds of preserves, for
the Webbs always lived well. He was not slow in doing justice to the good
supper spread before him. He was almost afraid to eat as much as he wanted,
lest his appetite should attract attention, and, therefore, was pleased to see
that Jonas quite kept pace with him.

Indeed, when he had already eaten as much as he dared, Mrs. Webb said,
hospitably:

“I am afraid, Mr. Gray, you won’t make out a supper.”

“I don’t think there is any danger of that,” said Philip,
smiling. “I have enjoyed my supper very much.”

The young woman looked gratified by this tribute to her cooking, and just then
Abner came in.

“Did you see the boys, Abner?” asked Jonas.

“Yes, I saw them all. They were awfully glad we could have the dance,
after all. You see, we’ve been lookin’ forward to it, and
didn’t like to be disappointed. And now I must hurry down my supper, for
I’ve got to slick up and go for Mary Ann Temple. Are you goin’,
Lucy?”

“Of course she is,” answered Jonas. “I don’t have so
far to go for my girl as you do,” he added slyly.

“You used to go farther once, Jonas—six miles, where I have only to
go two.”

When supper was over, Philip inquired:

“How early will the dance commence?”

“About eight. We keep early hours in the country, and we like to get our
money’s worth.”

“If you have no objection, I will go out to the barn and try my violin a
little to see if it is in good tune.”

“Try it in the next room,” said the farmer’s wife.

“Yes, do!” said her husband. “We’d like to hear
you.”

He was a little afraid, judging from Philip’s youth, that he could not
play very well, and this would give him an opportunity of deciding how
competent the boy was to take the place of Paul Beck, of Pomfret, who had quite
a reputation in the towns around.

Philip went into the next room and began to prepare himself for his
evening’s task. Though his training had by no means been confined to
dancing-tunes, he was quite proficient in that department, having more than
once been called upon in Norton to officiate in a similar capacity.

When Jonas had listened for five minutes to Philip, he turned to Abner with a
satisfied look.

“He understands his business,” he said, nodding with emphasis.
“He ain’t no new beginner.”

“I think he beats Paul Beck,” said Abner, delighted to find his
choice approved.

“I don’t know but he does. I feel as if I wanted to start off
now.”

“I don’t see how he does it,” said Abner, with a puzzled
look. “I never could do anything at it, though I’m almost twice as
old.”

He passed into the room where Philip was practising.

“You’re a tip-top player,” said he, to Philip admiringly.
“Why, you beat Paul Beck.”

“Is he the one you expected to have?”

“Yes. Paul’s got a big name for fiddlin’.”

“I am glad you like my playing,” said Philip, who was naturally
pleased to find that he was likely to give satisfaction in his new business.

“The boys will be pleased, I can tell you.”

“I will do all I can to give them satisfaction,” said Philip
modestly.

“Oh, you will! there’s no doubt about that. How much did you pay
for your fiddle?”

“I believe it cost twenty-five dollars. My father gave it to me.”

“Sho! I didn’t think fiddles cost so much.”

“Some cost a great deal more.”

“Seems a good deal to lay out, but you’ll get your money back, if
you can get enough to do.”

“I hope so.”

“Well, you must excuse me now. I’ve got to slick up, and go after
Mary Ann Temple. She’d have been awfully disappointed if we’d had
to give it up.”

“Is she fond of dancing?”

“You’d better believe she is. Why, that girl could dance for four
hours stiddy—without wiltin’!”

“How late do you keep it up?”

“Till eleven or twelve. You won’t be sleepy, will you?”

“If I am, I will get up later to-morrow morning.”

“That’s all right. You can get up jest as late as you like. Lucy
will save you some breakfast. We don’t allow no one to go hungry here.
But I must be off. You will go to the hall along with Jonas and Lucy.
They’ll introduce you round and see that you are taken care of.”
Philip congratulated himself on being so well provided for, at least for one
night. The future was uncertain, but with the money which he was to receive for
his services, he would be able to get along for two or three days, and he
might, perhaps, if successful, obtain another similar engagement.

He had a new reason for being thankful that Squire Pope had not succeeded in
depriving him of his violin, for this was likely to prove a breadwinner.

He continued to practice till it was time to go over to the hall.

CHAPTER XX.

A LIVELY EVENING.

Schoolhouse Hall, as may be inferred, was a large hall, occupying the second
story of the Center Schoolhouse, and though not originally intended for
dancing-parties, answered very well for that purpose.

The hall was tolerably well filled when Philip entered in company with Jonas
Webb and his wife.

Philip had effaced, as well as he could, the stains of travel, had arrayed
himself in a clean shirt and collar, brushed his hair neatly, and, being
naturally a very good-looking boy, appeared to very good advantage, though he
certainly did look young.

As he walked through the hall, with his violin under his arm, he attracted the
attention of all, it having been already made known that in place of the
veteran Paul Beck—a man of fifty or more—an unknown boy would
furnish the music for the evening.

Philip could not avoid hearing some of the remarks which his appearance
excited. “What! that little runt play the fiddle?” said one
countrified young man, in a short-waisted blue coat, and tow-colored hair,
plastered down on either side of his head with tallow. “I don’t
believe he can play any more than I can.”

“I hope he can,” retained his partner—a plump, red-cheeked,
young farmer’s daughter. “He’s very good-looking,
anyhow.”

“He isn’t anything to brag of,” said her partner jealously.

“Oh, how can you say so, Jedidiah? See what beautiful black hair and eyes
he’s got, and such a lovely color on his cheeks!”

Now, Jedidiah, in appearance, was just the reverse of Philip. His hair, as
already stated, was tow-color, his face was tanned, and the color rather
resembled brick-dust than the deep red of our hero’s cheeks.

His partner was a rustic flirt, and he was disposed to be jealous, not being
certain how far she favored him. He, therefore, took offense at his
partner’s admiration of the young fiddler.

“He looks very common to me,” said Jedidiah pettishly.
“You’ve got a strange taste, Maria.”

“Perhaps I have, and perhaps I haven’t,” retorted Maria,
tossing her head.

“Perhaps you’re in love with him?” continued Jedidiah, in a
tone meant to be sarcastic.

“I should be if he was a little older,” said the young lady, rather
enjoying her lover’s displeasure.

“I don’t believe he can play at all,” growled Jedidiah.
“He’s fooled Abner Webb, like as not. It’s a pity we
couldn’t have Paul Beck.”

“Very likely he can play better than Paul Beck,” said
Maria—not because she thought so, but because she knew it would tease her
partner.

“Don’t be a fool, Maria,” said Jedidiah, scarcely conscious
of the impoliteness of his speech.

The young lady, however, resented it at once.

“I am sure you are very polite, Mr. Jedidiah Burbank—so polite that
I think you had better find another partner!”

“Excuse me, Maria,” said Jedidiah hastily, alarmed at the prospect
of being left without a partner. “Of course, I didn’t mean
anything.”

“If you didn’t mean it, what made you say it?” retorted
Maria, tossing her head. “I ain’t used to being called a fool. I
never knew a gentleman to make such a remark to a lady. I think you’d
better find some other partner.”

“I take it all back,” said Jedidiah, in alarm. “I was only in
fun.”

“I don’t like that kind of fun,” said Maria, in a tone of
dignified coldness.

“Then I won’t joke you again. I guess he can play well enough, if
Abner says so.”

Miss Maria Snodgrass allowed herself to be propitiated, more especially as she
herself might have been left without a partner, had she adhered to her
determination and sent Jedidiah adrift.

He took his place in a quadrille, not exactly wishing Philip to fail, but
rather hoping that he would prove a poor performer, in order that he might have
a little triumph over Maria, who had the bad taste to prefer the young
musician’s appearance to his.

Meanwhile Philip, following Jonas Webb across the room, had been introduced to
Frank Ingalls, who acted as manager.

“I am glad to see you, Mr. Gray,” said Ingalls. “I hope we
sha’n’t make you work too hard. We are very fond of dancing
here.”

“I don’t get tired very easily,” answered Philip. “I
hope you will be satisfied with my playing.”

“No fear of that, Mr. Ingalls, I’ve heerd him play at home, and I
tell you he can do it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Webb,” said Philip, bowing his acknowledgment of
the compliment.

“I guess we may as well commence, Mr. Gray,” said Mr. Ingalls.
“The boys seem to be getting impatient. Here’s the order of dances
for the evening.”

“Very well, Mr. Ingalls.”

The manager raised his voice, and said, “Gentlemen and ladies, you
already know that Beck is sick, and cannot be with us this evening, as he
engaged to do. In his place we have engaged a young musician, who has already
gained a great reputation in his profession—”

Philip was rather surprised to hear this, but it was not for him to gainsay it.

“Let me introduce to you Mr. Philip Gray.”

Philip bowed and smiled, and, putting his violin in position, immediately
commenced a lively air.

In less than five minutes the manager felt perfectly at ease concerning the
young musician. It was clear that Philip understood his business. Philip
himself entered into the spirit of his performance. His cheek flushed, his eyes
sparkled, and he almost outdid himself.

When the first dance was concluded, there was a murmur of approval throughout
the ballroom. The dancers were both surprised and pleased.

“He’s a smart boy!” said more than one. “He plays as
well as Paul Beck, and Paul’s been play-in’ for more’n twenty
years.”

“As well? I never heard Paul Beck play as well as that,” said
another.

Among those who were most pleased was Miss Maria Snodgrass.

“What do you think now, Mr. Burbank?” she said, addressing her
partner. “Do you think the boy can play now?”

“Yes, he can play most as well as Paul Beck,” admitted Jedidiah.

“Most as well? Paul Beck can’t begin to play as well as him,”
returned Maria, who was not educated, and occasionally made slips in grammar.

“Just as you say, Maria,” answered Jedidiah, submissively;
“only don’t call me Mr. Burbank.”

“Why? Ain’t that your name?” asked the young lady demurely.

“Not to you, Maria.”

“Well, I won’t, if you’ll take me up and introduce me to Mr.
Gray.”

“What for?” asked Jedidiah jealously.

“Because I want to know him.”

Mr. Burbank was obliged to obey the request of his partner.

“Oh, Mr. Gray, you play just lovely!” said Miss Snodgrass
rapturously.

“Thank you for the compliment,” said Philip, with a low bow.

“I like your playing ever so much better than Paul Beck’s.”

“You are too kind,” said Philip, with another bow.

“Isn’t he just lovely, Jedidiah!” said Maria, as she walked
away with her lover.

“Maybe he is—I ain’t a judge!” said Mr. Burbank, not
very enthusiastically.

So the evening passed. Philip continued to win the favorable opinion of the
merry party by his animated style of playing.

When at half-past eleven the last dance was announced, he was glad, for after
his long walk, and the efforts of the evening, he felt tired.

At the conclusion, Mr. Ingalls handed him three dollars, saying:

“Here’s your money, Mr. Gray, and we are much obliged to you
besides.”

“Thank you!” said our hero, carelessly slipping the money into his
vest pocket.

The manager little imagined that it constituted his entire capital.

“I hope we may have you here again some time, Mr. Gray,” continued
the manager.

“Perhaps so,” said Philip; “but I am not sure when I shall
come this way again.”

“Good night, Mr. Gray,” said Miss Snodgrass effusively. “I
should be glad to have you call at our house.”

Philip bowed his thanks. He did not notice the dark cloud on the brow of the
young lady’s escort.

CHAPTER XXI.

FORTUNE SMILES AGAIN.

Notwithstanding his exertions during the day and evening, Philip rose the next
day at his usual hour, and was in time for the family breakfast, at seven
o’clock.

“Don’t you feel tired, Mr. Gray?” asked Mrs. Webb.

“No, thank you. I slept well, and feel quite refreshed.”

“He’s used to it, Lucy,” remarked her husband.

“They look upon me as a professional player,” thought Philip.

“I think you and I ought to be more tired, for we were dancing all the
evening,” continued the farmer.

When they rose from the table, Philip looked for his hat.

“You’re not going to leave us so soon, Mr. Gray?” said Mrs.
Webb hospitably. “We shall be glad to have you stay with us a day or two,
if you can content yourself.”

“That’s right, Lucy. I’m glad you thought to ask him,”
said her husband.

Philip was tempted to accept this kind invitation. He would have free board,
and be at no expense, instead of spending the small sum he had earned the
evening previous; but he reflected that he would be no nearer solving the
problem of how he was to maintain himself, and while this was in uncertainty,
he was naturally anxious.

“I am very much obliged to you both,” he said. “If I come
this way again, I shall be glad to call upon you, but now I think I must be
pushing on.”

“You’ll always be welcome, Mr. Gray,” said Mrs. Webb.

Philip thanked her, and soon after set out on his way.

He was more cheerful and hopeful than the day before, for then he was well nigh
penniless, and now he had three dollars in his pocket.

Three dollars was not a very large sum, to be sure, but to one who had been so
near destitution as Philip it seemed very important.

Besides, he had discovered in his violin a source of income, whereas, hitherto,
he had looked upon it merely as a source of amusement. This made him feel more
independent and self-reliant.

He had walked perhaps two miles, when he heard the rattle of wheels behind him.
He did not turn his head, for there was nothing strange in this sound upon a
frequented road. He did turn his head, however, when he heard a strong voice
calling “Hello!”

Turning, he saw that a young man who was driving had slackened the speed of his
horse, and was looking toward him.

Philip halted, and regarded the driver inquiringly.

“You’re the young chap that played for a dance last night,
ain’t you!” said the newcomer.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you’re the one I want to see—jump in, and we’ll
talk as we are going along.”

Philip had no objection to a ride, and he accepted the invitation with
alacrity. The driver, he noticed, was a young man, of pleasant manners, though
dressed in a coarse suit.

“I drove over to Jonas Webb’s to see you, and they told me you had
just gone,” he continued. “I thought maybe you’d get up late,
but you was up on time. Are you engaged for this evening?”

Philip began to prick up his ears and become interested. Was it possible that
his good luck was to continue, and that he was to have an opportunity of
earning some more money through his faithful friend, the violin? He
didn’t think it well to exhibit the satisfaction he felt, and answered,
in a matter-of-fact tone;

“No, I have no engagement for this evening.”

“I’m glad of it,” responded the young man, evidently well
pleased. “You see, we had arranged to have a dance over to our place, but
Mr. Beck, being sick, we thought we’d have to give it up. One of my
neighbors was over last evening and heard you play, and he thought maybe we
could secure you.”

“I shall be glad to play for you,” said Philip politely.

“What are your terms?” asked his companion.

“Three dollars and board and lodging for the time I need to stay.”

“That’s satisfactory. I’ll engage you.”

“Is it near here?” asked Philip.

“It’s in Conway—only four miles from here. I’ll take
you right over now, and you shall stay at my house.”

“Thank you, I shall find that very agreeable,” said Philip.

“Does Mr. Beck live near you?” asked our hero, a little later.

“Bless you! he lives in our place.”

“I suppose his services are in demand?”

“Yes, he is sent for to all the towns around. Fact is, there isn’t
anybody but he that can play to suit; but I expect, from what I’ve heard,
that you can come up to him.”

“I couldn’t expect to do that,” said Philip modestly.
“I am very young yet.”

“Folks do say you beat Paul. It seems wonderful, too, considering how
young you are. What might be your age, now?”

“Just sixteen.”

“Sho! you don’t say so? Why, Paul Beck’s over fifty.”

“Mr. Beck won’t think I’m interfering with him, will
he?” asked Philip.

“Of course, he can’t. We’d a had him if he was well. We
can’t be expected to put off the party because he’s sick. That
wouldn’t be reasonable, now, would it?”

“I should think not.”

Just then Philip became sensible that a light wagon was approaching, driven by
a young lady.

He did not, however, suppose it was any one he knew till the carriage stopped,
and he heard a voice saying:

“Good morning, Mr. Gray!”

Then he discovered that it was the same young lady who had asked for an
introduction to him the evening previous.

“Good morning, Miss Snodgrass!” he said politely, remembering,
fortunately, the young lady’s name.

Meanwhile, Maria and Philip’s drivers had also exchanged salutations, for
they were acquainted.

“And where are you carrying Mr. Gray, Mr. Blake?” she asked.

“I’m carrying him over to our place. He’s going to play for
us this evening.”

“Is there going to be a dance in Conway this evening?” inquired
Miss Snodgrass, with sudden interest.

“Yes. Won’t you come over?”

“I will, if I can get Jedidiah to bring me,” answered Maria.

“I guess there’s no doubt about that,” answered Andrew Blake,
who knew very well Jedidiah’s devotion to the young lady.

“Oh, I don’t know!” answered Maria coquettishly.
“Perhaps he won’t care for my company.”

“If he doesn’t, you won’t have any trouble in finding another
beau.”

After a little more conversation, the young lady drove away; but not without
expressing to Philip her delight at having another chance to hear his beautiful
playing.

“She’ll be there,” said Andrew Blake, as they drove away.
“She makes Jedidiah Burbank do just as she orders him.”

“Are they engaged?” asked our hero.

“Yes, I expect so; but there may be some chance of your cutting him out,
if you try. The young lady seems to admire you.”

Philip smiled.

“I am only a boy of sixteen,” he said. “I am too young to
think of such things. I won’t interfere with Mr. Burbank.”

“Jedidiah’s apt to be jealous,” said Blake, “and Maria
likes to torment him. However, she’ll end by marrying him, I
guess.”

In half an hour or thereabouts, Andrew Blake drew up at the gate of a small but
neat house on the main street in Conway. He was a carpenter, as Philip
afterward found, and had built the house himself. He was probably of about the
same age as Jonas Webb, and like him was married to a young wife.

During the afternoon, Philip, being left pretty much to his own devices, took a
walk in and about the village, ascending a hill at one side, which afforded him
a fine view of that and neighboring villages.

He was pleasantly received and hospitably entertained at the house of Mr.
Blake, and about quarter of eight started out for the hall, at which he was to
play, in company with his host and hostess.

As they approached the hall, a young man approached them with a perplexed face.

“What do you think, Andrew?” he said. “Paul Beck’s in
the hall, as mad as a hatter, and he vows he’ll play himself. He says he
was engaged, and no one shall take his place.”

Andrew Blake looked disturbed, and Philip shared in his feeling. Was he to lose
his engagement, after all?

CHAPTER XXII.

RIVAL MUSICIANS.

They entered the hall, which was already well filled, for the young people of
both sexes liked to have as long a time for enjoyment as possible.

At the head of the hall, in the center of a group, stood a tall, thin man,
dressed in solemn black, with a violin under his arm. His face, which looked
like that of a sick man, was marked by an angry expression, and this, indeed,
was his feeling.

“I suppose that’s Mr. Beck?” said Philip.

“Yes, it is,” answered Andrew Blake, in evident discomposure.
“What on earth brings him here from a sick-bed, I can’t understand.
I heard that he had a fever.”

The fact was that Paul Beck was jealous of his reputation as a musician. It was
satisfactory to him to think that he was so indispensable that no one could
take his place. He had sent word to the committee that he should be unable to
play for them, supposing, of course, that they would be compelled to give up
the party. When intelligence was brought to him during the afternoon that it
would come off, and that another musician had been engaged in his place, he was
not only disturbed, but angry, though, of course, the latter feeling was wholly
unreasonable. He determined that he would be present, at any rate, no matter
how unfit his sickness rendered him for the evening’s work. He resolved
to have no rival, and to permit no one to take his place in his own town.

It did not seem to occur to Mr. Beck that, having formally declined the
engagement on account of sickness, he had no claim whatever on the committee,
and was, in fact, an interloper. It was in vain that his sister protested
against his imprudence. (He was an old bachelor and his sister kept house for
him.) He insisted on dressing himself and making his way to the hall, where, as
was to be expected, his arrival produced considerable embarrassment.

Paul Beck stood in sullen impatience awaiting the arrival of his rival.

It so happened that no one had thought to mention to him that it was a boy. He
was prepared to see a full-grown man.

Philip followed Andrew Blake up to the central group.

“Who is it, I say,” Mr. Beck was inquiring, “that engaged
another musician to take my place?”

“No one, sir,” answered Andrew Blake firmly, for Mr. Beck’s
unreasonableness provoked him. “I engaged a musician to play this
evening, but it was not in your place, for you had sent us word that you could
not appear.”

“Where is he, I say?” continued Paul Beck sourly.

“Here he is,” replied Blake, drawing toward our hero, who felt that
he was placed in an awkward position.

“Why, he’s only a baby!” said Beck, surveying our hero
contemptuously.

Philip’s cheek flushed, and he, too, began to feel angry.

“He isn’t as old as you are, Mr. Beck,” said Andrew Blake
manfully, “but you’ll find he understands his business.”

“I certainly didn’t expect you to get a child in my place,”
said Paul Beck scornfully.

“I suppose a musician may know how to play, if he isn’t
sixty-five,” said Miss Maria Snod-grass, who had listened indignantly to
Mr. Beck’s contemptuous remarks about our hero, whose cause she so
enthusiastically championed.

Poor Mr. Beck! He was sensitive about his age, and nothing could have cut him
more cruelly than this exaggeration of it. He was really fifty-five, and looked
at least sixty, but he fondly flattered himself that he looked under fifty.
“Sixty-five!” he repeated furiously. “Who says I am
sixty-five?”

“Well, you look about that age,” said Maria, with malicious
pleasure.

“I shall have to live a good many years before I am sixty,” said
Paul Beck angrily. “But that’s either here nor there. You engaged
me to play to-night, and I am ready to do it.”

Andrew Blake felt the difficulty of his position, but he did not mean to desert
the boy-musician whom he had engaged.

“Mr. Beck,” said he, “we shall be glad to have you serve us
on another occasion, but to-night Mr. Gray, here, is engaged. You gave up the
engagement of your own accord, and that ended the matter, so far as you are
concerned.”

“Do you refuse to let me play?” demanded Paul Beck, his pale cheek
glowing with anger and mortification.

“You understand why,” answered Blake. “This young man is
engaged, and we have no right to break the engagement.”

Philip, who had felt the embarrassment of his position, had meanwhile made up
his mind what to do. The three dollars he expected to earn were important to
him, but he didn’t care to make trouble. He did not doubt that his
lodging and meals would be given him, and that would be something. Accordingly,
he spoke:

“I have been engaged, it is true,” he said, “but if Mr. Beck
wants to play I will resign my engagement and stay and hear him.”

“No, no!” exclaimed several—Mr. Blake and Miss Snodgrass
being among them.

“Mr. Gray, you were regularly engaged,” said one of the committee.

“That’s true,” answered Philip, “and,” he
couldn’t help adding, “I should be justified in insisting upon
playing; but since Mr. Beck seems to feel so bad about it, I will give way to
him.”

He spoke manfully, and there was no sign of weakness or submission about him.
He asserted his rights, while he expressed his willingness to surrender them.

There was a little consultation among the committee. They were all disgusted
with the conduct of Paul Beck, and were unwilling that he should triumph. At
the same time, as they might need his services at some future time, they did
not wish wholly to alienate him.

Finally, they announced their decision through Andrew Blake.

“We are not willing to accept Mr. Gray’s resignation wholly,”
he said, “but we propose that he and Mr. Beck shall divide the
evening’s work between them—each to receive half the usual
compensation.”

There was considerable applause, for it seemed to be a suitable compromise, and
would enable the company to compare the merits of the rival musicians.

“I agree,” said Philip promptly.

“What do you say, Mr. Beck?” asked Andrew Blake.

Now, while Paul Beck did not like to give up half the honor, he felt thoroughly
convinced that Philip was only a beginner, and that he, as an experienced
player, could easily eclipse him, and thus gain a triumph which would be very
gratifying to his pride.

As for the compensation, to do him justice, he did not much care for that,
being a man of very good means. He played more for glory than for
pay—though he, of course, had no objection to receiving compensation.

“I have no objections,” he said. “If you want to give the boy
a chance to practice a little, I am willing.”

Philip understood the sneer, and he secretly determined to do his best.

The committee was much pleased at the satisfactory conclusion of what had
threatened to be a very troublesome dispute, and it was arranged, Philip
consenting, that Mr. Beck should play first.

The old musician played, in a confident manner, a familiar dancing-tune,
accompanying his playing with various contortions of the face and twistings of
his figure, supposed to express feeling. It was a fair performance, but
mechanical, and did not indicate anything but very ordinary talent. His time
was good, and dancers always found his playing satisfactory.

When Paul Beck had completed his task, he looked about him complacently, as if
to say, “Let the boy beat that if he can,” and sat down.

Philip had listened to Mr. Beck with attention. He was anxious to learn how
powerful a rival he had to compete with. What he heard did not alarm him, but
rather gave him confidence.

CHAPTER XXIII.

AN HOUR OF TRIUMPH.

When Paul rose and stood before this audience, violin in hand, he certainly
presented quite a strong contrast to his rival.

Paul Beck, as we have already said, was a tall, thin, lantern-jawed man, clad
in solemn black, his face of a sickly, sallow hue.

Philip was of fair height, for his age, with a bright, expressive face, his
hair of a chestnut shade, and looking the very picture of boyish health. His
very appearance made a pleasant impression upon those present.

“He’s a nice-looking boy,” thought more than one, “but
he looks too young to know much about the violin.”

But when Philip began to play, there was general surprise. In a dancing-tune
there was not much chance for the exhibition of talent, but his delicate touch
and evident perfect mastery of his instrument were immediately apparent. In
comparison, the playing of Paul Beck seemed wooden and mechanical.

There was a murmur of approbation, and when Philip had finished his first part
of the program, he was saluted by hearty applause, which he acknowledged by a
modest and graceful bow.

Paul Beck’s face, as his young rival proceeded in his playing, was an
interesting study. He was very disagreeably surprised. He had made up his mind
that Philip could not play at all, or, at any rate, would prove to be a mere
tyro and bungler, and he could hardly believe his ears when he heard the sounds
which Philip evoked from his violin.

In spite of his self-conceit, he secretly acknowledged that Philip even now was
his superior, and in time would leave him so far behind that there could be no
comparison between them.

It was not a pleasant discovery for a man who had prided himself for many years
on his superiority as a musician. If it had been a man of established fame it
would have been different, but to be compelled to yield the palm to an unknown
boy, was certainly mortifying.

When he heard the applause that followed Philip’s performance, and
remembered that none had been called forth by his own, he determined that he
would not play again that evening. He did not like to risk the comparison which
he was sure would be made between himself and Philip. So, when Andrew Blake
came up to him and asked him to play for the next dance, he shook his head.
“I don’t feel well enough,” he said “I thought I was
stronger than I am.”

“Do you want the boy to play all the rest of the evening?”

“Yes; he plays very fairly,” said Beck, in a patronizing manner,
which implied his own superiority.

“There can be no doubt about that,” said Andrew Blake, with
emphasis, for he understood Mr. Beck’s meaning, and resented it as one of
the warmest admirers of the boy-musician whom he had engaged.

But Paul Beck would not for the world have revealed his real opinion of
Philip’s merits.

“Yes,” he continued, “he plays better than I expected. I
guess you can get along with him.”

“How shall we arrange about the compensation, Mr. Beck?” asked
Blake. “We ought in that case to give him more than half.”

“Oh, you can give him the whole,” answered Beck carelessly.
“If I felt well enough to play, I would do my part, but I think it will
be better for me to go home and go to bed.”

His decision was communicated to Philip, who felt impelled by politeness to
express his regrets to Mr. Beck.

“I am sorry you don’t feel able to play, Mr. Beck,” he said
politely.

“Oh, it’s of no consequence, as they’ve got some one to take
my place,” returned Beck coldly.

“I should be glad to hear you play again,” continued Philip.

Paul Beck nodded slightly, but he felt too much mortified to reciprocate
Philip’s friendly advances. Half an hour later he left the hall.

The dancers by no means regretted the change of arrangement. They evidently
preferred the young musician to his elderly rival. The only one to express
regret was Miss Maria Snodgrass.

“I declare it’s a shame Mr. Beck has given up,” she said.
“I wanted you to dance with me, Mr. Gray. I am sure if you can dance as
well as you can play, you would get along perfectly lovely. Now you’ve
got to play, and can’t dance at all.”

“It isn’t leap-year, Maria,” said Jedidiah Burbank, in a
jealous tone.

Miss Snodgrass turned upon him angrily:

“You needn’t put in your oar, Jedidiah Burbank!” she said.
“I guess I know what I’m about. If it was leap-year fifty times
over, I wouldn’t offer myself to you!”

And the young lady tossed her head in a very decided manner.

“Now don’t get mad, Maria!” implored Jedidiah, feeling that
at the prompting of jealousy; he had put his foot in it. “I didn’t
mean nothing.”

“Then you’d better say nothing next time,” retorted the young
lady.

Meanwhile, Philip acknowledged the young lady’s politeness by a smile and
a bow, assuring her that if it had been possible, it would have given him great
pleasure to dance with her.

“If Mr. Burbank will play for me,” he said with a glance at the
young man, “I shall be glad to dance.”

Miss Snodgrass burst out laughing.

“Jedidiah couldn’t play well enough for an old cow to dance
by,” she said.

“There ain’t any old cows here,” said Jedidiah, vexed at
being ridiculed.

“Well, there are some calves, anyway,” retorted Maria, laughing
heartily.

Poor Jedidiah! It is to be feared that he will have a hard time when he becomes
the husband of the fair Maria. She will undoubtedly be the head of the new
matrimonial firm.

There was nothing further to mar the harmony of the evening. It had begun with
indications of a storm, but the clouds had vanished, and when Mr. Beck left the
hall, there was nothing left to disturb the enjoyment of those present.

The favorable opinions expressed when Philip commenced playing were repeated
again and again, as the evening slipped away.

“I tell you, he’s a regular genius!” one enthusiastic admirer
said to his companion. “Paul Beck can’t hold a candle to
him.”

“That’s so. He’s smart, and no mistake.”

Poor Mr. Beck! It was fortunate he was unable to hear these comparisons made.
He could not brook a rival near the throne, and had gone home in low spirits,
feeling that he could never again hold his head as high as he had done.

When the dancing was over, there was a brief conference of the committee of
management, the subject of which was soon made known.

Andrew Blake approached Philip and said:

“Mr. Gray, some of us would like to hear you play something else, if you
are not tired—not a dancing-tune.”

“I shall be very happy to comply with your request,” answered
Philip.

He spoke sincerely, for he saw that all were pleased with him, and it is
gratifying to be appreciated.

He paused a moment in thought, and then began to play the “Carnival of
Venice,” with variations. It had been taught him by his father, and he
had played it so often that his execution was all that could be desired. The
variations were of a showy and popular character, and very well adapted to
impress an audience like that to which he was playing.

“Beautiful! Beautiful!” exclaimed the young ladies, while their
partners pronounced it “tip-top” and “first-rate,” by
which they probably meant very much the same thing.

“Oh, Mr. Gray!” exclaimed Miss Snodgrass fervently. “You play
like a seraphim!”

“Thank you!” said Philip, smiling. “I never heard a seraphim
play on the violin, but I am sure your remark is very complimentary.”

“I wish you could play like that, Jedidiah,” said Maria.

“I’ll learn to play, if you want me to,” said Mr. Burbank.

“Thank you! You’re very obliging,” said Maria; “but I
won’t trouble you. You haven’t got a genius for it, like Mr.
Gray.”

The evening was over at length, and again Philip was made the happy recipient
of three dollars. His first week had certainly been unexpectedly prosperous.

“This is better than staying in the Norton Poorhouse!” he said to
himself.

CHAPTER XXIV.

LORENZO RICCABOCCA.

Philip’s reputation as a musician was materially increased by his second
night’s performance. To adopt a military term, he had crossed swords with
the veteran fiddler, Paul Beck, and, in the opinion of all who heard both, had
far surpassed him.

This was said openly to Philip by more than one; but he was modest, and had too
much tact and good taste to openly agree with them. This modesty raised him
higher in the opinion of his admirers.

He was invited by the Blakes to prolong his visit, but preferred to continue on
his journey—though his plans were, necessarily, not clearly defined.

Andrew Blake carried him five miles on his way, and from that point our hero
used the means of locomotion with which nature had supplied him.

Some six miles farther on there was a manufacturing town of considerable size,
named Wilkesville, and it occurred to him that this would be a good place at
which to pass the night.

Something might turn up for him there. He hardly knew what, but the two
unexpected strokes of luck which he had had thus far encouraged him to think
that a third might come to him.

Philip continued on his way—his small pack of clothing in one hand and
his violin under his arm. Being in no especial hurry—for it was only the
middle of the forenoon—he bethought himself to sit down and rest at the
first convenient and inviting place.

He soon came to a large elm tree, which, with its spreading branches, offered a
pleasant and grateful shade.

He threw himself down and lay back on the greensward, in pleasant
contemplation, when he heard a gentle cough—as of one who wished to
attract attention. Looking up he observed close at hand, a tall man, dressed in
black, with long hair, which fell over his shirt collar and shoulders.

He wore a broad collar and black satin necktie, and his hair was parted in the
middle. His appearance was certainly peculiar, and excited our hero’s
curiosity.

“My young friend,” he said, “you have chosen a pleasant
resting-place beneath this umbrageous monarch of the grove.” “Yes,
sir,” answered Philip, wondering whether the stranger was a poet.

“May I also recline beneath it?” asked the newcomer.

“Certainly, sir. It is large enough to shelter us both.”

“Quite true; but I did not wish to intrude upon your meditations.”

“My meditations are not of much account,” answered Philip,
laughing.

“I see you are modest. Am I right in supposing that yonder case contains
a violin?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you are a musician?”

“A little of one,” replied Philip.

“May I ask—excuse my curiosity—if you play
professionally?”

“Perhaps he may help me to an engagement,” thought our hero, and he
said readily, “I do.”

“Indeed!” said the stranger, appearing pleased. “What style
of music do you play?”

“For each of the last two evenings I have played for
dancing-parties.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“You do not confine yourself to dancing-music?”

“Oh, no! I prefer other kinds; but dancing-tunes seem most in demand, and
I have my living to make.” The stranger seemed still more gratified.

“I am delighted to have met you, Mr.—— Ahem!” he
paused, and looked inquiringly at Philip.

“Gray.”

“Mr. Gray, I believe Providence has brought us together. I see you are
surprised.”

Philip certainly did look puzzled, as he well might.

“I must explain myself more clearly. I am Professor Lorenzo Riccabocca,
the famous elocutionist and dramatic reader.”

Philip bowed.

“Doubtless you have heard of me?” said the professor inquiringly.

“I have never lived in large places,” answered Philip, in some
embarrassment, “or no doubt your name would be familiar to me.”

“To be sure, that must make a difference. For years,” said the
professor, “I have given dramatic readings to crowded houses, and
everywhere my merits have been conceded by the educated and refined.”

Philip could not help wondering how it happened in that case that the professor
should look so seedy. A genius appreciated so highly ought to have brought in
more gold and silver.

Perhaps Professor Riccabocca understood Philip’s expressive look, for he
went to to say:

“The public has repaid me richly for the exercise of my talent; but,
alas, my young friend, I must confess that I have no head for business. I
invested my savings unwisely, and ascertained a month since that I had lost
all.”

“That was a great pity!” said Philip sympathizingly.

“It was, indeed! It quite unmanned me!” said the professor, wiping
away a tear. “I felt that all ambition was quite gone, and I was mad and
sick. Indeed, only a week since I rose from a sick-bed. But Lorenzo is himself
again!” he exclaimed, striking his breast energetically. “I will
not succumb to Fate. I will again court the favor of the public, and this time
I will take care of the ducats my admirers bestow upon me.”

“I should think that was a good plan,” said Philip.

“I will begin at once. Nearby is a town devoted to the mammon of trade,
yet among its busy thousands there must be many that will appreciate the genius
of Lorenzo Riccabocca.”

“I hope so,” answered Philip politely.

He could not help thinking that the professor was rather self-conceited, and he
hardly thought it in good taste for him to refer so boastfully to his genius.

“I wish you, Mr. Gray, to assist me in my project,” continued the
professor.

“How can I do so, sir?” inquired Philip.

“Let me tell you. I propose that we enter into a professional
partnership, that we give an entertainment partly musical, partly dramatic. I
will draw up a program, including some of my most humorous recitations and
impersonations, while interspersed among them will be musical selections
contributed by yourself. Do you comprehend?”

“Yes,” answered Philip, nodding.

“And what do you think of it?”

“I think well of it,” replied the boy-musician.

He did think well of it. It might not draw a large audience, this mixed
entertainment, but it would surely pay something; and it would interfere with
no plans of his own, for, in truth, he had none.

“Then you will cooperate with me?” said the professor.

“Yes, professor.”

“Give me your hand!” exclaimed Riccabocca dramatically. “Mr.
Gray, it is a perfect bonanza of an idea. I may tell you, in confidence, I was
always a genius for ideas. Might I ask a favor of you?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Give me a touch of your quality. Let me hear you play.”

Philip drew his violin from its case and played for his new professional
partner “The Carnival of Venice,” with variations—the same
which had been received with so much favor the evening previous.

Professor Riccabocca listened attentively, and was evidently agreeably
surprised. He was not a musician, but he saw that Philip was a much better
player than he had anticipated, and this, of course, was likely to improve
their chances of pecuniary success.

“You are a splendid performer,” he said enthusiastically.
“You shall come out under my auspices and win fame. I predict for you a
professional triumph.”

“Thank you,” said Philip, gratified by this tribute from a man of
worldly experience. “I hope you will prove a true prophet.”

“And now, Mr. Gray, let us proceed on our way. We must get lodgings in
Wilkesville, and make arrangements for our entertainment. I feel new courage,
now that I have obtained so able a partner. Wilkesville little knows what is in
store for her. We shall go, see, and conquer!”

An hour later Philip and his new partner entered Wilkesville.

CHAPTER XXV.

A CHANGE OF NAME.

Wilkesville was an inland city, of from fifteen to twenty thousand inhabitants.

As Philip and the professor passed along the principal street, they saw various
stores of different kinds, with here and there a large, high, plain-looking
structure, which they were told was used for the manufacture of shoes.

“Wilkesville will give us a large audience,” he said, in a tone of
satisfaction.

“I hope so,” said our hero.

“Hope so? I know so!” said the professor confidently. “The
town is full of young men, employed in shoe-making. They are fond of amusement,
and they will gladly seize an opportunity of patronizing a first-class
entertainment like ours.”

The professor’s reasoning seemed good, but logic sometimes fails, and
Philip was not quite so sanguine. He said nothing, however, to dampen the ardor
of his partner.

“Let me see,” said the professor, pausing, “yonder stands the
Wilkesville Hotel. We had better put up there.”

It was a brick structure of considerable size, and seemed to have some
pretensions to fashion.

“Do you know how much they charge?” asked Philip prudently.

“No; I neither know nor care,” answered Professor Riccabocca
loftily.

“But,” said Philip, “I haven’t much money.”

“Nor I,” admitted Riccabocca. “But it is absolutely necessary
for us to stop at a first-class place. We must not let the citizens suppose
that we are tramps or vagabonds. They will judge us by our surroundings.”

“There is something in that,” said Philip. “But suppose we
don’t succeed!”

“Succeed? We must succeed!” said the professor, striking an
attitude. “In the vocabulary of youth, there’s no such word as
‘fail’! Away with timid caution! Our watchword be success!”

“Of course, you have much more experience than I,” said Philip.

“Certainly I have! We must keep up appearances. Be guided by me, and all
will come right.”

Philip reflected that they could not very well make less than their expenses,
and accordingly he acceded to the professor’s plans. They entered the
hotel, and Professor Riccabocca, assuming a dignified, important step, walked
up to the office. “Sir,” said he, to the clerk, “my companion
and myself would like an apartment, one eligibly located, and of ample
size.”

“You can be accommodated, sir,” answered the young man politely.
“Will you enter your names?”

Opening the hotel register, the elocutionist, with various flourishes, entered,
this name: “Professor Lorenzo Riccabocca, Elocutionist and Dramatic
Reader.”

“Shall I enter your name?” he asked of Philip.

“If you please.”

This was the way Professor Riccabocca complied with his request: “Philip
de Gray, the Wonderful Boy-musician.”

He turned the book, so that the clerk could see the entries.

“We propose to give an entertainment in Wilkesville,” he said.

“I am glad to hear it,” said the clerk politely.

“After dinner I will consult you as to what steps to take. Is there
anything in the way of amusement going on in town this evening?”

“Yes, there is a concert, chiefly of home-talent, in Music Hall. There is
nothing announced for to-morrow evening.”

“Then we will fix upon to-morrow evening. It will give us more time to
get out hand-bills, etc. Is there a printing-office in town?”

“Oh, yes, sir. We have a daily paper.”

“Is the office near at hand?”

“Yes, sir. It is on the corner of the next street.”

“That will do for the present. We will go up to our apartment. Will
dinner be ready soon?”

“In half an hour.”

Here the servant made his appearance, and the professor, with a wave of his
hand, said:

“Lead on, Mr. de Gray! I will follow.”

CHAPTER XXVI.

A PROMISING PLAN.

They were shown into a front room, of good size, containing two beds. The
servant handed them the key, and left them.

“This looks very comfortable, Mr. de Gray,” said the professor,
rubbing his hands with satisfaction.

“Why do you call me Mr. de Gray?” asked Philip, thinking he had
been misunderstood. “It is plain Gray, without any de.”

“I am only using your professional name,” answered the professor.
“Don’t you know people will think a great deal more of you if they
suppose you to be a foreigner?”

Philip laughed.

“Is Lorenzo Riccabocca your true or professional name, professor?”
he asked.

“Professional, of course. My real name—I impart it to you in the
strictest confidence—is Lemuel Jones. Think of it. How would that look on
a poster?”

“It would not be so impressive as the other.”

“Of course not; and the public need to be impressed. I thank thee for
that word, Mr. de Gray. By the way, it’s rather a pity I didn’t
give you a Spanish or Italian name.”

“But I can’t speak either language. It would be seen through at
once.”

“People wouldn’t think of asking. You’d be safe enough. They
will generally swallow all you choose to say.”

They went down to dinner presently, and the professor—Philip could not
help thinking—ate as if he were half-starved. He explained afterward that
elocutionary effort taxes the strength severely, and makes hearty eating a
necessity.

After dinner was over the professor said:

“Are you content, Mr. de Gray, to leave me to make the necessary
arrangements?”

“I should prefer that you would,” said Philip, and he spoke
sincerely. “Probably you understand much better than I what needs to be
done.”

“’Tis well! Your confidence is well placed,” said the
professor, with a wave of his hand. “Shall you remain in the
hotel?”

“No, I think I will walk about the town and see a little of it. I have
never been here before.”

Philip took a walk through the principal streets, surveying with curiosity the
principal buildings, for, though there was nothing particularly remarkable
about them, he was a young traveler, to whom everything was new. He could not
help thinking of his late home, and in particular of Frank Dunbar, his special
friend, and he resolved during the afternoon to write a letter to Frank,
apprising him of his luck thus far. He knew that Frank would feel anxious about
him, and would be delighted to hear of his success as a musician.

He went into a book-store and bought a sheet of paper and an envelope.

He had just completed his letter, when his partner entered the reading-room of
the hotel with a brisk step.

“Mr. de Gray,” he said, “I have made all necessary
arrangements. I have hired the hall for to-morrow evening—five
dollars—ordered some tickets and posters at the printing-office, and
secured a first-class notice in to-morrow morning’s paper. Everybody in
Wilkesville will know before to-morrow night that they will have the
opportunity of attending a first-class performance at the Music Hall.”

“It seems to me the necessary expenses are considerable,” said
Philip uneasily.

“Of course they are; but what does that matter?”

“What is to be the price of tickets?”

“General admission, twenty-five cents; reserved seats, fifty cents, and
children under twelve, fifteen cents. How does that strike you!”

“Will anyone be willing to pay fifty cents to hear us?” asked
Philip.

“Fifty cents! It will be richly worth a dollar!” said the professor
loftily.

“I suppose he knows best,” thought Philip. “I hope all will
come out right. If it does we can try the combination in other places.”