So Phil went down, and Bridget, on hospitable thoughts intent, drew her only rocking-chair near the stove, and forced Phil to sit down in it.
Then she told him, with evident enjoyment, of the trick which Pietro had tried to play on her, and how he had failed.
"He couldn"t chate me, the haythen!" she concluded. "I was too smart for the likes of him, anyhow. Where do you live when you are at home?"
"I have no home now," said Phil, with tears in his eyes.
"And have you no father and mother?"
"Yes," said Phil. "They live in Italy."
"And why did they let you go so far away?"
"They were poor, and the padrone offered them money," answered Phil, forced to answer, though the subject was an unpleasant one.
"And did they know he was a bad man and would bate you?"
"I don"t think they knew," said Phil, with hesitation. "My mother did not know."
"I"ve got three childer myself," said Bridget; "they"ll get wet comin"
home from school, the darlints--but I wouldn"t let them go with any man to a far country, if he"d give me all the gowld in the world. And where does that man live that trates you so bad?"
"In New York."
"And does Peter--or whatever the haythen"s name is--live there too?"
"Yes, Pietro lives there. The padrone is his uncle, and treats him better than the rest of us. He sent him after me to bring me back."
"And what is your name? Is it Peter, like his?"
"No; my name is Filippo."
"It"s a quare name."
"American boys call me Phil."
"That"s better. It"s a Christian name, and the other isn"t. Before I married my man I lived five years at Mrs. Robertson"s, and she had a boy they called Phil. His whole name was Philip."
"That"s my name in English."
"Then why don"t you call it so, instead of Philip-O? What good is the O, anyhow? In my country they put the O before the name, instead of to the tail-end of it. My mother was an O"Connor. But it"s likely ivery country has its own ways."
Phil knew very little of Ireland, and did not fully understand Mrs.
McGuire"s philosophical remarks. Otherwise they might have amused him, as they may possibly amuse my readers.
I cannot undertake to chronicle the conversation that took place between Phil and his hostess. She made numerous inquiries, to some of which he was able to give satisfactory replies, to others not. But in half an hour there was an interruption, and a noisy one. Three stout, freckled-faced children ran in at the back door, dripping as if they had just emerged from a shower-bath. Phil moved aside to let them approach the stove.
Forthwith Mrs. McGuire was engaged in motherly care, removing a part of the wet clothing, and lamenting for the state in which her st.u.r.dy offspring had returned. But presently order was restored, and the bustle was succeeded by quiet.
"Play us a tune," said Pat, the oldest.
Phil complied with the request, and played tune after tune, to the great delight of the children, as well as of Mrs. McGuire herself. The result was that when, shortly after, on the storm subsiding, Phil proposed to go, the children clamored to have him stay, and he received such a cordial invitation to stop till the next morning that he accepted, nothing loath. So till the next morning our young hero is provided for.
CHAPTER XXIII
A PITCHED BATTLE
Has my youthful reader ever seen a dog slinking home with downcast look and tall between his legs? It was with very much the same air that Pietro in the evening entered the presence of the padrone. He had received a mortifying defeat, and now he had before him the difficult task of acknowledging it.
"Well, Pietro," said the padrone, harshly, "where is Filippo?"
"He is not with me," answered Pietro, in an embarra.s.sed manner.
"Didn"t you see him then?" demanded his uncle, hastily.
For an instant Pietro was inclined to reply in the negative, knowing that the censure he would incur would be less. But Phil might yet be taken--he probably would be, sooner or later, Pietro thought--and then his falsehood would be found out, and he would in consequence lose the confidence of the padrone. So, difficult though it was, he thought it politic to tell the truth.
"Si, signore, I saw him," said he.
"Then why didn"t you drag him home?" demanded his uncle, with contracted brow. "Didn"t I tell you to bring him home?"
"Si, signore, but I could not."
"Are you not so strong as he, then?" asked the padrone, with a sneer.
"Is a boy of twelve more than a match for you, who are six years older?"
"I could kill him with my little finger," said Pietro, stung by this taunt, and for the moment he looked as if he would like to do it.
"Then you didn"t want to bring him? Come, you are not too old for the stick yet."
Pietro glowed beneath his dark skin with anger and shame when these words were addressed to him. He would not have cared so much had they been alone, but some of the younger boys were present, and it shamed him to be threatened in their presence.
"I will tell you how it happened," he said, suppressing his anger as well as he could, "and you will see that I was not in fault."
"Speak on, then," said his uncle; but his tone was cold and incredulous.
Pietro told the story, as we know it. It will not be necessary to repeat it. When he had finished, his uncle said, with a sneer, "So you were afraid of a woman. I am ashamed of you."
"What could I do?" pleaded Pietro.
"What could you do?" repeated the padrone, furiously; "you could push her aside, run into the house, and secure the boy. You are a coward--afraid of a woman!"
"It was her house," said Pietro. "She would call the police."
"So could you. You could say it was your brother you sought. There was no difficulty. Do you think Filippo is there yet?"
"I do not know."