ack to his fiddling.

'"Toby!" says the Indian after quite a while. "I brought the boy to be
fed, not hit."

'"What?" says Toby, "I thought it was Gert Schwankfelder." He put down
his fiddle and took a good look at me. "Himmel!" he says. "I have hit
the wrong boy. It is not the new boy. Why are you not the new boy? Why
are you not Gert Schwankfelder?"

'"I don't know," I said. "The gentleman in the pink blanket brought me."

'Says the Indian, "He is hungry, Toby. Christians always feed the
hungry. So I bring him."

'"You should have said that first," said Toby. He pushed plates at me
and the Indian put bread and pork on them, and a glass of Madeira wine.
I told him I was off the French ship, which I had joined on account of
my mother being French. That was true enough when you think of it, and
besides I saw that the French was all the fashion in Philadelphia. Toby
and the Indian whispered and I went on picking up the pills.

'"You like pills--eh?" says Toby. "No," I says. "I've seen our ship's
doctor roll too many of em."

'"Ho!" he says, and he shoves two bottles at me. "What's those?"

'"Calomel," I says. "And t'other's senna."

'"Right," he says. "One week have I tried to teach Gert Schwankfelder
the difference between them, yet he cannot tell. You like to fiddle?" he
says. He'd just seen my kit on the floor.

'"Oh yes!" says I.

'"Oho!" he says. "What note is this?" drawing his bow across.

'He meant it for A, so I told him it was.

'"My brother," he says to the Indian. "I think this is the hand of
Providence! I warned that Gert if he went to play upon the wharves
any more he would hear from me. Now look at this boy and say what you
think."

'The Indian looked me over whole minutes--there was a musical clock on
the wall and dolls came out and hopped while the hour struck. He looked
me over all the while they did it.

'"Good," he says at last. "This boy is good."

'"Good, then," says Toby. "Now I shall play my fiddle and you shall sing
your hymn, brother. Boy, go down to the bakery and tell them you are
young Gert Schwankfelder that was. The horses are in Davy jones's
locker. If you ask any questions you shall hear from me."

'I left 'em singing hymns and I went down to old Conrad Gerhard. He
wasn't at all surprised when I told him I was young Gert Schwankfelder
that was. He knew Toby. His wife she walked me into the back-yard
without a word, and she washed me and she cut my hair to the edge of a