spered:

"When you go back to Italy, dear Filippo, go and tell my mother how I
died. Tell her not to let my father sell my little brother to a padrone,
or he may die far away, as I am dying. Promise me, Filippo."

There was no answer. The padrone did indeed feel a slight emotion of
pity, but it was, unhappily, transient. Giacomo did not observe that the
question was not answered.

"Kiss me, Filippo," said the dying boy.

One of the boys who stood nearby, with tears in his eyes, bent over and
kissed him.

Giacomo smiled. He thought it was Filippo. With that smile on his face,
he gave one quick gasp and died--a victim of the padrone's tyranny and
his father's cupidity.(1)

(1) It is the testimony of an eminent Neapolitan physician
(I quote from Signor Casali, editor of L'Eco d'Italia) that
of one hundred Italian children who are sold by their
parents into this white slavery, but twenty ever return
home; thirty grow up and adopt various occupations abroad,
and fifty succumb to maladies produced by privation and
exposure.

Death came to Giacomo as a friend. No longer could he be forced out into
the streets to suffer cold and fatigue, and at night inhuman treatment
and abuse. His slavery was at an end.

We go back now to Phil. Though he and his friends had again gained a
victory over Pietro and the padrone, he thought it would not be prudent
to remain in Newark any longer. He knew the revengeful spirit of his
tyrants, and dreaded the chance of again falling into their hands. He
must, of course, be exposed to the risk of capture while plying his
vocation in the public streets. Therefore he resisted the invitation of
his warm-hearted protectors to make his home with them, and decided to
wander farther away from New York.

The next day, therefore, he went to the railway station and bought a
ticket for a place ten miles further on. This he decided would be far
enough to be safe.

Getting out of the train, he found himself in a village of moderate
size. Phil looked around him with interest. He had the fondness, natural
to his age, for seeing new places. He soon came to a schoolhouse. It was
only a quarter of nine, and some of the boys were playing outside. Phil
leaned against a tree and looked on.

Though he was at an age when boys enjoy play better than work or study,
he had no opportunity to join in their games.

One of the boys, observing him, came up and said frankly, "Do you