employed on the boat entered the
cabin. At times he would not have interfered with him, but he happened
to be in ill humor, and this proved unfortunate for Phil.

"Stop your noise, boy," he said.

Phil looked up.

"May I not play?"

"No; nobody wants to hear you."

The young fiddler did not dare to disobey. He saw that for the present
his gains were at an end. However, he had enough to satisfy the rapacity
of the padrone, and could afford to stop. He took a seat, and waited
quietly till the boat landed. One of the lady passengers, as she passed
him on her way out of the cabin, placed ten cents in his hand. This
led him to count up his gains. He found they amounted to precisely two
dollars and fifty cents.

"I need not play any more," he thought. "I shall not be beaten
to-night."

He found his seat so comfortable, especially after wandering about the
streets all day, that he remained on the boat for two more trips. Then,
taking his violin under his arm, he went out on the pier.

It was half-past seven o'clock. He would like to have gone to his
lodging, but knew that it would not be permitted. In this respect the
Italian fiddler is not as well off as those who ply other street trades.
Newsboys and bootblacks are their own masters, and, whether their
earnings are little or great, reap the benefit of them themselves. They
can stop work at six if they like, or earlier; but the little Italian
musician must remain in the street till near midnight, and then, after
a long and fatiguing day, he is liable to be beaten and sent to bed
without his supper, unless he brings home a satisfactory sum of money.

Phil walked about here and there in the lower part of the city. As he
was passing a barroom he was called in by the barkeeper.

"Give us a tune, boy," he said.

It was a low barroom, frequented by sailors and a rough set of customers
of similar character. The red face of the barkeeper showed that he drank
very liberally, and the atmosphere was filled with the fumes of bad
cigars and bad liquor. The men were ready for a good time, as they
called it, and it was at the suggestion of one of them that Phil had
been invited in.

"Play a tune on your fiddle, you little ragamuffin," said one.

Phil cared little how he was addressed. He was at the service of the
public, and what he chiefly cared for was that he be paid for his
services.

"What shall I play?" he asked.

"Anything," hiccoughed one. "It's all the same to