“He might beat you, too, Paolo.”
“I should like to see him try it,” said Paul, straightening up with a consciousness of strength. “He might find that rather hard.”
Phil looked admiringly at the boy who was not afraid of the padrone. Like his comrades, he had been accustomed to think of the padrone as possessed of unlimited power, and never dreamed of anybody defying him, or resisting his threats. Though he had determined to run away, his soul was not free from the tyranny of his late taskmaster, and he thought with uneasiness and dread of the possibility of his being conveyed back to him.
“Well, mother,” said Paul, glancing at the clock as he rose from the breakfast table, “it is almost nine o’clock—rather a late hour for a business man like me.”
“You are not often so late, Paul.”
“It is lucky that I am my own employer, or I might run the risk of being discharged. I am afraid the excuse that I was at Mrs. Hoffman’s fashionable party would not be thought sufficient. I guess I won’t have time to stop to shave this morning.”
“You haven’t got anything to shave,” said Jimmy.
“Don’t be envious, Jimmy. I counted several hairs this morning. Well, Phil, are you ready to go with me? Don’t forget your fiddle.”
“When shall we see you again, Philip?” said Mrs. Hoffman.
“I do not know,” said the little minstrel.