“Stop!” called out Pietro. “Stop, or I will kill you!”
But Phil did not comprehend the advantage of surrendering himself to Pietro. He understood too well how he would be treated, if he returned a prisoner. Instead of obeying the call, he only sped on the faster. Now between the pursuer and the pursued there was a difference of six years, Pietro being eighteen, while Phil was but twelve. This, of course, was in Pietro’s favor. On the other hand, the pursuer was encumbered by a hand-organ, which retarded his progress, while Phil had only a violin, which did not delay him at all. This made their speed about equal, and gave Phil a chance to escape, unless he should meet with some interruption.
“Stop!” called Pietro, furiously, beginning to realize that the victory was not yet won.
Phil looked over his shoulder, and, seeing that Pietro was no nearer, took fresh courage. He darted round a corner, with his pursuer half a dozen rods behind him. They were not in the most frequented parts of the city, but in a quarter occupied by two-story wooden houses. Seeing a front door open, Phil, with a sudden impulse, ran hastily in, closing the door behind him.
A woman with her sleeves rolled up, who appeared to have taken her arms from the tub, hearing his step, came out from the back room.
“What do ye want?” she demanded, suspiciously.
“Save me!” cried Phil, out of breath. “Someone is chasing me. He is bad. He will beat me.”
The woman’s sympathies were quickly enlisted. She had a warm heart, and was always ready to give aid to the oppressed.
“Whist, darlint, run upstairs, and hide under the bed. I’ll send him off wid a flea in his ear, whoever he is.”
Phil was quick to take the hint. He ran upstairs, and concealed himself as directed. While he was doing it, the lower door, which he had shut, was opened by Pietro. He was about to rush into the house, but the muscular form of Phil’s friend stood in his way.