“Pietro will come for me.”
“And if he does, my Pat will kick him out of doors.”
Mr. McGuire was six feet in height, and powerfully made. There was no doubt he could do it if he had the opportunity. But Phil knew that he must go out into the streets and then Pietro might waylay him when he had no protector at hand. He explained his difficulty to Mrs. McGuire, and she proposed that he should remain close at hand all the forenoon; near enough to fly to the house as a refuge, if needful. If Pietro did not appear in that time, he probably would not at all.
Phil agreed to this plan, and accordingly began to play and sing in the neighborhood, keeping a watchful lookout for the enemy. His earnings were small, for the neighborhood was poor. Still, he picked up a few pennies, and his store was increased by a twenty-five cent gift from a passing gentleman. He had just commenced a new tune, being at that time ten rods from the house, when his watchful eyes detected the approach of Pietro, and, more formidable still, the padrone.
He did not stop to finish his tune, but took to his heels. At that moment the padrone saw him. With a cry of exultation, he started in pursuit, and Pietro with him. He thought Phil already in his grasp.
Phil dashed breathless into the kitchen, where Mrs. McGuire was ironing.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“The padrone—Pietro and the padrone!” exclaimed Phil, pale with affright.
Mrs. McGuire took in the situation at once.
“Run upstairs,” she said. “Pat’s up there on the bed. He will see they won’t take you.”