One Saturday morning in March, about three months after Phil had found a home, the doctor said to him: “Phil, I am going to New York this morning on a little business; would you like to come with me?”
Phil’s eyes brightened. Though he was happy in his village home, he had longed at times to find himself in the city streets with which his old vagabond life had rendered him so familiar.
“I should like it very much,” he answered, eagerly.
“Then run upstairs and get ready. I shall start in fifteen minutes.”
Phil started, and then turned back.
“I might meet Pietro, or the padrone,” he said, hesitating.
“No matter if you do, I shall be with you. If they attempt to recover you, I will summon the police.”
The doctor spoke so confidently that Phil dismissed his momentary fear. Two hours later they set foot in New York.
“Now, Phil,” said the doctor, “my business will not take long. After that, if there are any friends you would like to see, I will go with you and find them.”
“I should like to see Paul Hoffman,” said Phil. “I owe him two dollars and a half for the fiddle.”