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 me. I don’t know one tune from another.”
The young fiddler played one of the popular airs of the day. He did not undertake to sing, for the atmosphere was so bad that he could hardly avoid coughing. He was anxious to get out into the street, but he did not wish to refuse playing. When he had finished his tune, one of those present, a sailor, cried, “That’s good. Step up, boys, and have a drink.”
The invitation was readily accepted by all except Phil. Noticing that the boy kept his place, the sailor said, “Step up, boy, and wet your whistle.”