“And if he does—what then?”
“He beats them for a long time.”
“Evidently your padrone is a brute. Why don’t you complain to the police?”
Phil shrugged his shoulders, and did not answer. He evidently thought the suggestion an impracticable one. These boys are wont to regard the padrone as above all law. His power seems to them absolute, and they never dream of any interference. And, indeed, there is some reason for their cherishing this opinion. However brutal his treatment, I know of no case where the law has stepped in to rescue the young victim. This is partly, no doubt, because the boys, few of whom can speak the English language, do not know their rights, and seldom complain to outsiders—never to the authorities. Probably, in some cases, the treatment is less brutal than I have depicted; but from the best information I can obtain from trustworthy sources, I fear that the reality, if anything, exceeds the picture I have drawn.
“I think I should enjoy giving your padrone a horsewhipping,” said the gentleman, impetuously. “Can such things be permitted in the nineteenth century?”
“I have no doubt the little rascals deserve all they get,” said the grocer, who would probably have found in the Italian padrone a congenial spirit.
Mr. Pomeroy deigned no reply to this remark.
“Well, boys,” he said, consulting his watch, “I must leave you. Here are twenty-five cents for each of you. I have one piece of advice for you. If your padrone beats you badly, run away from him. I would if I were in your place.”
“Addio, signore,” said the two boys.
“I suppose that means ‘good-by.’ Well, good-by, and better luck.”