“I shall never see her again, Filippo,” said the little boy, sadly. “If you ever go back to Italy—when you are older—will you go and see her, and tell her that—that I thought of her when I was sick, and wanted to see her?”
“Yes, Giacomo,” said Phil, affected by his little companion’s manner.
“Filippo!” called Pietro, in harsh tones.
“I must go,” said Phil, starting to his feet.
“Kiss me before you go,” said Giacomo.
Phil bent over and kissed the feverish lips of the little boy, and then hurried out of the room. He never saw Giacomo again; and this, though he knew it not, was his last farewell to his little comrade.
So Phil commenced his wanderings. He was free in one way—he could go where he pleased. The padrone did not care where he picked up his money, as long as he brought home a satisfactory amount. Phil turned to go up town, though he had no definite destination in view. He missed Giacomo, who lately had wandered about in his company, and felt lonely without him.
“Poor Giacomo!” he thought. “I hope he will be well soon.”
“Avast there, boy!” someone called. “Just come to anchor, and give us a tune.”
Phil looked up and saw two sailors bearing down upon him (to use a nautical phrase) with arms locked, and evidently with more liquor aboard than they could carry steadily.