“You have a violin. You can sell that for enough to pay our bills.”
Poor Philip! His violin was his dependence. Besides the natural attachment he felt for it, he relied upon it to secure him a living, and the thought of parting with it was bitter.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “if you take my violin, I have no way of making a living. If you will consider that I, too, am a victim of this man, I think you will not wish to inflict such an injury upon me.”
“I do not, for one,” said the publisher. “I am not a rich man, and I need all the money that is due me, but I wouldn’t deprive the boy of his violin.”
“Nor I,” said the bill-sticker.
“That’s all very fine,” said the agent; “but I am not so soft as you two. Who knows but the boy is in league with the professor?”
“I know it!” said the landlord stoutly. “The boy is all right, or I am no judge of human nature.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gates,” said Philip, extending his hand to his generous defender.
“Do you expect we will let you off without paying anything?” demanded the agent harshly.
“If I live, sir, you shall lose nothing by me,” said Philip.