The Young Musician; Or, Fighting His Way

CHAPTER X. BAD TIDINGS

Leaving Philip for a short time in the hands of his captor, we will follow Zeke on his errand. He didn’t have to go as far as Mr. Dunbar’s house, for he met Frank Dunbar about a quarter of a mile this side of it.

Now, between Frank Dunbar and Zeke Tucker there was no love lost. There had been a difficulty between them, originating at school, which need not be particularly referred to. Enough that it led to Zeke’s cordially disliking Frank, while the latter, who was a frank, straightforward boy, could not see anything in Mr. Tucker’s promising son to enlist either his respect or his liking.

There was a small river running through Norton, which crossed the main thoroughfare, and had to be bridged over. Frank Dunbar, fishing-line in hand, was leaning over the parapet, engaged in luring the fish from their river home. He looked up, when he saw Zeke approaching him. Not having any particular desire to hold a conversation with him, he withdrew his eyes, and again watched his line. Zeke, however, approached him with a grin of anticipated enjoyment, and hailed him in the usual style:

“Hello, Frank!”

“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said Frank Dunbar indifferently.

“Yes it’s me. I suppose you thought it was somebody else,” chuckled Zeke, though Frank could see no cause for merriment.

“Well, I see who it is now,” he responded.

“Where is Phil Gray?” inquired Zeke, chuckling again.

“Do you want to see him?” asked Frank, rather surprised.

“Oh, no! I shall see him soon enough.”

And again Zeke chuckled.

Frank looked up.

He was expecting Philip to join him, and was, in fact, waiting for him now. Zeke’s mysterious merriment suggested that he might have met Philip—possibly bore some message from him.

“Do you know anything about Phil?” asked Frank, looking fixedly at his visitor.

“I reckon I do. I know all about him,” said Zeke, with evident enjoyment.

“Well. If you have any message from him, let me hear it.”

“You can’t guess where he is,” blurted out Zeke.

“He isn’t in any trouble, is he?” asked Frank quickly.

“No; he’s safe enough. But you needn’t expect to see him tonight.”

“Why not?” demanded Frank, not yet guessing what was likely to detain his friend.

“Because he’s at our house,” chuckled Zeke. “Dad and Squire Pope have carried him to the poorhouse, and he’s goin’ to stay there for good.”

This was a surprise. In his astonishment, Frank nearly let go his rod. He was eager now to question Zeke further.

“You don’t mean to say Phil has been carried to the poorhouse against his will?” he exclaimed.

“I reckon he was anxious to go,” said Zeke.

“Where was he when your father and Squire Pope committed this outrage?” said Frank indignantly.

“I thought you’d be mad,” said Zeke, with the same unpleasant chuckle.

“Answer my question, or I’ll pitch you into the river,” said Frank sternly.

He did not mean what he said, but Zeke drew back in alarm.

“Quit now! I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it,” said Zeke hastily. “Me and him was over in Haywood’s pasture when dad come along with the squire in his wagon. Well, they made Phil get in, and that’s all of it, except I promised I’d come and tell your folks, so you needn’t get scared or nothin’ when he didn’t come back to-night.”

“He will come back to-night,” said Frank. “He won’t stay in the poorhouse.”

“Yes, he will. He can’t help himself. Dad’s goin’ to lock him up in the attic. I guess he won’t jump out of the window. Where you go-in’! You ain’t got through fishin’, be you?”

“Yes, I’m through,” answered Frank, as he drew his line out of the water. “Just tell Phil when you go home that he’s got friends outside who won’t see him suffer.”

“Say, ain’t you goin’ to give me nothin’ for comin’ to tell you!” asked Zeke, who was always intent on the main chance.

Frank flung a nickel in his direction, which Zeke picked up with avidity.

“I guess it pays to run errands when you can get paid twice,” he reflected complacently.

CHAPTER XI. PHILIP’S NEW ROOM

We return to Phil.

“Foller me, boy!” said Mr. Tucker, as he entered the house, and proceeded to ascend the front steps.

Philip had formed his plans, and without a word of remonstrance, he obeyed. The whole interior was dingy and dirty. Mrs. Tucker was not a neat woman, and everything looked neglected and slipshod.

In the common room, to the right, the door of which was partly open, Philip saw some old men and women sitting motionless, in a sort of weary patience. They were “paupers,” and dependent for comfort on the worthy couple, who regarded them merely as human machines, good to them for sixty cents a week each.

Mr. Tucker did not stop at the first landing, but turned and began to ascend a narrower and steeper staircase leading to the next story.

This was, if anything, dirtier and more squalid than the first and second. There were several small rooms on the third floor, into one of which Mr. Tucker pushed his way. “Come in,” he said. “Now you’re at home. This is goin’ to be your room.”

Philip looked around him in disgust, which he did not even take the trouble to conceal.

There was a cot-bed in the corner, with an unsavory heap of bed-clothing upon it, and a couple of chairs, both with wooden seats, and one with the back gone.

That was about all the furniture. There was one window looking out upon the front.

“So this is to be my room, is it?” asked our hero.

“Yes. How do you like it?”

“I don’t see any wash-stand, or any chance to wash.”

“Come, that’s rich!” said Mr. Tucker, appearing to be very much amused. “You didn’t think you was stoppin’ in the Fifth Avenoo Hotel, did you?”

“This don’t look like it.”

“We ain’t used to fashionable boarders, and we don’t know how to take care of ‘em. You’ll have to go downstairs and wash in the trough, like the rest of the paupers do.”

“And wipe my face on the grass, I suppose?” said Philip coolly, though his heart sank within him at the thought of staying even one night in a place so squalid and filthy.

“Come, that’s goin’ too far,” said Mr. Tucker, who felt that the reputation of the boarding-house was endangered by such insinuations. “We mean to live respectable. There’s two towels a week allowed, and that I consider liberal.”

“And do all your boarders use the same towel?” asked Phil, unable to suppress an expression of disgust.

“Sartain. You don’t think we allow ‘em one apiece, do you!”

“No, I don’t,” said Philip decidedly.

He had ceased to expect anything so civilized in Mr. Tucker’s establishment.

“Now you’re safe in your room, I reckon I’d better go downstairs,” said Tucker.

“I will go with you.”

“Not much you won’t! We ain’t a-goin’ to give you a chance of runnin’ away just yet!”

“Do you mean to keep me a prisoner?” demanded Philip.

“That’s just what we do, at present,” answered his genial host.

“It won’t be for long, Mr. Tucker.”

“What’s that you say? I’m master here, I’d have you to know!”

Just then a shrill voice was heard from below:

“Come down, Joe Tucker! Are you goin’ to stay upstairs all day?”

“Comin’, Abigail!” answered Mr. Tucker hastily, as he backed out of the room, locking the door behind him. Philip heard the click of the key as it turned in the lock, and he realized, for the first time in his life, that he was a prisoner.

CHAPTER XII. A PAUPER’S MEAL

Half an hour later Philip heard a pounding on the door of his room.

He was unable to open it, but he called out, loud enough for the outsider to hear:

“Who is it?”

“It’s me—Zeke,” was the answer that came back.

“Did you tell the Dunbars where I was?” asked Philip eagerly.

“Yes.”

“I shouldn’t think you had time to go there and back,” said Philip, fearing that Zeke had pocketed his money and then played him false. But, as we know, he was mistaken in this.

“I didn’t go there,” shouted Zeke. “I met Frank on the bridge.”

“What did he say?”

“He was mad,” answered Zeke, laughing. “I thought he would be.”

“Did he send any message to me?” asked Philip.

“No; he stopped fishin’ and went home.” Here the conversation was interrupted. The loud tones in which Zeke had been speaking, in order to be heard through the door, had attracted attention below.

His father came to the foot of the attic stairs and demanded suspiciously:

“What you doin’ there, Zeke?”

“Tryin’ to cheer up Phil Gray,” answered Zeke jocosely.

“He don’t need any cheerin’ up. He’s all right. I reckon you’re up to some mischief.”

“No, I ain’t.”

“Come along down.”

“All right, dad, if you say so. Lucky he didn’t hear what I was sayin’ about seein’ Frank Dunbar,” thought Zeke. “He’d be mad.”

Presently there was another caller at Philip’s room, or, rather, prison. This time it was Mr. Tucker himself. He turned the key in the lock and opened the door. Philip looked up inquiringly.

“Supper’s ready,” announced Joe. “You can come down if you want to.”

Philip was provided with an appetite, but he did not relish the idea of going downstairs and joining the rest of Mr. Tucker’s boarders. It would seem like a tacit admission that he was one of their number. Of course, he couldn’t do without eating, but he had a large apple in his pocket when captured, and he thought that this would prevent his suffering from hunger for that night, at least, and he did not mean to spend another at the Norton poorhouse. The problem of to-morrow’s supply of food might be deferred till then.

“I don’t care for any supper,” answered Philip.

“Perhaps you expect your meals will be brought up to you?” said Mr. Tucker, with a sneer.

“I haven’t thought about it particularly,” said Philip coolly.

“You may think you’re spitin’ me by not eatin’ anything,” observed Mr. Tucker, who was rather alarmed lest Philip might have made up his mind to starve himself.

This would be embarrassing, for it would make an investigation necessary.

“Oh, no,” answered Philip, smiling; “that never came into my mind.”

“I don’t mind bringin’ you up your supper for once,” said Tucker. “Of course, I can’t do it reg’lar, but this is the first night.”

“I suppose I shall be better able to make my escape if I eat,” thought Philip. “Probably the most sensible thing is to accept this offer.”

“How much are you to get for my board, Mr. Tucker?” he asked.

“Only sixty cents,” grumbled Tucker. “It ain’t enough, but the town won’t pay any more. You’ve no idea what appetites them paupers has.”

“You made a mistake when you agreed to take me,” said Philip gravely. “I’m very hearty, you’ll be sure to lose money on me.”

Mr. Tucker looked uneasy.

“Well, you see I expect to have you earn part of your board by doin’ chores,” he said, after a pause.

“That will give me a good chance to run away,” remarked Philip calmly. “You’ll have to let me out of this room to work, you know.”

“You wouldn’t dare to run away!” said Tucker, trying to frighten Philip by a blustering manner.

“That shows you don’t know me, Mr. Tucker!” returned our hero. “I give you fair warning that I shall run away the first chance I get.”

Philip’s tone was so calm and free from excitement that Mr. Tucker could not help seeing that he was in earnest, and he looked perplexed.

“You don’t look at it in the right light,” he said, condescending to conciliate his new boarder. “If you don’t make no trouble, you’ll have a good time, and I’ll let you off, now an’ then, to play with Zeke. He needs a boy to play with.”

Philip smiled, for the offer did not attract him very much.

“You are very kind,” he said, “but I don’t think that even that will reconcile me to staying here with you. But, if you’ll agree to let me pay you for the supper, you may bring me up some.”

“The town will pay me,” said Tucker.

“That’s just what I don’t want the town to do,” said Philip quickly. “I will make you an offer. At sixty cents a week the meals for one day will not cost over ten cents. I’ll pay you ten cents for supper and breakfast.”

“You’re a cur’us boy,” said Tucker. “You want to pay for your vittles in a free boardin’-house.”

“It isn’t free to me. At any rate, I don’t want it to be. What do you say?”

“Oh, I ain’t no objections to take your money,” said Tucker, laughing. “I didn’t know you was so rich.”

“I am not rich, but I think I can pay my board as long as I stay here.”

This Philip said because he had decided that his stay should be a very brief one.

“Just as you say!” chuckled Mr. Tucker.

As he went downstairs he reflected:

“I can take the boy’s money and charge his board to the town, too. There’s nothin’ to hen-der, and it’ll be so much more in my pocket. I wish the rest of the paupers would foller his example.”

He went downstairs and explained to Mrs. Tucker that he wanted Philip’s supper.

“Tell him to come down to the table like the rest of the folks!” retorted Mrs. Tucker. “He ain’t too lazy, is he?”

“No; but it’s safer to keep him in his room for the first twenty-four hours. He’s a desperate boy, but I reckon he’ll get tamed after a while.”

“I’ll desperate him!” said Mrs. Tucker scornfully. “I don’t believe in humorin’ him.”

“Nor I, Abigail. He’d like to come down, but I won’t let him. We can manage him between us.”

“I should smile if we couldn’t,” said Mrs. Tucker. “If you want any supper for him, you can get it yourself. I’ve got too much to do. No, Widder Jones, you can’t have another cup of tea, and you needn’t beg for it. One clip’s plenty for you, and it’s all we can afford.”

“Only this once,” pleaded the poor old woman. “I’ve got a headache.”

“Then another cup of tea would only make it worse. If you’ve got through your supper, go back to your seat and give more room for the rest.”

While Mrs. Tucker was badgering and domineering over her regular boarders, her husband put two slices of dry bread on a plate, poured out a cup of tea, not strong enough to keep the most delicate child awake, and surreptitiously provided an extra luxury in the shape of a thin slice of cold meat. He felt that, as he was to receive double price, he ought to deal generously by our hero.

He carried this luxurious supper to the third story, and set it down before Philip.

Philip promptly produced a dime, which Mr. Tucker pocketed with satisfaction. He waited till his young guest had finished his repast, in order himself to carry down the dishes.

There was no butter for the bread, and the tea had been sweetened scantily. However, Philip had the appetite of a healthy boy, and he ate and drank everything that had been provided.

“I’ll be up in the morning,” said Mr. Tucker. “We go to bed early here. The paupers go to roost at seven, and me and my wife and Zeke at eight. You’d better go to bed early, too.”

CHAPTER XIII. A FRIENDLY MISSION

Philip was glad to hear that all in the almshouse went to bed so early. He had not yet given up the hope of escaping that night, though he had as yet arranged no definite plan of escape.

Meanwhile, he had an active friend outside. I refer, of course, to Frank Dunbar. Frank had no sooner heard of his friend’s captivity than he instantly determined, if it were a possible thing, to help him to escape.

He would not even wait till the next day, but determined after it was dark to visit the poor-house and reconnoiter. First, he informed his parents what had befallen Phil. Their indignation was scarcely less than his.

“Squire Pope is carrying matters with a high hand,” said the farmer. “According to my idea, he has done no less than kidnap Philip, without the shadow of a legal right.”

“Can’t he be prosecuted?” asked Frank eagerly.

“I am not sure as to that,” answered his father, “but I am confident that Philip will not be obliged to remain, unless he chooses, a dependent upon the charity of the town.”

“It is outrageous!” said Mrs. Dunbar, who was quite as friendly to Philip as her husband and son.

“In my opinion,” said Mr. Dunbar, “Squire Pope has done a very unwise thing as regards his own interests. He desires to remain in office, and the people will not be likely to reelect him if his policy is to make paupers of those who wish to maintain themselves. Voters will be apt to think that they are sufficiently taxed already for the support of those who are actually unable to maintain themselves.”

“If I were a voter,” exclaimed Frank indignantly, “I wouldn’t vote for Squire Pope, even for dog-catcher! The meanest part of it is the underhanded way in which he has taken Phil. He must have known he was acting illegally, or he would have come here in open day and required Phil to go with him.”

“I agree with you, Frank. Squire Pope may be assured that he has lost my vote from henceforth. Hitherto I have voted for him annually for selectman, knowing that he wanted the office and considering him fairly faithful.”

“Father,” said Frank, after a thoughtful pause, “do you think Philip would be justified in escaping from the poorhouse?”

“I do,” answered Mr. Dunbar. “In this free country I hold that no one ought to be made an object of charity against his will.”

“Philip is strong enough and smart enough to earn his own living,” said Frank.

“That is true. I will myself give him his board and clothes if he will stay with me and work on the farm.”

“I wish he would. He would be a splendid companion for me; but I think he wants to leave Norton, and try his fortune in some larger place.”

“I can’t blame him. If his father were living and he had a good home, I should not think it wise; but, as matters stand, it may not be a bad plan for him.”

“Father,” said Frank, after supper, “I am going out and I may not be back very early.”

“Are you going to see Philip?”

“Yes; but I want to see him alone. If possible, I will see him without attracting the attention of Joe Tucker.”

“You won’t get into any trouble, Frank?” said his mother anxiously.

“No, mother; I don’t know what trouble I can get into.”

“You may very likely fail to see Philip,” suggested his father. “I hear that Tucker and his boarders go to bed very early.”

“So much the better!” said Frank, in a tone of satisfaction. “The only one I want to see is Philip, and he isn’t likely to go to sleep very early.”

Mr. Dunbar smiled to himself.

“Frank has got some plan in his head,” he thought. “I won’t inquire what it is, for he has good common sense, and won’t do anything improper.”

About eight o’clock, Frank, after certain preparations, which will hereafter be referred to, set out for the poorhouse, which was about a mile distant.

CHAPTER XIV. PHILIP MAKES HIS ESCAPE

It grew darker and darker in Philip’s chamber, but no one came to bring him a light. It was assumed that he would go to bed before he required one.

By seven o’clock the paupers had settled themselves for the night, and when eight o’clock struck, Mr. and Mrs. Tucker sought their beds. It was no particular trial for Joe Tucker to go to bed early, for he was naturally a lazy man, and fond of rest; while his wife, who worked a great deal harder than he, after being on her feet from four o’clock in the morning, found it a welcome relief to lie down and court friendly sleep. Zeke wasn’t always ready to go to bed. In fact, he would much rather have gone up to the village now and then, but if he had done so he would have had to stay out all night. There was one thing his parents were strict about, and that was retiring at eight o’clock.

Philip, however, did not retire at that hour. It was earlier than his usual hour for bed. Besides, he was in hopes his friend Frank would make his appearance, and help him, though he didn’t exactly understand how, to make his escape.

At half-past eight it was dark. The stars were out, and the moon was just making its appearance. Philip had opened his window softly, and was looking out, when all at once he saw a boyish figure approaching.

Couldn’t be Frank Dunbar.

He hoped so, but in the indistinct light could not be quite certain.

The boy, whoever it might be, approached cautiously, till he stood within fifty feet of the house.

Then Philip saw that it was indeed Frank, and his heart beat joyfully. It was something to see a friend, even though they were separated by what seemed to him to be an impassable gulf.

About the same time, Frank recognized his friend, in the boyish figure at the window.

“Is that you, Phil?” he asked, in a guarded voice, yet loud enough to be heard.

“Yes, Frank; I have been expecting you. I knew you wouldn’t desert me.”

“I should think not. I didn’t come before, because I didn’t want to be seen by any of Tucker’s folks.”

“They are all abed now, and I hope asleep.”

“Can’t you come downstairs, and steal away?”

“No; my chamber door is locked on the outside.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Can’t you help me in any way?”

“I’ll see. Suppose you had a rope—could you swing out of the window?”

“Yes; I could fasten it to the bedstead, and fix that just against the window.”

“Then I think I can help you. Can you catch a ball?”

“Yes; but what good will that do?”

“You’ll see. Make ready now, and don’t miss it.”

He produced a ball of common size, and after taking aim, threw it lightly up toward Philip’s window. The first time it didn’t come within reach. The second Philip caught it skilfully, and by the moonlight saw that a stout piece of twine was attached to it. At the end of the twine Frank had connected it with a clothesline which he had borrowed from home.

“Now pull away, Phil,” urged Frank.

Philip did, and soon had the stout line in his possession.

“It will hold; it’s new and strong,” said Frank. “Father only bought it last week. I didn’t think, then, what use we should have for it.”

Philip, however, was not afraid. He was so anxious to escape that, even if there had been any risk to run, he would readily have incurred it for the sake of getting away from the poor-house, in which he was unwilling to spend a single night. He fastened one end of the rope firmly to his bedstead, as he had proposed, then cautiously got upon the window-sill and lowered himself, descending hand over hand till he reached the ground.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he detached himself from the rope and stood beside Frank Dunbar.

Just then the boys heard a second-story window open, and saw Mr. Tucker’s head projecting from it.