CHAPTER XXVIII. A TRIUMPHANT SUCCESS
Philip took another walk in the afternoon, and was rather amused to see how much attention he received. When he drew near the hotel he was stared at by several gaping youngsters, who apparently were stationed there for no other purpose. He overheard their whispers:
“That’s him! That’s Philip de Gray, the wonderful fiddler!”
“I never suspected, when I lived at Norton, that I was so much of a curiosity,” he said to himself. “I wish I knew what they’ll say about me to-morrow.”
At six o’clock Morris Lovett called and received his ticket.
“You’ll have a big house to-night, Philip,” he said. “I know a lot of fellows that are going.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Philip, well pleased, for he concluded that if such were the case his purse would be considerably heavier the next day.
“It’s strange how quick you’ve come up;” said Morris. “I never expected you’d be so famous.”
“Nor I,” said Philip, laughing.
“I’d give anything if I could have my name posted round like yours.”
“Perhaps you will have, some time.”
“Oh, no! I couldn’t play more’n a pig,” said Morris decidedly. “I’ll have to be a clerk, and stick to business.”
“You’ll make more money in the end that way, Morris, even if your name isn’t printed in capitals.”
They retired into a small room adjoining the stage, to prepare for their appearance.
The professor rubbed his hands in glee.
“Did you see what a house we have, Mr. de Gray?”
“Yes, professor.”
“I think there’ll be a hundred dollars over and above expenses.”
“That will be splendid!” said Philip, naturally elated.
“The firm of Riccaboeca and De Gray is starting swimmingly.”
“So it is. I hope it will continue so.”
“Here is the program, Mr. de Gray. You will observe that I appear first, in my famous soliloquy. You will follow, with the ‘Carnival of Venice.’ Do you feel agitated?”
“Oh, no. I am so used to playing that I shall not feel at all bashful.”
“That is well.”
“I would like to be on the stage, professor, to hear you.”
“Certainly. I have anticipated your desire, and provided an extra chair.”
The time came, and Professor Riccabocca stepped upon the stage, his manner full of dignity, and advanced to the desk. Philip took a chair a little to the rear.
Their entrance was greeted by hearty applause. The professor made a stately bow, and a brief introductory speech, in which he said several things about Philip and himself which rather astonished our hero. Then he began to recite the soliloquy.
Probably it was never before so amazingly recited. Professor Riccabocca’s gestures, facial contortions, and inflections were very remarkable. Philip almost suspected that he was essaying a burlesque role.
The mature portion of the audience were evidently puzzled, but the small boys were delighted, and with some of the young men, stamped vigorously at the close.
Professor Riccabocea bowed modestly, and said:
“Gentlemen and ladies, you will now have the pleasure of listening to the young and talented Philip de Gray, the wonderful boy-musician, in his unrivaled rendition of the ‘Carnival of Venice.’”
Philip rose, coloring a little with shame a I this high-flown introduction, and came forward.
All applauded heartily, for sympathy is always felt for a young performer, especially when he has a manly bearing and an attractive face, such as our hero possessed.
Philip was determined to do his best. Indeed, after being advertised and announced as a boy wonder, he felt that he could not do otherwise.
He commenced, and soon lost himself in the music he loved so well, so that before he had half finished he had quite forgotten his audience, and half started at the boisterous applause which followed. He bowed his acknowledgments, but found this would not do.
He was forced to play it a second time, greatly to the apparent satisfaction of the audience. It was clear that, whatever might be thought of Professor Riccabocea’s recitation, the young violinist had not disappointed his audience.
Philip could see, in a seat near the stage, the beaming face of his friend Morris Lovett, who was delighted at the success of his old acquaintance, and anticipated the reflected glory which he received, from its being known that he was a friend of the wonderful young musician.
Professor Riccabocca came forward again, and recited a poem called “The Maniac,” each stanza ending with the line: “I am not mad, but soon shall be.”
He stamped, raved, tore his hair, and made altogether a very grotesque appearance.
Philip could hardly forbear laughing, and some of the boys in the front seats didn’t restrain themselves, Some of the older people wondered how such a man should be selected by the Prince of Wales to instruct his sons in elocution—not suspecting that the newspaper paragraph making mention of this was only a daring invention of the eminent professor.
Next came another musical selection by Philip, which was as cordially received as the first.
I do not propose to weary the reader by a recital of the program and a detailed account of each performance. It is enough to say that Professor Riccabocca excited some amusement, but was only tolerated for the sake of Philip’s playing.
Naturally, our hero was better received on account of his youth, but had he been twice as old his playing would have given satisfaction and pleasure.
So passed an hour and a half, and the musical entertainment was over. Philip felt that he had reason to be satisfied. Highly as he had been heralded, no one appeared to feel disappointed by his part of the performance.
“Mr. de Gray,” said the professor, when they reached the hotel, “you did splendidly. We have made a complete success.”
“It is very gratifying,” said Philip.
“I felt sure that the public would appreciate us. I think I managed everything shrewdly.”
“How much was paid in at the door?” asked Philip, who naturally felt interested in this phase of success.
“One hundred and forty-five dollars and a half!” answered the professor.
Philip’s eyes sparkled.
“And how much will that be over and above expenses?” he asked.
“My dear Mr. de Gray, we will settle all bills, and make a fair and equitable division, in the morning. I think there will be a little more than fifty dollars to come to each of us.”
“Fifty dollars for one evening’s work!” repeated Philip, his eyes sparkling.
“Oh, I have done much better than that,” said the professor. “I remember once at St. Louis I made for myself alone one hundred and eighty dollars net, and in Chicago a little more.”
“I didn’t think it was such a money-making business,” said Philip, elated.
“Yes, Mr. de Gray, the American people are willing to recognize talent, when it is genuine. You are on the threshold of a great career, my dear young friend.”
“And only a week since I was in the Norton Poorhouse,” thought Philip. “It is certainly a case of romance in real life.”
The two went to bed soon, being fatigued by their exertions. The apartment was large, and contained two beds, a larger and smaller one. The latter was occupied by our hero.
When he awoke in the morning, the sun was shining brightly into the room. Philip looked toward the opposite bed. It was empty.
“Professor Riccabocca must have got up early,” he thought. “Probably he did not wish to wake me.”
He dressed and went downstairs.
“Where is the professor?” he asked of the clerk.
“He started away two hours since—said he was going to take a walk. Went away without his breakfast, too. He must be fond of walking.”
Philip turned pale. He was disturbed by a terrible suspicion. Had the professor gone off for good, carrying all the money with him?
CHAPTER XXIX. BESET BY CREDITORS
Philip was still a boy, and though he had discovered that the professor was something of a humbug, and a good deal of a braggart, it had not for a moment occurred to him that he would prove dishonest. Even now he did not want to believe it, though he was nervously apprehensive that it might prove true.
“I will take my breakfast,” he said, as coolly as was possible, “and the professor will probably join me before I am through.”
The clerk and the landlord thought otherwise. They were pretty well convinced that Riccabocca was dishonest, and quietly sent for those to whom the “combination” was indebted: namely, the printer and publisher of the Daily Bulletin, the agent of the music-hall, and the bill-sticker who had posted notices of the entertainment. These parties arrived while Philip was at breakfast.
“Gentlemen,” said the landlord, “the boy is at breakfast. I think he is all right, but I don’t know. The professor, I fear, is a swindle.”
“The boy is liable for our debts,” said the agent. “He belongs to the combination.”
“I am afraid he is a victim as well as you,” said the landlord. “He seemed surprised to hear that the professor had gone out.”
“It may all be put on. Perhaps he is in the plot, and is to meet the old fraud at some place fixed upon, and divide the booty,” suggested the agent.
“The boy looks honest,” said the landlord. “I like his appearance. We will see what he has to say.”
So when Philip had finished his breakfast he was summoned to the parlor, where he met the creditors of the combination.
“These gentlemen,” said the landlord, “have bills against you and the professor. It makes no difference whether they receive pay from you or him.”
Poor Philip’s heart sank within him.
“I was hoping Professor Riccabocca had settled your bills,” he said. “Please show them to me.”
This was done with alacrity.
Philip found that they owed five dollars for the hall, five dollars for advertising and printing, and one dollar for bill-posting—eleven dollars in all.
“Mr. Gates,” said our hero uneasily, to the landlord, “did Professor Riccabocca say anything about coming back when he went out this morning?”
“He told my clerk he would be back to breakfast,” said the landlord; adding, with a shrug of the shoulders: “That was two hours and a half ago. He can’t be very hungry.”
“He didn’t pay his bill, I suppose?”
“No, of course not. He had not given up his room.”
Philip became more and more uneasy.
“Didn’t you know anything about his going out?” asked the landlord.
“No, sir. I was fast asleep.”
“Is the professor in the habit of taking long morning walks?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is strange, since you travel together,” remarked the publisher.
“I never saw him till day before yesterday,” said Philip.
The creditors looked at each other significantly. They began to suspect that Philip also was a victim.
“Do you know how much money was received for tickets last evening?”
“About a hundred and fifty dollars.”
“How much of this were you to receive?”
“Half of what was left after the bills were paid.”
“Have you received it?” asked the agent.
“Not a cent,” answered Philip.
“What do you think about the situation?”
“I think that Professor Riccabocca has swindled us all,” answered Philip promptly.
“Our bills ought to be paid,” said the agent, who was rather a hard man in his dealings.
“I agree with you,” said Philip. “I wish I were able to pay them, but I have only six dollars in my possession.”
“That will pay me, and leave a dollar over,” suggested the agent.
“If it comes to that,” said the printer, “I claim that I ought to be paid first.”
“I am a poor man,” said the bill-sticker. “I need my money.”
Poor Philip was very much disconcerted. It was a new thing for him to owe money which he could not repay.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I have myself been cheated out of fifty dollars, at least—my share of the profits. I wish I could pay you all. I cannot do so now. Whenever I can I will certainly do it.”
“You can pay us a part with the money you have,” said the agent.
“I owe Mr. Gates for nearly two days’ board,” he said. “That is my own affair, and I must pay him first.”
“I don’t see why he should be preferred to me,” grumbled the agent; then, with a sudden, happy thought, as he termed it, he said: “I will tell you how you can pay us all.”
“How?” asked Philip.
“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.
“That won’t do!” said the man coarsely. “I insist upon the fiddle being sold. I’ll give five dollars for it, and call it square.”
“Mr. Gunn,” said the landlord, in a tone of disgust, “since you are disposed to persecute this boy, I will myself pay your bill, and trust to him to repay me when he can.”
“But, Mr. Gates—” said Philip.
“I accept!” said the agent, with alacrity.
“Receipt your bill,” said the landlord.
Mr. Gunn did so, and received a five-dollar bill in return.
“Now sir,” said the landlord coldly, “if you have no further business here, we can dispense with your company.”
“It strikes me you are rather hard on a man because he wants to be paid his honest dues!” whined Gunn, rather uncomfortably.
“We understand you, sir,” said the landlord. “We have not forgotten how you turned a poor family into the street, in the dead of winter, because they could not pay their rent.”
“Could I afford to give them house-room?” inquired Gunn.
“Perhaps not. At any rate, I don’t feel inclined to give you house-room any longer.”
Mr. Gunn slunk out of the room, under the impression that his company was no longer desired.
“Mr. Gray,” said the publisher, “I hope you don’t class me with the man who has just gone out. I would sooner never be paid than deprive you of your violin. Let the account stand, and if you are ever able to pay me half of my bill—your share—I shall be glad to receive it.”
“Thank you, sir!” said Philip, “You shall not repent your confidence in me.”
“I say ditto to my friend, the publisher,” said the bill-poster.
“Wait a moment, gentlemen,” said Philip. “There is a bare possibility that I can do something for you.”
For the first time since he left Norton he thought of the letter which he was not to open till he was fifty miles from Norton.
“Mr. Gates,” he said, “can you tell me how far Norton is from here?”
“About sixty miles,” answered the landlord in surprise.
“Then it’s all right.”
CHAPTER XXX. A TIMELY GIFT
The reader has not forgotten that Farmer Lovett, when Philip refused to accept any compensation for assisting to frustrate the attempt at burglary, handed him a sealed envelope, which he requested him not to open till he was fifty miles away from Norton.
Philip had carried this about in his pocket ever since. He had thought of it as likely to contain some good advice at the time; but it had since occurred to him that the farmer had not had time to write down anything in that line.
He was disposed to think that the mysterious envelope might contain a five-dollar bill, as a slight acknowledgment of his services.
Though Philip had declined receiving any payment, it did seem to him now that this amount of money would relieve him from considerable embarrassment. He therefore drew a penknife from his pocket and cut open the envelope.
What was his amazement when he drew out three bills—two twenties and a ten—fifty dollars in all! There was a slip of paper, on which was written, in pencil:
“Don’t hesitate to use this money, if you need it, as you doubtless will. I can spare it as well as not, and shall be glad if it proves of use to one who has done me a great service. JOHN LOVETT.”
“What’s that!” asked the landlord, regarding Philip with interest.
“Some money which I did not know I possessed,” answered Philip.
“How much is there?”
“Fifty dollars.”
“And you didn’t know you had it?” asked the publisher—rather incredulously, it must be owned.
“No, sir; I was told not to open this envelope till I was fifty miles away from where it was given me. Of course, Mr. Gates, I am now able to pay all my bills, and to repay you for what you handed Mr. Gunn.”
“I am pleased with your good fortune,” said the landlord cordially.
“Thank you, sir.”
“But I am sorry your knavish partner has cheated you out of so much money.”
“I shall make him pay it if I can,” said Philip resolutely.
“I approve your pluck, and I wish you success.”
“He owes you money, too, Mr. Gates. Give me the bill, and I will do my best to collect it.”
“If you collect it, you may have it,” said Gates. “I don’t care much for the money, but I should like to have the scamp compelled to fork it over.”
“I wish I knew where he was likely to be,” said Philip.
“He may go to Knoxville,” suggested the publisher.
“How far is that?”
“Ten miles.”
“What makes you think he will go to Knoxville?” asked the landlord.
“He may think of giving a performance there. It is a pretty large place.”
“But wouldn’t he be afraid to do it, after the pranks he has played here?”
“Perhaps so. At any rate, he is very likely to go there.”
“I will go there and risk it,” said Philip. “He needn’t think he is going to get off so easily, even if it is only a boy he has cheated.”
“That’s the talk, Mr. Gray!” said the landlord. “How are you going?” he asked, a minute later.
“I can walk ten miles well enough,” answered Philip.
He had considerable money now, but he reflected that he should probably need it all, especially if he did not succeed in making the professor refund, and decided that it would be well to continue to practice economy.
“I have no doubt you can,” said the landlord, “but it will be better not to let the professor get too much the start of you. I will myself have a horse harnessed, and take you most of the distance in my buggy.”
“But, Mr. Gates, won’t it be putting you to a great deal of trouble?”
“Not at all. I shall enjoy a ride this morning, and the road to Knoxville is a very pleasant one.”
“Let me pay something for the ride, then.”
“Not a cent. You will need all your money, and I can carry you just as well as not,” said the landlord heartily.
“I am very fortunate in such a kind friend,” said Philip gratefully.
“Oh, it isn’t worth talking about! Here, Jim, go out and harness the horse directly.”
When the horse was brought round, Philip was all ready, and jumped in.
“Would you like to drive, Mr. Gray?” asked the landlord.
“Yes,” answered Philip, with alacrity.
“Take the lines, then,” said the landlord.
Most boys of Philip’s age are fond of driving, and our hero was no exception to the rule, as the landlord supposed.
“You’ll promise not to upset me,” said Mr. Gates, smiling. “I am getting stout, and the consequences might be serious.”
“Oh, I am used to driving,” said Philip, “and I will take care not to tip over.”
The horse was a good one, and to Philip’s satisfaction, went over the road in good style.
Philip enjoyed driving, but, of course, his mind could not help dwelling on the special object of his journey.
“I hope we are on the right track,” he said. “I shouldn’t like to miss the professor.”
“You will soon know, at any rate,” said Gates. “It seems to me,” he continued, “that Riccabocca made a great mistake in running off with that money.”
“He thought it would be safe to cheat a boy.”
“Yes; but admitting all that, you two were likely to make money. In Wilkesville your profits were a hundred dollars in one evening. Half of that belonged to the professor, at any rate. He has lost his partner, and gained only fifty dollars, which would not begin to pay him for your loss.”
“Perhaps he thought he would draw as well alone.”
“Then he is very much mistaken. To tell the plain truth, our people thought very little of his share of the performance. I saw some of them laughing when he was ranting away. It was you they enjoyed hearing.”
“I am glad of that,” said Philip, gratified.
“There’s no humbug about your playing. You understand it. It was you that saved the credit of the evening, and sent people away well satisfied.”
“I am glad of that, at any rate, even if I didn’t get a cent for my playing,” said Philip, well pleased.
“The money’s the practical part of it,” said the landlord. “Of course, I am glad when travelers like my hotel, but if they should run off without paying, like the professor, I shouldn’t enjoy it so much.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Philip, with a laugh.
They had ridden some seven miles, and were, therefore, only three miles from Knoxville, without the slightest intimation as to whether or not they were on the right track.
To be sure, they had not expected to obtain any clue so soon, but it would have been very satisfactory, of course, to obtain one.
A little farther on they saw approaching a buggy similar to their own, driven by a man of middle age. It turned out to be an acquaintance of the landlord’s, and the two stopped to speak.
“Going to Knoxville on business, Mr. Gates?” asked the newcomer.
“Well, not exactly. I am driving this young man over. By the way, have you seen anything of a tall man, with long, black hair, dressed in black?”
“Yes. Do you want to see him?”
“This young man has some business with him. Where did you see him?”
“He arrived at our hotel about an hour since, I calculate.”
Philip’s heart bounded with satisfaction at this important news.
“Did he put up there?”
“Yes. I believe he is going to give a reading this evening.”
“Thank you!”
“The professor must be a fool!” said the landlord, as they drove away.
“I begin to think so myself,” replied Philip.
“That’s all in our favor, however. We shall get back that money yet.”
The horse was put to his speed, and in fifteen minutes they reached Knoxville.