SQUIRE POPE IS AMAZED.
Though Philip did not know it, it chanced that Squire Pope’s only
sister, Mrs. Cunningham, lived in Knoxville. She was a widow, fairly
well off, with a young daughter, Carrie—a girl of twelve. Squire Pope
had long thought of visiting his sister, and happening about this time
to have a little business in a town near-by, he decided to carry out
his long-deferred plan. He arrived by the afternoon train, in time for
supper.
“I am glad you are here to-night, brother,” said Mrs. Cunningham.
“Why particularly to-night, Sister Ellen?” asked the squire.
“Because there is to be an entertainment for the benefit of the Young
Men’s Literary Club. It is expected to be very interesting.”
“What sort of an entertainment, Ellen?” asked the squire.
“The celebrated elocutionist, Professor Riccabocca, is to give some
readings—”
“Riccabocca!” repeated the squire, in a musing tone. “I can’t say I
ever heard of him.”
“Nor I; but I hear he’s very celebrated.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Yes, there’s a young musician going to play. He is said to be
wonderful. He plays on the violin.”
“He’s a very handsome boy,” said Carrie enthusiastically. “He’s staying
at the hotel. I saw him this afternoon when I was passing.”
“So he’s good-looking, is he, Carrie?” asked the squire, laughing.
“He’s ever so good-looking,” answered Carrie emphatically.
“Then we must certainly go, for Carrie’s sake,” said the squire.
Squire Pope had not the slightest idea that the young musician, about
whom his niece spoke so enthusiastically, was the boy whom he had so
recently persecuted.
If Carrie had mentioned his name, the secret would have been out, but
she had not yet heard it.
In honor of her brother’s arrival, Mrs. Cunningham prepared a more
elaborate supper than usual, and to this it was owing that the three
entered the hall late, just as Philip was about to commence playing.
The squire and his companions were obliged to take seats some distance
away from the platform, and as his eyesight was poor, he didn’t
immediately recognize as an old acquaintance the boy who was standing
before the audience with his violin in his hand.
“That’s he! That’s the young violin-player!” whispered Carrie, in a
tone of delight. “Isn’t he handsome, uncle!”
“Wait till I get my glasses on,” said the squire, fumbling in his
pocket for his spectacle-case.
Adjusting his glasses, Squire Pope directed a glance at the stage. He
instantly recognized Philip, and his surprise was boundless. He gave a
sudden start.
“By gracious, I couldn’t have believed it!” he ejaculated.
“Couldn’t have believed what, brother?” asked Mrs. Cunningham.
“I know that boy!” he said, in a tone of excitement.
“You know him, uncle?” said Carrie, delighted. “Then you must introduce
me to him. I want to meet him ever so much. Where did you ever see
him?”
“Where did I see him? I’m his guardian. He ran away from me a little
more than a week since, and I never knew where he went.”
“You the guardian of the wonderful boy-player?” said Carrie,
astonished. “Isn’t it strange?”
“His father died a short time since and left him in my care,” said the
squire, not scrupling to make a misstatement. “But I’ll tell you more
about it when the performance is over.”
When Philip first saw Squire Pope entering the hall it disconcerted
him, but he reflected that the squire really had no authority over him,
and consequently he had nothing to fear from him.
Should his pretended guardian make any effort to recover him, he was
resolved to make a desperate resistance, and even, if necessary, to
invoke the help of the law.
Meanwhile, his pride stimulated him to play his best, and the hearty
applause of the audience when he had finished his piece encouraged him.
As he was bowing his thanks he could not help directing a triumphant
glance at Squire Pope, who was carefully scrutinizing him through his
gold-bowed spectacles.
He was glad that the squire had a chance to see for himself that he was
well able to make his own way, with the help of the violin of which the
Norton official had attempted to deprive him.
In truth, Squire Pope, who knew little of Philip’s playing, except that
he did play, was amazed to find him so proficient. Instead, however, of
concluding that a boy so gifted was abundantly able to “paddle his own
canoe,” as the saying is, he was the more resolved to carry him back to
Norton, and to take into his own care any the boy might have earned. In
the middle of the entertainment was a recess of ten minutes, which most
of the audience spent in conversation.
Miss Carrie began again to speak of Philip.
“Oh,—uncle,” she said, “I’m so glad you know that lovely boy-player! He
is earning lots of money.”
“Is he!” asked the squire, pricking up his ears. “Who told you so?”
“One of the young men that belongs to the club told me they were to pay
him ten dollars for playing to-night.”
“Ten dollars!” ejaculated the squire, in amazement. “I don’t believe
it! It’s ridiculous!”
“Oh, yes, it is true!” said Mrs. Cunningham. “John Turner told Carrie;
and he is secretary, and ought to know.”
“That isn’t all,” continued Carrie. “Mr. Turner says it is very kind of
Mr. Gray—”
“Mr. Gray!” repeated the squire, amused.
“Well, Philip, then. I suppose you call him Philip, as you are his
guardian.”
“Well, what were you going to say?”
“Mr. Turner says that it is very kind of Philip to play for so little,
for he made a good deal more money by his entertainment in
Wilkesville.”
“Did he give a concert in Wilkesville?” asked the squire quickly.
“Yes, he and the professor. He was liked very much there.”
“And you heard that he made a good deal of money there?”
“Yes; lots of it.”
“Then,” thought the squire, “he must have considerable money with him.
As his guardian I ought to have the care of it. He’s a boy, and isn’t
fit to have the charge of money. It’s very lucky I came here just as I
did. It’s my duty, as his guardian, to look after him.”
The squire determined to seek an interview with our hero as soon as the
entertainment was over.