The red face of the barkeeper
showed that he drank very liberally, and the atmosphere was
filled with the fumes of bad cigars and bad liquor. The men were
ready for a good time, as they called it, and it was at the
suggestion of one of them that Phil had been invited in.
"Play a tune on your fiddle, you little ragamuffin," said one.
Phil cared little how he was addressed. He was at the service of
the public, and what he chiefly cared for was that he be paid for
his services.
"What shall I play?" he asked.
"Anything," hiccoughed one. "It's all the same to me. I don't
know one tune from another."
The young fiddler played one of the popular airs of the day. He
did not undertake to sing, for the atmosphere was so bad that he
could hardly avoid coughing. He was anxious to get out into the
street, but he did not wish to refuse playing. When he had
finished his tune, one of those present, a sailor, cried, "That's
good. Step up, boys, and have a drink."
The invitation was readily accepted by all except Phil. Noticing
that the boy kept his place, the sailor said, "Step up, boy, and
wet your whistle."
Phil liked the weak wines of his native land, but he did not care
for the poisonous decoctions of be found in such places.
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