"That is all I have taken," said Phil, showing the eight cents.
"Did you come from New York this morning?"
"Yes."
"Then you haven't got enough to pay for your ticket yet?"
Phil shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't believe you'll make your fortune out here."
Phil was of precisely the same opinion, but kept silent.
"You would have done better to stay in New York."
To this also Phil mentally assented, but there were imperative
reasons, as we know, for leaving the great city.
It was already half-past twelve, and Phil began, after his walk,
to feel the cravings of appetite. He accordingly went into the
grocery and bought some crackers and cheese, which he sat down by
the stove and ate.
"Are you going farther?" asked the same young man who had
questioned him before.
"I shall go back to Newark to-night," said Phil.
"Let me try your violin."
"Can you play?" asked Phil, doubtfully, for he feared that an
unpracticed player might injure the instrument.
"Yes, I can play. I've got a fiddle at home myself."
Our hero surrendered his fiddle to the young man, who played
passably.
"You've got a pretty good fiddle," he said. "I think it's better
than mine.
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