"Of course he says so," sneered the grocer. "Come and warm yourselves,
if you want to."

The boys accepted this grudging invitation, and drew near the stove.
They spread out their hands, and returning warmth proved very grateful
to them.

"Have you been out long?" asked the gentleman who had interceded in
their behalf, also drawing near the stove.

"Since eight, signore."

"Do you live in Brooklyn?"

"No; in New York."

"And do you go out every day?"

"Si, signore."

"How long since you came from Italy?"

"A year."

"Would you like to go back?"

"He would," said Phil, pointing to his companion. "I would like to stay
here, if I had a good home."

"What kind of a home have you? With whom do you live?"

"With the padrone."

"I suppose that means your guardian?"

"Yes, sir," answered Phil.

"Is he kind to you?"

"He beats us if we do not bring home enough money."

"Your lot is a hard one. What makes you stay with him? Don't the boys
ever run away?"

"Sometimes."

"What does the padrone do in that case?"

"He tries to find them."

"And if he does--what then?"

"He beats them for a long time."

"Evidently your padrone is a brute. Why don't you complain to the
police?"

Phil shrugged his shoulders, and did not answer. He evidently thought
the suggestion an impracticable one. These boys are wont to regard the
padrone as above all law. His power seems to them absolute, and they
never dream of any interference. And, indeed, there is some reason for
their cherishing this opinion. However brutal his treatment, I know of
no case where the law has stepped in to rescue the young victim. This
is partly, no doubt, because the boys, few of whom can speak the
English language, do not know their rights, and seldom complain to
outsiders--never to the authorities. Probably, in some cases, the
treatment is less brutal than I have depicted; but from the best
information I can obtain from trustworthy sources, I fear that the
reality, if anything, exceeds the picture I have drawn.

"I think I should enjoy giving your padrone a horsewhipping," said the
gentleman, impetuously. "Can such things be permitted in the nineteenth
century?"

"I have no doubt the little rascals deserve all they get," said the
grocer, who would probably have found in the Italian padrone a congenial
spirit.

Mr. Pomeroy deigned no reply to this remark.

"Well, boys," he said, consulting his watch, "I must leave you. Here are
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