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.”