Philip took another walk in the afternoon, and was rather amused to see how much attention he received. When he drew near the hotel he was stared at by several gaping youngsters, who apparently were stationed there for no other purpose. He overheard their whispers:

“That's him! That's Philip de Gray, the wonderful fiddler!”

“I never suspected, when I lived at Norton, that I was so much of a curiosity,” he said to himself. “I wish I knew what they'll say about me to-morrow.”

At six o'clock Morris Lovett called and received his ticket.

“You'll have a big house to-night, Philip,” he said. “I know a lot of fellows that are going.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Philip, well pleased, for he concluded that if such were the case his purse would be considerably heavier the next day.

“It's strange how quick you've come up;” said Morris. “I never expected you'd be so famous.”

“Nor I,” said Philip, laughing.

“I'd give anything if I could have my name posted round like yours.”

“Perhaps you will have, some time.”

“Oh, no! I couldn't play more'n a pig,” said Morris decidedly. “I'll have to be a clerk, and stick to business.”

“You'll make more money in the end that way, Morris, even if your name isn't printed in capitals.”

They retired into a small room adjoining the stage, to prepare for their appearance.

The professor rubbed his hands in glee.

“Did you see what a house we have, Mr. de Gray?”

“Yes, professor.”

“I think there'll be a hundred dollars over and above expenses.”

“That will be splendid!” said Philip, naturally elated.

“The firm of Riccaboeca and De Gray is starting swimmingly.”

“So it is. I hope it will continue so.”

“Here is the program, Mr. de Gray. You will observe that I appear first, in my famous soliloquy. You will follow, with the 'Carnival of Venice.' Do you feel agitated?”

“Oh, no. I am so used to playing that I shall not feel at all bashful.”

“That is well.”

“I would like to be on the stage, professor, to hear you.”

“Certainly. I have anticipated your desire, and provided an extra chair.”

The time came, and Professor Riccabocca stepped upon the stage, his manner full of dignity, and advanced to the desk. Philip took a chair a little to the rear.

Their entrance was greeted by hearty applause. The professor made a stately bow, and a brief introductory speech, in which he said several things about Philip and himself which rather astonished our hero. Then he began to recite the soliloquy.

Probably it was never before so amazingly recited. Professor Riccabocca's gestures, facial contortions, and inflections were very remarkable. Philip almost suspected that he was essaying a burlesque role.

The mature portion of the audience were evidently puzzled, but the small boys were delighted, and with some of the young men, stamped vigorously at the close.

Professor Riccabocea bowed modestly, and said:

“Gentlemen and ladies, you will now have the pleasure of listening to the young and talented Philip de Gray, the wonderful boy-musician, in his unrivaled rendition of the 'Carnival of Venice.'”

Philip rose, coloring a little with shame a I this high-flown introduction, and came forward.

All applauded heartily, for sympathy is always felt for a young performer, especially when he has a manly bearing and an attractive face, such as our hero possessed.

Philip was determined to do his best. Indeed, after being advertised and announced as a boy wonder, he felt that he could not do otherwise.

He commenced, and soon lost himself in the music he loved so well, so that before he had half finished he had quite forgotten his audience, and half started at the boisterous applause which followed. He bowed his acknowledgments, but found this would not do.

He was forced to play it a second time, greatly to the apparent satisfaction of the audience. It was clear that, whatever might be thought of Professor Riccabocea's recitation, the young violinist had not disappointed his audience.

Philip could see, in a seat near the stage, the beaming face of his friend Morris Lovett, who was delighted at the success of his old acquaintance, and anticipated the reflected glory which he received, from its being known that he was a friend of the wonderful young musician.

Professor Riccabocca came forward again, and recited a poem called “The Maniac,” each stanza ending with the line: “I am not mad, but soon shall be.”

He stamped, raved, tore his hair, and made altogether a very grotesque appearance.

Philip could hardly forbear laughing, and some of the boys in the front seats didn't restrain themselves, Some of the older people wondered how such a man should be selected by the Prince of Wales to instruct his sons in elocution—not suspecting that the newspaper paragraph making mention of this was only a daring invention of the eminent professor.

Next came another musical selection by Philip, which was as cordially received as the first.

I do not propose to weary the reader by a recital of the program and a detailed account of each performance. It is enough to say that Professor Riccabocca excited some amusement, but was only tolerated for the sake of Philip's playing.

Naturally, our hero was better received on account of his youth, but had he been twice as old his playing would have given satisfaction and pleasure.

So passed an hour and a half, and the musical entertainment was over. Philip felt that he had reason to be satisfied. Highly as he had been heralded, no one appeared to feel disappointed by his part of the performance.

“Mr. de Gray,” said the professor, when they reached the hotel, “you did splendidly. We have made a complete success.”

“It is very gratifying,” said Philip.

“I felt sure that the public would appreciate us. I think I managed everything shrewdly.”

“How much was paid in at the door?” asked Philip, who naturally felt interested in this phase of success.

“One hundred and forty-five dollars and a half!” answered the professor.

Philip's eyes sparkled.

“And how much will that be over and above expenses?” he asked.

“My dear Mr. de Gray, we will settle all bills, and make a fair and equitable division, in the morning. I think there will be a little more than fifty dollars to come to each of us.”

“Fifty dollars for one evening's work!” repeated Philip, his eyes sparkling.

“Oh, I have done much better than that,” said the professor. “I remember once at St. Louis I made for myself alone one hundred and eighty dollars net, and in Chicago a little more.”

“I didn't think it was such a money-making business,” said Philip, elated.

“Yes, Mr. de Gray, the American people are willing to recognize talent, when it is genuine. You are on the threshold of a great career, my dear young friend.”

“And only a week since I was in the Norton Poorhouse,” thought Philip. “It is certainly a case of romance in real life.”

The two went to bed soon, being fatigued by their exertions. The apartment was large, and contained two beds, a larger and smaller one. The latter was occupied by our hero.

When he awoke in the morning, the sun was shining brightly into the room. Philip looked toward the opposite bed. It was empty.

“Professor Riccabocca must have got up early,” he thought. “Probably he did not wish to wake me.”

He dressed and went downstairs.

“Where is the professor?” he asked of the clerk.

“He started away two hours since—said he was going to take a walk. Went away without his breakfast, too. He must be fond of walking.”

Philip turned pale. He was disturbed by a terrible suspicion. Had the professor gone off for good, carrying all the money with him?