My
respect for my new friend suffered a little diminution. Already I felt
instinctively that to play the fiddle, even though it is an old, a poor
one, is to be something above a mere organ-grinder.
But I did not express this feeling--was not this little girl going to take
me home with her? would not she, doubtless, give me something to eat?
My first impulse was an artistic one; that was of Italy. The concealment of
it was due to the English side of me--the practical side.
I crept close to the little girl; she drew me to her protectingly.
'What is thy name, _p'tit_?' she said.
'Anton,' I answered, for that was what the woman Maddalena had called me.
Her husband, if he was her husband, never gave me any title, except when he
was abusing me, and then my names were many and unmentionable. Nowadays I
am the Baron Antonio Antonelli, of the Legion of Honour, but that is merely
an extension of the old concise Anton, so far as I know, the only name I
ever had.'
'Anton?' repeated the little girl, that is a nice name to say. Mine is
Ninette.'
We sat in silence in our sheltered nook, waiting until the rain should
stop, and very soon I began to whimper again.
'I am so hungry, Ninette,' I said; 'I have eaten nothing to-day.
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