"Si, signora, a little," answered our hero.

"My son is sick, and would like to hear you play a little."

"And sing, too," added the sick boy, from the bed.

Phil struck up the song he had been singing in the street, a song well
known to all who have stopped to listen to the boys of his class, with
the refrain, "Viva Garibaldi." His voice was clear and melodious, and
in spite of the poor quality of his instrument, he sang with so much
feeling that the effect was agreeable.

The sick boy listened with evident pleasure, for he, too, had a taste
for music.

"I wish I could understand Italian," he said, "I think it must be a good
song."

"Perhaps he can sing some English song," suggested Mrs. Leigh.

"Can you sing in English?" she asked.

Phil hesitated a moment, and then broke into the common street ditty,
"Shoe fly, don't bouder me," giving a quaint sound to the words by his
Italian accent.

"Do you know any more?" asked Henry Leigh, when our hero had finished.

"Not English," said Phil, shaking his head.