“I want my pocketbook,” said the lady, defiantly.
“Well, ma’am, I haven’t got it, and I don’t see as it’s doing you any good detaining us all here.”
“Conductor, will you call a policeman to search that young scamp?” continued the aggrieved lady. “You don’t expect I’m going to lose my money, and do nothing about it.”
“I’ll turn my pockets inside out if you want me to,” said Frank, proudly. “There’s no need of a policeman. The conductor, or anyone else, may search me.”
“Well, youngster,” said the conductor, “if the lady agrees, I’ll search you.”
The lady signified her assent.
Frank accordingly turned his pockets inside out, but nothing was revealed except his own porte-monnaie and a penknife.
“Well, ma’am, are you satisfied?” asked the conductor.
“No, I ain’t,” said she, decidedly.
“You don’t think he’s got it still?”
“No, but he’s passed it over to his confederate, that boy there that’s so full of impudence.”
“That’s me,” said Dick, comically.
“He confesses it,” said the lady; “I want him searched.”
“All right,” said Dick, “I’m ready for the operation, only, as I’ve got valooable property about me, be careful not to drop any of my Erie Bonds.”
The conductor’s hand forthwith dove into Dick’s pocket, and drew out a rusty jackknife, a battered cent, about fifty cents in change, and the capacious pocketbook which he had received from the swindler who was anxious to get back to his sick family in Boston.
“Is that yours, ma’am?” asked the conductor, holding up the wallet which excited some amazement, by its size, among the other passengers.
“It seems to me you carry a large pocketbook for a young man of your age,” said the conductor.
“That’s what I carry my cash and valooable papers in,” said Dick.
“I suppose that isn’t yours, ma’am,” said the conductor, turning to the lady.
“No,” said she, scornfully. “I wouldn’t carry round such a great wallet as that. Most likely he’s stolen it from somebody else.”
“What a prime detective you’d be!” said Dick. “P’rhaps you know who I took it from.”
“I don’t know but my money’s in it,” said the lady, sharply. “Conductor, will you open that wallet, and see what there is in it?”
“Don’t disturb the valooable papers,” said Dick, in a tone of pretended anxiety.
The contents of the wallet excited some amusement among the passengers.
“There don’t seem to be much money here,” said the conductor, taking out a roll of tissue paper cut out in the shape of bills, and rolled up.
“No,” said Dick. “Didn’t I tell you them were papers of no valoo to anybody but the owner? If the lady’d like to borrow, I won’t charge no interest.”
“Where is my money, then?” said the lady, in some discomfiture. “I shouldn’t wonder if one of the young scamps had thrown it out of the window.”
“You’d better search your pocket once more,” said the gentleman opposite. “I don’t believe either of the boys is in fault. They don’t look to me as if they would steal.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Frank.
The lady followed out the suggestion, and, plunging her hand once more into her pocket, drew out a small porte-monnaie. She hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry at this discovery. It placed her in rather an awkward position after the fuss she had made, and the detention to which she had subjected the passengers, now, as it proved, for nothing.
“Is that the pocketbook you thought stolen?” asked the conductor.
“Yes,” said she, rather confusedly.
“Then you’ve been keeping me waiting all this time for nothing,” he said, sharply. “I wish you’d take care to be sure next time before you make such a disturbance for nothing. I’ve lost five minutes, and shall not be on time.”
“I can’t help it,” was the cross reply; “I didn’t know it was in my pocket.”
“It seems to me you owe an apology to the boys you accused of a theft which they have not committed,” said the gentleman opposite.
“I shan’t apologize to anybody,” said the lady, whose temper was not of the best; “least of all to such whippersnappers as they are.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Dick, comically; “your handsome apology is accepted. It ain’t of no consequence, only I didn’t like to expose the contents of my valooable pocketbook, for fear it might excite the envy of some of my poor neighbors.”
“You’re a character,” said the gentleman who had already spoken, with a smile.
“A bad character!” muttered the lady.
But it was quite evident that the sympathies of those present were against the lady, and on the side of the boys who had been falsely accused, while Dick’s drollery had created considerable amusement.
The cars had now reached Fifty-ninth Street, the southern boundary of the Park, and here our hero and his companion got off.
“You’d better look out for pickpockets, my lad,” said the conductor, pleasantly. “That big wallet of yours might prove a great temptation.”
“That’s so,” said Dick. “That’s the misfortin’ of being rich. Astor and me don’t sleep much for fear of burglars breakin’ in and robbin’ us of our valooable treasures. Sometimes I think I’ll give all my money to an Orphan Asylum, and take it out in board. I guess I’d make money by the operation.”
While Dick was speaking, the car rolled away, and the boys turned up Fifty-ninth Street, for two long blocks yet separated them from the Park.
X
Introduces a Victim of Misplaced Confidence
“What a queer chap you are, Dick!” said Frank, laughing. “You always seem to be in good spirits.”
“No, I ain’t always. Sometimes I have the blues.”
“When?”
“Well, once last winter it was awful cold, and there was big holes in my shoes, and my gloves and all my warm clothes was at the tailor’s. I felt as if life was sort of tough, and I’d like it if some rich man would adopt me, and give me plenty to eat and drink and wear, without my havin’ to look so sharp after it. Then agin’ when I’ve seen boys with good homes, and fathers, and mothers, I’ve thought I’d like to have somebody
