But Horace had no idea of making such a confession as that.  “The money’ll come up,” said he; “I’m one of the lucky kind.  Let’s see; wouldn’t it be best to advertise?”

“Thieves won’t answer advertisements,” said Mrs. Allen.

“But, I tell you, auntie, I dropped that wallet.  I could take my oath of it.”

“Well, in such a case an advertisement is the proper thing.  But, my boy, your positiveness on this subject is extraordinary.  How could you drop the wallet?  Do you keep it in the same pocket with your handkerchief?”

“On, no, auntie; right in here.”

“And you haven’t bought anything?”

“No, auntie; you wouldn’t let me pay the car fare, or anything else.  But still I must have taken out the wallet by mistake.  You see I know nobody’s picked my pockets.”

“Why, Horace, you just said Granny picked ’em.”

“No, Dot, I didn’t!  I only spoke of the queer way she had of leaning forward.”

“But you scowled at her sharp enough to take head off.”

“If I were you, Dot, I wouldn’t be any more disagreeable than I was absolutely obliged to.—­Now, auntie, how much does it cost to advertise?”

“A dollar or so I believe.”

“Well, if you’ll lend me the money, I want to do it.”

“To be plain with you, Horace, I really do not think it will be of the slightest use in this case; but I will consent to it if it will be any relief to your mind.  We shall be obliged to cross the ferry again, for the advertisement ought to go into a Brooklyn paper.”

“We are tired enough to drop,” said Dotty; “and all these stars and things, too!”

“Yes, we are all tired; but we will leave you little girls at the ferry-house on the other side.”

“But, auntie,” said Prudy, anxiously, “I shouldn’t really dare have the care of Fly.  You know just how it is.”

“Yes, I do know just how it is.  Fly must walk, with her tired little feet, to the Eagle office, with Horace and me; or else she must make a solemn promise not to go out of the ferry-house.”

“But I don’t want to make a solomon promise, auntie; I want to see the eagle.”

Mrs. Allen sighed.  She began to think she had undertaken a great task in inviting these children to visit her.  Instead of a pleasure, they had proved, thus far, a weariness—­always excepting Prudy.  She, dear, self-forgetting little girl, could not fail to be a comfort wherever she went.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE PUMPKIN HOOD.

To the “Eagle” office they went—­obstinate Horace, patient Annt Madge, and between them the “blue-bottle Fly.”

“I do feel right sorry, auntie,” said Horace, a sudden sense of shame coming over him; “but I’m so sure I dropped the money, you know; or I wouldn’t drag you up this hill when you’re so tired.”

A sharp answer rose to Mrs. Allen’s lips, but she held it back.