“Hear him!” shouted Billy, doubling over with glee. “Come on in, an’ I’ll show yer whether we’re stuffin’ or not!”
Blue was pulled towards a grocery, and in a moment he and Billy were foremost of a group facing the proprietor of the shop.
“Say, Mr. Grumley, how much’d they offer for that Flemin’ kid?”
“Three thousand dollars. But you’re too late, Bill! They’ve just found the child an’ the hull of ’em up in The Flatiron, an’ the reward’s goin’ to a boy ’t lives there.”
“A—h! wha’ do ye say to that?” shrieked Billy delightedly. Then, to the grocer, “He’s the feller! An’ he would have it we was tryin’ to fool him! Do ye b’lieve it now?” with a sharp slap on Blue’s back.
The boy nodded dazedly, and then fled, the others close at his heels.
Three thousand dollars! It spun through his brain, it thumped in his breast, it shouted itself in his ears until he felt that everybody must hear it,—“Three thousand dollars! Three thousand dollars!” What would Doodles say? And his mother? Pshaw, it couldn’t be true! The money—if there really were any—would go to the police. He was a fool for harboring the hope of it—he, a penniless nobody who only showed the way!
Yet, notwithstanding all this, with his last paper delivered he was speeding back to The Flatiron, excitedly longing to see how astonished Doodles would be. But one glance at his brother’s face told him that the news was already there.
Doodles was sitting motionless, his big eyes round and radiant, yet with a hint of awe in them which reminded Blue of the time when he first clasped his violin.
Granny O’Donnell and Mrs. Homan were still discussing the affair, the younger woman with eager gestures, Granny placid as usual.