Angelica put five hundred dollars in her port-monnaie, and handed the like amount to her sire. He thrust it into his vest-pocket, brushed his hat, and arranged his choker. Mrs. Pompilard came down with the Prospectus that was to be the etymon of a new fortune. He took it, kissed wife and daughter, and issued from the house.
As he passed up Lavinia Street, many a curious eye from behind curtains and blinds looked out admiringly on the imposing figure. One boy on the sidewalk remarked to another: “I say, Ike, who is that old swell as has come into our street? I’ve a mind to shy this dead kitten at him.”
“Don’t do it, Peter Craig!” exclaimed Ike; “father says that man’s a detective,—a feller as sees you when you think he ain’t looking. We’d better mind how we call arter him again, ‘Old blow-hard!’”
CHAPTER XLIV.
A DOMESTIC RECONNOISSANCE.
“O Spirit of the Summer time!
Bring back the roses to the dells;
The swallow from her distant clime,
The honey-bee from drowsy cells.
Bring back the singing and the scent
Of meadow-lands at dewy prime;—