“Why, we’re millionaires, Neale,” Agnes declared. “Oh! if it were only real we’d have an automobile.”
“This is treasure trove, sure enough,” her boy chum said.
“Whatever you find that seems to belong to nobody. I suppose this has been in the garret for ages. Hard for anybody to prove property now.”
“But it’s not real!”
“Yes—I know. But, if it were—?”
“Oh! if it were!” repeated the girl.
“Wouldn’t that be bully?” agreed the boy. But he was puzzling over the mortgage bonds of a railroad which, if it had ever been built at all, was probably now long since in a receiver’s hands, and the bonds declared valueless.
“And all for a thousand apiece,” Neale muttered, turning the pages of the book and finding more of the documents. “Cracky, Aggie, there’s a slew of them.”
“But shouldn’t they be made out to somebody? Oughtn’t somebody’s name to be on them?” asked Agnes, thoughtfully.