“What half-dollar?”
“My half-dollar. Don’t you know? you borrowed it of me the other day, when you wanted one to ring with Jack’s on the doorstep.”
“But I gave it back to you.”
“No, you didn’t. You put it in your pocket. You had on your old gray pants, and you haven’t worn ’em since.”
The deacon went back to the bedroom, took down the said garments from a hook, and explored the pockets.
“You’re right, my girl. Here it is now. Send it to Jack if you like. What!” looking with astonishment at the coin as he was about to give it to her.
“That ain’t my half-dollar!” the child exclaimed. “That—that’s Jack’s!”
“Massy on me! Mother, see here! How under the sun—” stammered the bewildered deacon.
“If that don’t beat all!” said Mrs. Chatford. “Feel in your other pockets.”
The deacon felt, but no other half-dollar could be found.