It was thought that he had gone on some errand of unusual length, and would return an hour or two late.
Eight o’clock came, the hour at which the boy was accustomed to repair to Florence’s room to study, and still he didn’t make his appearance.
“Dodger’s late this evening, Mrs. O’Keefe,” said Florence, going up to the room of her landlady.
“Shure he is. It’s likely he’s gone to Brooklyn or up to Harlem, wid a bundle. He’ll be comin’ in soon.”
“I hope he will be well paid for the errand, since it keeps him so long.”
“I hope so, too, Florence, for he’s a good boy, is Dodger. Did I tell you how he served the rapscallion that tried to stale my apples the other day?”
“No; I would like to hear it.”
“A big, black-bearded man came along, and asked me for an apple.
“ ‘You can have one for two pennies,’ says I.
“ ‘But I haven’t got them,’ says he.