Tom was reluctantly compelled to draw out the money she had left,—a little over five dollars. Granny’s eyes sparkled as she saw it.
“It’s the money I lost,” said she. “Give it to me;” and she clutched Tom’s hand.
“Not for Joe!” said Tom, emphatically. “It’s mine, and I’ll keep it.”
“Will you make her give it up?” asked granny, appealing to the policeman. “It’s some of my hard earnings, which that wicked girl took from me.”
“That’s a lie!” retorted Tom. “You never saw the money. There was a gentleman down to Fulton Ferry that give it to me this morning.”
“That’s a likely story,” said granny, scornfully.
“If you don’t believe it you can ask him. He’s got an office on Wall Street, No. —, and his name is Mr. Dunbar. Take me round there, and see if he don’t say so.”
“Don’t believe her,” said granny. “She can lie as fast as she can talk.”
“Ask Mrs. Murphy then. She keeps an apple-stand corner of Nassau and Spruce Streets.”
“You are sure she took this money from you?” inquired the policeman.