"Whoa!" called Mun Bun again. But the horse did not stop.
Just then a policeman came down the street. He saw Mun Bun on the seat of the wagon, and he saw the cook waving at him and calling. And the policeman needed to take only one look to make him feel sure that Mun Bun was not the junkman's little boy driving the wagon. Mun Bun was not dressed as a junkman's little boy would probably be dressed.
"That's funny," said the policeman to himself. "I must see about this." He walked toward the wagon. By this time the cook had come out on the sidewalk. She knew the policeman.
"Stop him!" she called, pointing to the wagon. "Stop that junkman!"
"That isn't a junkman," said the officer.
"Well, stop that junk boy then, Mr. Mulligan," begged the cook, smiling at the policeman.
"Nor yet it isn't a junk boy," said the officer. "He doesn't belong on that wagon."
"Do you mean to say he stole it?" asked the cook. "Mrs. Rynsler has some junk she wants to get out of the cellar, and——"
"This boy'll never take it," said Mr. Mulligan, the policeman. "In the first place he's too little, and in the second place he isn't a junk boy. I must see about this," and, hurrying along for a little distance, then walking out to the curb, he reached out his hand and stopped the horse. It was not hard work. The bony horse was ready to stop almost any time.
"Whoa!" said the policeman.