"No," answered Russ. "I've only five cents. But you can have that, and my father'll give you the rest when I tell him."
"Who's your father?" asked the janitor.
"They're staying with their Aunt Jo," explained Tom Martin. "She lives on this street—Miss Bunker, you know."
"We're two of the six little Bunkers," said Russ.
"Oh, I'm glad to know that," and Mr. Quinn smiled again. "Well, as it happens, I used to be your aunt's furnace man, so I know her. If you're related to her you must be all right. I'll let you two little Bunkers go now, but your father must come and pay for the window."
"He will," promised Russ, who was glad no policeman had come along, though he had made up his mind to be brave, and not be afraid if one should happen to be called in by the janitor. But none was.
"I'll help pay for the window, too," said Tom. "It was part my fault, 'cause I asked Russ and Laddie to come down here to play tops."
"Good-bye, boys!" the janitor called after them. "I'm sorry you had this accident, but I like the way you acted."
Russ, Laddie and Tom were sorry, too, for they knew their fathers would feel bad, not so much at having to pay out fifty cents each, as because the boys had played tops in a place where they might, almost any time, break a window.
Tom ought to have known better than to go down by the apartment house, for, more than once, he had been told to keep away, but Russ and Laddie had not. However, neither Mr. Martin nor Daddy Bunker scolded very much. They sent the money to the janitor, and told the boys just what Mr. Quinn had told them—to play tops on some other pavement. And this the boys did.