“Our chair,” and Tom quickly told what little was known. “It’s evident,” he said, “that the Yankee dealer got twisted between Rosevale and Rosedale. They’re as alike as two peas.”
“Then it’s Rosedale for ours as soon as we can get there in the morning!” cried Phil. “This time I hope we’re on the right trail.”
“Yes, we’ve been in the right church, but the wrong pew, so often that it’s getting to be monotonous,” commented Sid.
Mr. Rosenkranz proved to be a Hebrew gentleman of the old-fashioned type—venerable, with a long, straggly beard. He greeted the boys courteously when they called on him two days later, as that was the first chance they had to make the trip.
With a voice that trembled with hope, Tom asked about an old-fashioned easy chair.
“Sure I have him,” declared the Hebrew, eagerly, scenting a trade. “Ven effer you vants an easy chair, comes you to Isaac Rosenkranz, und you get him. I show you!”
The boys followed him to the rear of the store. There, amid a pile of broken furniture, old stoves, odds and ends that seemed utterly worthless, but which seemed to constitute the entire stock-in-trade of the dealer, they saw a big chair.
“That’s it!” cried Phil, eagerly.
“Ours—ours!” gasped Sid.
“No mistake this time,” murmured Tom. “Chair, allow me to present you to our new member, Frank Simpson; this is the chair you have heard so much about.”