"Well—well—well!" ejaculated Mr. King, as he saw this array. Polly gathered Phronsie's other hand in hers, while she clung closer than ever to Grandpapa.
"Here's your pocket-book," said Tom, handing the article over; "he hasn't spent much."
"Don't, Tom," said Jasper, "joke about it."
"Can't help it," said Tom. "Well, now, shall we turn him over to the sergents de ville?"
"Turn him over?" repeated Mr. King. "I should say so," he added drily, "and give him the best recommendation for a long term, too. What else is there to do, pray tell?"
"Grandpapa," suddenly cried Phronsie, who hadn't taken her eyes from the man's face, "what are you going to do—where is he going?"
"We are going to hand him over to the police, child," answered old Mr.
King, harshly. "And as soon as possible, too."
"Grandpapa, perhaps he's got some little children at home; ask him,
Grandpapa, do."
"No, no, Phronsie," said Mr. King, hastily. "Say no more, child; you don't understand. We must call the sergents de ville."
At the words sergents de ville the man shivered from head to foot, and wrenched his hands free from the boys' grasp to tear open his poor coat, and show a bare breast, covered with little, apparently, but the skin drawn over the bones. He didn't attempt to say anything.