A bright thought struck the old gentleman. "I'll tell you, Phronsie," he said quickly. "Give the doll to this man for one of his little children; they'll take care of it, and like it."
"Oh, Grandpapa!" screamed Phronsie, skipping up and down and clapping her muddy little hands, then she picked up the doll and lifted it toward him. "Give my child to your little girl, and tell her to take good care of it," she said.
As Phronsie's French had long been one of Grandpapa's special responsibilities in the morning hours, she spoke it nearly as well as Polly herself, so the man grasped the doll as he had seized the money before.
"And now," said Mr. King, "you are not going to run away this time without telling me—oh, bless me!"
This last was brought out by an excited individual rushing up over the curbstone to get out of the way of a passing dray, and the walking-stick which he swung aloft as a protection, coming into collision with Mr. King's hat, knocked it over his eyes.
"A thousand pardons, Monsieur!" exclaimed the Frenchman, bowing and scraping.
"You may well beg a thousand pardons," cried Mr. King, angrily, "to go about in this rude fashion through the street."
"A thousand pardons," repeated the Frenchman, with more empressement than before, and tripping airily on his way.
When old Mr. King had settled his hat, he turned back to the man. "Now tell me—why—" The man was nowhere to be seen.
"It surely does look bad," said the old gentleman to himself as he stepped into the cab with Phronsie; "that man's children are a myth. And I wanted to do something for them, for he saved Phronsie's life!"