Tim caught the basket as Berty heedlessly rose, and, without speaking, followed her—still holding his arm—down a neighboring alley. He had never seen his little friend look, or act, so strangely, and he was curious to know what it meant. When they came to a quiet, out-of-the-way spot, Berty stopped, and putting her hand in her bosom, drew out the pocket-book, and held it up before him, saying, still in the same frightened whisper, “There, Tim, see what I found!”
“A pocket-book! Oh, Berty, let’s see!”
“Hush, Tim!” gasped Berty, “don’t speak so loud; and here, come in the corner, behind this water-butt. Now, Tim, open it and count it, and tell me if there’s enough.”
Tim took the book, and, loosening the elastic band, spread it out before them as they sat upon the sidewalk. The numerous red pockets were famously lined. There were rolls of bank-notes, drafts, checks, and in one little flapped pocket a handful of shining gold. “Why, Berty!” cried Tim, almost breathless with amazement, “I could never count it. It would take a bank-teller to do that. Sure, there’s money enough to buy a dozen Christmas trees.”
“Is there?” said Berty, clutching eagerly at it. “Is there? Then there’s surely enough to buy one. Give it to me, Tim; let me put it away. Somebody’ll be coming along.”
Tim caught the grasping hand in one of his, and held the pocket-book firmly in the other. “Where did you get it, Berty?” he asked.
Berty’s head drooped a little, and the color flushed up to her temples. “I told you, Tim,” she answered: “I found it.”
“Yes; but where?”
“In the street.”
“And you don’t know who it belongs to?”