“All right,” he agreed, and so he went for the walk, a walk differing from his usual weekday one, when he was continuously on the lookout for a house where a bank clerk lived, which house might be near a pile of the “million-dollar” bricks.
It was beautiful in the park. As Larry walked along the big gray squirrels scampered about over the green grass, for they are allowed to run free in the big enclosure.
Larry bought a bag of peanuts, and, as he crossed over a roadway, and reached the other side, a big squirrel sat up with tail erect, and eyed him hungrily.
“Peanuts, eh? Want some peanuts?” asked Larry, and, holding out one in his hand toward the squirrel, he was rather surprised when the nimble little creature scrambled up his leg, as though it was the trunk of a tree, thence to his shoulder and along his arm to his outstretched hand, and took the peanut in its paws. Then, as fearless as a kitten, the squirrel sat up on Larry’s shoulder, and ate the nut.
“Well, well!” he laughed. “This is a new one on me. I never knew the squirrels were so tame.”
They are, as a matter of fact, for kind treatment, and the way the New York boys and girls feed them, has made them so.
Suddenly there was a movement on the path back of Larry. With a frisk of its tail the squirrel scampered down Larry’s leg, and ran across the grass, with part of the peanut in its paws. Then there came a girlish laugh, and a voice exclaimed:
“Oh, this is a new part for a reporter to play! Are you getting a story about the tameness of squirrels, Mr. Dexter?”
Larry wheeled about, and saw the girl to whom he had been of service in the subway—the girl who had helped him on the satchel clew—Miss Molly Mason.
“Oh, good afternoon!” he greeted her. “This is an unexpected pleasure. I didn’t know you walked in such a prosaic place as Central Park.”