Coe capered round like a happy child, he grasped Gerty round the shoulders, he grabbed Mrs. Powell’s hand, he shook his queer forelock until he looked like a shaggy dog, and then he read out the words on the paper.
“Do I get my ten?” asked the milkman, stolidly.
“You do!” shouted Coe. “You get twenty,—and here it is!”
Murmuring his astonished thanks, the man disappeared.
“Hold on!” Coe yelled, “wait a minute, you! Where’s this house? Where’d you get this paper?”
The man told him the number, a fairly high number, on Madison Avenue.
“Good gracious, in a classy section! Whose house is it, my man?”
“It’s Mr. James Van Winkle’s house, but it’s closed for the summer,—the folks are away.”
“Closed!”
“Yes, but there’s a coupla caretakers there, and they keep things going. And, between you and me, sir, I think there’s something wrong.”