The hunchback obeyed. “We found this, we did; found all of it.”
“Ye-s, you found it!” The officer bent over to take up a purse. He opened it and emptied a handful of coins on the table at his side.
“Purses!” he exclaimed. “How many?” He counted silently. “Seven of ’em and all full of change. And you found ’em! Tell that to the judge!”
“Honest, we found them.” The grown boy dragged a ragged sleeve across his eyes. “We was down to the Jubilee. People was always crushin’ together and losin’ things in the scramble, shoes and purses an’ all this.” He swept an arm toward the pile. “So we just stayed around until they was gone. Then we got ’em.”
“And you thought because you found ’em they were yours?”
“Well, ain’t they?” The hunchback grew defiant.
“Not by a whole lot!” The officer’s voice was a trifle less stern. “If you find a purse or any other thing on the street, if it’s worth the trouble, you’re supposed to turn it in, and you leave your name. If it’s not called for, you get it back. But you can’t gather things up in a sack and just walk off. That don’t go.
“See here!” He held up a tiny leather frame taken from the purse he had emptied. “That’s a picture of an old lady with white hair; somebody’s mother, like as not. What’s it worth to you? Not that!” He snapped his fingers. “But to the real owner it’s a precious possession.”
“Yes, yes,” Florence broke in eagerly, “and there’s a ragged little purse in that pile that contains a dear old lady’s only real possession, a cameo.”
“How’d you know that?” The officer turned sharply upon her.