Mr. Warner had opened the sweater. His miserly old eyes fairly gloated over the pocket book and its contents. His thin cruel lips moved as if he was smacking them over a meal.
“You found this, you say?” he inquired.
“Yes, I did,” responded Dave brusquely, none too well pleased with the way things had turned out.
“Well, finders keepers!” chuckled the old man with a cunning laugh.
“Nobody is going to have that pocket book but the owner,” said Dave staunchly.
“I’ll arrange about that, you young insolent!” retorted Mr. Warner.
“You’ll have to, in the right way, too,” asserted Dave, who was quite nettled.
“Eh—what’s that?” shouted the old man.
“Just what I said. If you will look at that medal in that pocket book, you will find that the owner’s name is on it. It is ‘Robert King’. All you’ve got to do is to send his property back to him. I happen to know that he is at Fairfield now, and a letter directed there would reach him.”
“Say,” blurted out old Warner, “I know what to do, I guess, about my own business.”