"Hullo, my little man! What you doin' in this ward? Come; don't you pull away from me: I'm a city officer. Got lost, hey?"
Horace shook with fright. O dear, was it a crime, then, to get lost? He remembered all the stories he had ever heard of lock-ups, and state-prisons, and handcuffs.
"O, I didn't mean any harm, sir," cried he, trying to steady his voice; "I reckon I ain't lost, sir; or, if I am, I ain't lost much!"
"So, sor," laughed the policeman, good-naturedly; "and what was your name, my little man, before you got lost, and didn't get lost much?"
"My name is Horace Clifford, sir," replied the boy, wondering why a cruel policeman should want to laugh.
"Well, well," said the man, not unkindly, "I'm glad I've come across ye, for your mother's in a terrible taking. What set ye out to run off? Come, now; don't be sulky. Give us your hand, and I guess, seein' it's you, we won't put you in the lock-up this time."
Horace was very grateful to the officer for not handcuffing him on the spot; still he felt as if it was a great disgrace to be marched through the city by a policeman.
Mrs. Clifford, Grace, and Mr. Lazelle met them on the way.
"O, my dear, dear son," cried Mrs. Clifford, as soon as she could speak; "do you know how you've frightened us all?"
"I followed the band," stammered Horace. "I was looking for Mr. Lazelle."