“There!” he said, in a reproachful tone, “see what you have made me do; now you have lost some of your money.”
“Pick it up, Harold, that’s a good boy.”
He stooped and picked up a twenty-five cent piece, then said:
“Never mind the rest. It has rolled round under the seat somewhere, and it is all dust; I can’t get down on my knees and hunt; never mind, let it go. Say, mamma, give me that box of candy.”
“Not now; I would rather you did not eat any more candy, Harold, until we get home.”
“Why not? I don’t want to wait; I haven’t eaten much. Come, it’s my candy, and I want it. You bought it for me, and I think you are mean not to let me have it.”
“Hush, Harold! do not talk so loud. Hold your overcoat, dear; it is too heavy for mamma.”
“Oh! I can’t, it is too hot. I did not need that great big overcoat anyhow, and I told you so. I’m not going to hold it. Drop it on the floor if you don’t want to keep it. But give me that box of candy. O, mamma! there’s a procession coming down the street—soldiers, and everything. I’m going out on the platform to see them.”
He made a dash forward, and the pale, anxious mother reached after him, trying to arrest his steps, dropping as she did so not only the overcoat, but the pocket-book again. The pennies and the ten-cent pieces rolled around freely, while Harold, looking behind him, gave a mocking laugh, and was out on the platform.
They had not been in the car over five minutes. And yet I was quite as well acquainted with Harold as I had any desire to be.