“Maybe,” echoed Homer. “But, Mother, I’ve got to hurry to catch that 7:30 train.”
“Let me go with you, Homer.”
“You don’t need to,” cried the boy. “It probably ain’t nothin’ serious.”
“I’m goin’,” cried Mrs. Tidd decisively; “you don’t s’pose I could stay here doin’ nothin’ but waitin’ an’ wond’rin’?”
Mrs. Tidd and Homer caught a car at the city depot. Five minutes later they stood in front of Finch & Richards’ big market.
“Mother,” whispered the boy, as he stepped off the car, “Mother, my turkeys! They’re not there! Something’s happened. See the crowd.”
They pushed their way through a mob that was peering in at the windows, and through the windows of locked doors. The row of plump turkeys was not hung this morning under the big sign; the magnificent window display of fruit and vegetables had been ruthlessly demolished.
“What do you s’pose can have happened?” whispered Mrs. Tidd, while they waited for a clerk to come hurrying down the store and unlock the door.
Homer shook his head.
Mr. Richards himself came to greet them.