THINKING he might not have looked in the right pocket, Tom made a hasty search through all the others.
“No use,” he said dolefully, “it’s gone! I must have dropped it after I left the house. What’s to be done?”
The situation was serious for the lad. He wished he had been more careful, but he had been so engaged in thinking of the queer actions of Mr. and Mrs. Sandow, and in talking to Charley Grove, that he had given little thought to the money.
“Mr. Townsend will think I have stolen it, when I go to him in the morning, and say I’ve lost it,” murmured Tom. “I wish I had been more particular. Maybe there was a hole in my pocket.”
He looked, but there was none, for Mrs. Baldwin attended carefully to her son’s clothes.
“This is certainly a pickle!” exclaimed the boy to himself softly. “I wonder what I’d better do? Maybe if I go back the way I came I’ll find the envelope lying in the street. It was a good-sized, white one, and I can easily see it.”
“But maybe I dropped it in the car,” he added. “No, I don’t believe I could have done that, or some of the passengers or the conductor would have seen it on the floor, and told me about it. I must have lost it either before I got on the car, or afterward. I’ll walk back to where I met Charley, and see if it’s there.”
It was nearly eleven o’clock now, and as Tom looked up at the silent little house, where his mother and aunt were doubtless sleeping, he wondered if he had better go in and tell his parent about the loss, and inform her that he was going to look for the money.
“No, I’ll not do that,” he decided. “She’ll only worry about it, and she has troubles enough. I’ll hurry as much as I can, and get back as soon as possible. Still, if I’m not in by midnight she may worry too. But then I told her I was likely to be late any night now, for I might have to deliver books in the suburbs. I guess she won’t worry if I don’t go in right away.”
Deciding that this was the best plan, Tom descended the steps of his home, and hurried back over the route he had taken from the car. How eagerly he scanned the pavement, looking for that white, square envelope! Every scrap of paper he saw made his heart flutter, until he came close to it, and saw that it was not what he sought.
“Well, here’s where I took the car,” he said, as he reached the corner where he had alighted. “Either I didn’t drop it along this way, or if I did, some one has picked it up. Now for the second part of my search.”
He waited for a car to come along, to take him back to Dr. Spidderkins’ house, and it was a cold, lonesome wait for Tom, who felt quite miserable over what had happened. To his delight he saw on the car the same conductor with whom he had ridden about an hour before. The man was on the return trip.
“Did you find an envelope in the car, after I left?” asked Tom eagerly, as he got aboard, and told the circumstances.
“Didn’t find anything but an old lunch box, and there was nothing in it,” said the conductor.
“Then I must have dropped it before I got on the car,” decided Tom.
Arriving at the place where he had first boarded the electric vehicle, he alighted and hurried over the ground toward the house of the eccentric doctor. No sign of a white envelope greeted his anxious eyes.
“I’m going to ask if it’s in the house,” the boy said to himself, as he stood in front of the big, dark mansion. “I might have let it slip when I thought I put it in my pocket, and perhaps they picked it up on the floor. Though if Mr. and Mrs. Sandow did, they’re likely to keep it, if what Charley Grove says is true.”
Tom rang the bell. It seemed like a quarter of an hour before some one opened a window over his head and called:
“Well, what’s the matter? Is it a telegram?”
“I’m from Townsend’s book store,” replied Tom. “I came——”
“What! More books!” exclaimed a voice Tom recognized as Mrs. Sandow’s. “You can’t leave ’em here to-night. Everybody’s to bed long ago. You’ll have to come back in the morning.”
“I haven’t got any books,” said Tom. “I dropped the envelope with the ten-dollar bill the doctor gave me, and I thought maybe it might be in the house. Would you mind looking?”
“That’s a likely story!” sneered Mr. Sandow, joining his wife at the window. “You probably stole that money, and now you want us to help you lie about it. Clear out of here!”
“I didn’t steal the money!” exclaimed Tom. “I lost it! Will you please look down in the sitting-room, or have Dr. Spidderkins do so?”
“The doctor’s asleep, and I’m not going to disturb him,” declared Mrs. Sandow.
“I guess not!” added her husband. “Now clear out of here, and don’t disturb us any more. You’re a nuisance, with your books and things! I’ll put a stop to this buying of trash!”
“What’s the matter? What is it? Is it a burglar after my rare books?” inquired Dr. Spidderkins, coming suddenly to the window, behind Mr. and Mrs. Sandow. He leaned out, and Tom could see, in the light of an electric arc lamp in front of the house, that the doctor was dressed, and had on his spectacles, as if he had been sitting up reading.
“Go back to bed!” called the woman.
“I haven’t been to bed. I must have forgotten to go,” answered the doctor. “I was reading an account of how the Romans invaded England. It’s in a very rare first edition of——”
The rest of the sentence was cut off, as Mr. Sandow slammed the window down.
“They don’t want him to speak to me,” thought Tom. “I wonder what’s the matter with that couple? They seem to want the doctor to do just as they say.”
An instant later the window was raised again, and the aged physician looked out.
“Did you say some one was stealing my books?” he asked. “Are you a policeman? I’m much obliged to you. I hope the fellow didn’t get my first folio Shakespeare.”
“No, I’m not a policeman! No books have been stolen!” cried Tom. “I’m from Townsend’s book store.”
“Oh, yes. You’re Theopholus—no—I remember now; you’re Tom Baldwin. Wait; I’ll be right down. Have you some more books for me?”
Before the boy could answer, the window was shut again, but in less than a minute the front door opened, and Dr. Spidderkins, holding a candle in his hand, for he liked that old-fashioned method of going about the house after dark, was inviting Tom to enter. The story of the mishap was soon told.
“I thought maybe I might have dropped the envelope here,” the boy finished.
“Wait a minute!” exclaimed Dr. Spidderkins, as he reached for his pocketbook. He searched hurriedly through it. Then he uttered an exclamation. “There! It’s all my fault. I knew I’d forget about it!”
“What?” asked Tom hopefully.
“Why, I gave you the wrong thing! There wasn’t any ten-dollar bill in that envelope!”
“There wasn’t?” and Tom’s heart grew light again.
“Why, I gave you the wrong thing!” said Dr. Spidderkins.
“No. That envelope contained a list of books I wanted Mr. Townsend to get for me. I meant to send it back to him by whoever called for the ten dollars. I put the envelope in the compartment with the bill, so I would remember about it. Then my memory played me a trick, and I gave you the envelope with the list, and not the bill. So you haven’t lost much of anything, after all. I can easily make out another list, and here is the ten-dollar bill. Queer how that happened.”
“I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t give me the money,” said Tom with a smile, “for I would have lost it. But I’ll be careful this time.”
He placed the bill in an inner pocket, and then, bidding the doctor good-night, Tom once more started for home. This time he reached it in safety, and he put the bill under his pillow when he went to bed. He said nothing about the little adventure to his mother or aunt, merely stating that he had been out late because of some business for his employer. Nor did he mention the happening to Mr. Townsend.
The work at the book store became more exacting as Christmas approached, and as customers increased, Tom was kept busy from morning to night. He had to run on many errands, and he learned more of Boston than he had ever known before.
He made many sales in the store, and several times he waited on Dr. Spidderkins, but the physician made no reference to Tom’s midnight visit. Probably he forgot all about it ten minutes after it occurred.
Christmas eve Tom was up until after midnight, delivering books to late customers, and when he got back to the store about one o’clock in the morning, he found Mr. Townsend about to close up.
“Tom,” said his employer, “you’ve done very good work for me, and I assure you I appreciate it. We don’t open to-morrow, and here’s a little remembrance for the Christmas season.”
He handed our hero a book of adventures that Tom had long desired to possess.
“I am sorry,” went on Mr. Townsend, “that I won’t be able to keep you after this week. You know I engaged you for the holiday rush, and that’s over now, so I won’t need so many clerks. I am sorry to have to let you go, as you suited me very well.”
“I’m sorry, too,” said Tom frankly, “but, of course, I understood when you hired me that it was for the holiday season. I only hoped you could keep me.”
“So did I, but I find I can not. Your week will not be up until Saturday, but as there will be little to do, you need not come in that day, nor Friday, though I will pay you for a full week. Here is the money. Now if you want a reference, to get another position, call on me. I will be glad to speak a good word for you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Townsend.”
“I think you can get work, somewhere,” went on the bookseller. “I wish I could keep you, but I can’t. Times are too dull. Good-night, Tom.”
Tom went home with a heavy heart, in spite of the fact that it was Christmas morning, and that a book had been presented to him. He was out of work, and he did not know where to look for a situation.