He wa'n't ugly about it. He just states the case calm and
conversational; but somehow you was dead sure he meant it.

"All right," says I. "Then maybe when I see how you come out I'll have
something definite to report."

"You should," says he.

That's where we dropped the subject. It's some swell ride we had up
along the top of the Palisades, and on and on until we're well across
the State line into New York. Along about four-thirty he says we're
most there. We was rollin' through a jay four corners, where the
postoffice occupies one window of the gen'ral store, with the Masonic
Lodge overhead, when alongside the road we comes across a little
tow-headed girl, maybe eight or nine, pawin' around in the grass and
sobbin' doleful.

"Hold up, Martin," sings out Mr. Sturgis to the chauffeur, and Martin
jams on his emergency so the brake drums squeal.

What do you guess? Why Percey J. climbs out, asks the kid gentle what
all the woe is about, and discovers that she's lost a whole nickel that
Daddy has given her to buy lolly-pops with on account of its bein' her
birthday.

"Now that's too bad, isn't it, little one?" says Mr. Sturgis. "But I
guess we can fix that. Come on. Martin, take us back to the store."

Took out his handkerchief, Percey did, and swabbed off the tear stains,
all the while talkin' low and soothin' to the kid, until he got her