swiftly under the very feet of the horses, and, unheeding the savage
shouts of the driver, wormed his way rapidly through the crowd and
vanished. As he did so, the lady who had so narrowly escaped injury,
turned to her friend and cried,

"Oh my pocketbook! I must have dropped it on the crossing."

"On the crossing, did you say?" questioned the policeman, and as she
assented, he turned hastily back to the street, but the cars and teams
had passed on and others were surging forward and no trace of the
pocketbook was visible. The policeman came back and questioned the
lady about it, promising to do what he could to recover it.

"But it's not probable you'll ever see a penny of the money again," he
said. "Some rascally thief most likely saw ye drop it an' snatched it
up."

The policeman was not mistaken. If he had turned through Tremont and
Boylston streets he might have seen a ragged, barefooted boy
sauntering along with his hands in his pockets, stopping now and then
to look into a shop window, yet ever keeping a keenly watchful eye on
every policeman he met. The boy looked as if he had not a penny in
those ragged pockets of his, but one of his grimy hands clutched
tightly the lost pocketbook, which his sharp eyes had seen as it fell
beneath the feet of the horses, and which he had deftly appropriated
as he wriggled through the mud.

Heedless of wind and rain the boy lounged along the street. It was not
often that he found himself in this section of the city, and it was
much less familiar to him than some other localities. He seemed to be