Читать книгу Frank Merriwell's Own Company; Or, Barnstorming in the Middle West онлайн

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A cry came from the ticket seller—a cry of consternation and terror.

"The money!" he fluttered.

"What money?" asked Burnham.

"The bills in the tray!"

"What about them?"

"Gone!"

"Gone where?"

"Don't know! Disappeared!"

"How could they?"

"Somebody must have reached in and taken them while we were looking for the cat and dog. I've been robbed!"

"Nobody reached in," declared Burnham, at once. "No person has been near the window, Jones."

"But the money was there a few moments ago—I saw it just before the dog barked."

"Then it must be right here now. Perhaps you brushed the bills off onto the floor."

"Couldn't brush them out of the tray."

They looked on the floor, but the pile of bills was not found there.

"You must have put them in your pocket, Jones," said Burnham, sternly.

"On my honor——"

"Feel and find out. You will be held responsible."

The ticket seller was frightened, and he showed it.

"Of course, Mr. Burnham," he began, unsteadily, "you do not think I would take a dollar that does not belong to me? You have known me too long——"