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

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"That money must be recovered," came furiously from the now excited manager. "I must refund it to those who have purchased tickets here to-night, for there will be no performance. Search in your pockets."

Jones felt through his pockets, but protested that he could find nothing. His agitation and terror grew apace.

It seemed that the money had vanished into thin air.

"Perhaps you picked up the money when you rushed in, Mr. Burnham," suggested Frank Merriwell, from the door.

"Impossible!" exclaimed the manager. "Didn't do it."

"Better feel and see."

Burnham felt through all his pockets, but discovered nothing.

"Mr. Jones," he said, frigidly, "if you do not find that money, you'll sleep in the lock-up to-night."

"Don't be so hasty, Mr. Burnham," expostulated Frank. "There is one place you have not looked."

"Eh? What's that? Where?"

"In your hat."

"My hat? Why, it's——"

"On your head—exactly."

"But the money couldn't get into my hat. Don't joke, young man. This is serious."

"Not joking. Better take off your hat and look in it."