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

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"It's folly, but I'll—— Good gracious!"

Thaddeus Burnham removed his hat, and out tumbled the roll of bills. He caught them up and stared at them.

"Is—is this the money?" he asked, bewildered.

Jones looked it over, they counted it, they compared accounts, and they found it was the correct amount.

"That is the money," declared the satisfied ticket seller. "I distinctly remember that torn five-dollar bill."

"But," murmured the puzzled manager, "it—it was in my hat!"

"That's right."

"How did it get there?"

"You must have caught it up and placed it there when you entered the office to look for the cat and dog."

"Never—never did any such thing! Why, it's ridiculous! I wouldn't put the money in my hat."

"You had your hat in your hand when you came in."

"Yes, I was going to shoo the dog and cat with it. But where are the dog and cat? Are things bewitched around here? There's something queer about this."

Frank Merriwell laughed quietly.

"I don't think you will find the dog or the cat if you search a long time," he said. "As for the money——"