"
"Washington Bank!" repeated Frank. "Dick, is there such a bank in
the city?"
"Not as I knows on," said Dick. "Leastways I don't own any shares
in it."
"Aint this the Washington Bank?" asked the countryman, pointing to
the building on the steps of which the three were now standing.
"No, it's the Custom House."
"And won't they give me any money for this?" asked the young man,
the perspiration standing on his brow.
"I am afraid the man who gave it to you was a swindler," said
Frank, gently.
"And won't I ever see my fifty dollars again?" asked the youth in
agony.
"I am afraid not."
"What'll dad say?" ejaculated the miserable youth. "It makes me feel
sick to think of it. I wish I had the feller here. I'd shake him out
of his boots."
"What did he look like? I'll call a policeman and you shall describe
him. Perhaps in that way you can get track of your money."
Dick called a policeman, who listened to the description, and
recognized the operator as an experienced swindler. He assured the
countryman that there was very little chance of his ever seeing his
money again. The boys left the miserable youth loudly bewailing his
bad luck, and proceeded on their way down the street.
"He's a baby," said Dick, contemptuously. "He'd ought to know how to
take care of himself and his money. A feller has to look sharp in
this city, or he'll lose his eye-teeth before he knows it.
Pages:
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80