When he did not return at the usual hour, neither Florence nor Mrs. O’Keefe was particularly disturbed.

 

It was thought that he had gone on some errand of unusual length, and would return an hour or two late.

 

Eight o’clock came, the hour at which the boy was accustomed to repair to Florence’s room to study, and still he didn’t make his appearance.

 

“Dodger’s late this evening, Mrs. O’Keefe,” said Florence, going up to the room of her landlady².

 

“Shure he is. It’s likely he’s gone to Brooklyn or up to Harlem, wid a bundle. He’ll be comin’ in soon.”

 

“I hope he will be well paid for the errand, since it keeps him so long.”

 

“I hope so, too, Florence, for he’s a good boy, is Dodger. Did I tell you how he served the rapscallion that tried to stale my apples the other day?”

 

“No; I would like to hear it.”

 

“A big, black-bearded man came along, and asked me for an apple.

 

“ ‘You can have one for two pennies,’ says I.

 

“ ‘But I haven’t got them,’ says he.

 

“ ‘Then you must go widout it,’ says I.

 

“ ‘We’ll see about that,’ says he.

 

“And what do you think?—the fellow picked out one of my biggest apples, and was walkin’ away! That made me mad.

 

“ ‘Come back, you thafe of the worruld!’ says I.

 

“ ‘Silence, you old hag!’ says he.

 

“Actilly he called me an old hag! I wanted to go after him, but there was two hoodlums hangin’ round, and I knew they’d carry off some of my apples, when, just as I was at my wits’ end, Dodger came round the corner.

 

“ ‘Dodger,’ I screamed, ‘go after that man! He’s taken one of my apples, widout lave or license³!’

 

“Upon that, Dodger, brave as a lion, walked up to the man, and, says he:

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