By this time he had reached the store, and wondered what kept the boys so long within.

“They forgot that I am waiting outside,” he said to himself, “and I am terribly hungry.  There is a bakery across the street.  I will run over and buy a roll.”

No sooner said than done; he ran across, and the odor of fresh bread, cakes and pretzels filled the place.  He bought a roll, and took a bite while feeling in his pocket for his purse.

“Oh, it is gone!” he cried, turning pale with distress.

“Put your hand in your other pocket,” said the saleswoman.  “It may be there.”

This was quickly done, but it was not to be found.

“I don’t believe you had any money,” said the woman, angrily, “but took that planning to get the roll without paying for it.  I will call a policeman.”

“Oh, please don’t!” cried the boy, with tears streaming down his cheeks, “I will pay you when I see my aunt.  She is Mrs. Fanny Steiner, number 37 Bornheimer street.”

“Yes, now I believe that you are telling me the exact truth that you had money and have lost it.”

“No, I did not lose it; it was stolen from me by a man who warned me against thieves.”

“Then I should certainly call a policeman that you may have a chance of getting your money by giving a description of the pick-pocket.”

“Oh no, please don’t call him.  I am afraid of a policeman, and don’t want to see one.”

“But why?  That is foolish of you.  They are our protectors.  Only bad boys need fear them; honest people are glad to call upon them in trouble.”

“There comes Franz and Paul out of the clothing store,” and he ran to the door and called them, and they came across the street and into the bakery.

“What are you crying about?” asked Franz.  “Have the street boys been fighting you while we were in the store?”

“No, I wish it had been the rude, ill-mannered rabble instead of the polite, kind-appearing gentleman who was a thief and stole my money.  I am so ashamed that I was deceived by his pleasant words.  Besides, I have bought a roll and cannot pay for it.”

“Oh, that is all right!” said his companions, taking out their pocketbooks.  “Here is your money for it, lady, and we will each buy a roll.”

“Come, Fritz,” said Paul as he took a bite out of his roll, “eat your roll and come with us.  It is no use to stay here.”

“Oh, my hunger is gone, and how can I forget my loss when I need my money every day?”

“But what is the use of fretting over it?” said Franz, impatiently.  “The money is gone, and crying will not bring it back, so you may as well make the best of it.”

“Yes, Franz, it is easy for you to talk that way when you have your money in your pocket.  But mine is gone.  Even the few nickels that were in my vest pocket were taken by the miserable thief,” and tears streamed from the boy’s eyes.