“Oh, Mr. Policeman, do not take me to prison!  I would die there.”

“No, not to prison, but to the Widow Steiner’s.  There we will hear a full account of Pixy.”

“But I do not want to go there, because I have just run off from her house and it shames me to go back.”

“I believe that, but you need not be ashamed if you are telling the truth.”

“But, Mr. Policeman, I am only taking my own dog to my own home.”

“Perhaps so.  We will see what Mrs. Steiner says about it,” and the tall policeman set out for 37 Bornheimer street, followed by the weeping Fritz, and a motley crowd of onlookers.

“He has been stealing tinware,” commented one of them.  “While he was about it he might as well have taken silver or something worth while.”

“Poor boy, he has not been trained right by his parents,” remarked a woman standing in the door of her bakery.  “People who take no care of their children but let them run the streets must expect arrests.”

This remark was so trying to Fritz that he halted to set the woman right in regard to his parents, but the policeman bade him hurry along, and they soon reached 37, where the returned ones were still upon the porch.  Mrs. Steiner was weeping, and Mr. Heil and the boys were anxious, believing that Fritz had lost his way in going to the depot and was wandering about the streets.

“Look, brother!” exclaimed Mrs. Steiner, eagerly; “look at that crowd coming up the street following a policeman.  Among them is a black dog.  Yes, it is Fritz and Pixy, and with them a policeman!  What can be the matter now?”

Fritz had one arm over his eyes, trying to hide his tears but looked out when his captor told him that they had reached his aunt’s home and there were people on the porch.

“Oh, it is father! dear, dear father!” exclaimed Fritz in delight, and running up the steps he was clasped in the arms of his relieved parent.

But the boy’s joy was no greater than that of the dog, for Pixy danced and pranced about his master, jumped upon him and tried to lick his face and hands.

“It is of no use for me to ask to whom the dog belongs,” remarked the policeman as he reached the group upon the porch.  “The dog tells me that the boy has told the exact truth.”

“See, Mr. Policeman, the dog does belong to papa and me, and not to Aunt Steiner,” exclaimed Fritz, jubilantly.

“Yes; and is this lady the Widow Steiner?”

“Yes,” she replied, stepping forward.

“You gave a false statement in the paper, and to the police,” he said in an injured tone.  “You said you had lost your dog.”

“It was a misleading statement, that is true,” she replied, “but many people know me who do not know Fritz.  The dog ran away from my house while under my care, and my wish was to state correctly in a few words where the dog could be returned if found.  It was a friend who advertised.”