"No, I don't," said Bob.
"Neither do I. You see, I am tramping it through town. Sort of hot and dusty. Nobody living here, so I thought no one would grudge me a trifle of rest."
"No, indeed," said Bob, glancing all about the porch.
"Looking for something, lad?" asked the tramp, noticing this.
"Why, yes, I was," answered Bob.
"What was it?"
"Some letters. That little boy out at the gate got hold of some letters of his aunt, Miss Simmons. She lives down the street. He played postman, and left them at a lot of houses."
"Oh," said the man, slowly, as if thinking hard, "that's it, eh? Valuable letters?"
"Why, I don't suppose so," replied Bob. "They were old letters that Miss Simmons had kept for a good many years. She is dreadfully upset about losing them."
"Say," grinned the man, "I'll bet they're old love-letters."
"Maybe," replied Bob. "Anyhow, there were twenty of them."
"Twenty?"
"Yes."
"Did you find any of them?"
"All except four," replied Bob. "Little Walter says he left those on this porch here. You didn't see them, did you, mister?"
"Me? No," said the man, in a sort of a shifty way.
"I thought you might, having been here probably when the little fellow left them.
"Oh, I was snoozing," declared the man. "Where? do you suppose they went to?"
