a distant part of the roof, where, from some hidden ambush, Dick
could hear her scolding savagely.

"She's a cwoss cat, I guess," he remarked philosophically. "Why, this
chimney is warm," he cried, as his arm touched the bricks. "It's 'cause
there used to be a fire in there. But there isn't any smoke coming out.
I wonder if all the chimneys are warm too, like this one."

There was another chimney not far off, and Dick hastened to try the
experiment. To do this he was obliged to climb a railing, but it was low
and easy to get over. The second chimney was cold, but a little farther
on appeared a third, and Dick proceeded to climb another railing.

But before he reached this third chimney, a surprising and interesting
sight attracted his attention. This was a scuttle door just like the
one at home, standing open, with a ladder leading down into a garret
below.

Dick peered over the edge of the scuttle. There was no little chamber in
this attic like his at home. It was all an open space, crammed with
trunks, furniture, boxes, and barrels. He caught sight of a
rocking-horse standing in a corner; a rocking-horse with a blue saddle
on his wooden back, and a fierce bristling mane much in need of brush
and comb. Drawn by irresistible attraction, Dickie put, first one foot,
then the other, over the scuttle's edge, crept down the ladder, and in
another moment stood by the motionless steed. Thick dust lay on the
saddle, on the rockers, and on the stiffly stretched-out tail, from
which most of the red paint had been worn away. It was evidently a long
time since any little boy had mounted there, chirruped to the horse, and
ridden gloriously away, pursuing a fairy fox through imaginary fields.
The eye of the wooden horse was glazed and dim. Life had lost its
interest to the poor animal, turned out, as it were, to pasture as best
he might in the dull, silent garret.

Dickie patted the red neck, a timid, affectionate pat, but it startled
the horse a little, for he shook visibly, and swayed to and fro. There
was evidently some "go" left in him, in spite of his dejected expression
of countenance. The shabby stirrup hung at his side. Dickie could just
reach it with his foot. He seized the mane, and, pulling hard, clambered
into the saddle. Once there, reins in hand, he clucked and encouraged
the time-worn steed to his best paces. To and fro, to and fro they
swung, faster, slower, Dickie beating with his heels, the wooden horse
curvet