cents! Benannies!
Oranges! Sanwiges!"

Jack put five cents into the woman's hand, and he was surprised to find
how much good bread and boiled ham he had bought.

"It's all the supper I'll have," he said, as he walked away. "I could
eat a loaf of bread and a whole ham, it seems to me!"

All the way to the Hotel Dantzic he studied over the loss of his
pocket-book.

"The policeman was right," he said to himself, at last. "I didn't know
when they took it, but it must have been when my hat was jammed down."

When Jack met Mr. Keifelheimer in the hotel office, he asked him what
he thought about it. An expression of strong indignation, if not of
horror, crossed the face of the hotel proprietor.

"Dey get you pocket-book?" he exclaimed. "You vas rob choost de same
vay I vas; but mine vas a votch und shain. It vas two year ago, und I
nefer get him back. Your friend, Mr. Guilderaufenberg, he vas rob dot
vay, vonce, but den he vas ashleep in a railvay car und not know ven it
vas done!"

Jack was glad of so much sympathy, but just then business called Mr.
Keifelheimer away.

"I won't go upstairs," thought Jack. "I'll sit in the reading-room."

No letters were awaiting him, but there were plenty of newspapers, and
nearly a score of men were reading or talking. Jack did not really
care to read, nor to talk, nor even to listen; but two gentlemen near
him were discussing a subject that reminded him of the farms around
Crofield.

"Yes," he heard one of them say, "we must buy every potato we can
secure. At the rate they're spoiling now, the price will be doubled
before December."

"Curious, how little the market knows about it yet," said the other,
and they continued discussing letters and reports about potatoes, from
place after place, and State after State, and all the while Jack
listened, glad to be reminded of Crofield.

"It was just so with our potatoes at home," he said to himself. "Some
farmers didn't get back what they planted."

This talk helped him to forget his pocket-book for a while; then, after
trying to read the newspapers, he went to bed.

A very tired boy can always sleep. Jack Ogden awoke, on Saturday
morning, with a clear idea that sleep was all he had had for
supper,--excepting one ham sandwich.

"It's not enough," he said, as he dressed himself. "I must make some
money. Oh, my pocket-book! And I shall have to pay for my room,
Monday."

He slipped out of the Hotel Dantzic very qui