me it
needs. Who pays it?"

"Patrick ain't said."

"Well, you should better ask him," Mrs. Gonorowsky advised, and, on the
next morning, Eva did. She thereby buried the leader under the ruins of
his fallen castle of clouds, but he struggled through them with the
suggestion that each of his guests should be her, or his, own banker.

"But ain't you got _no_ money 't all?" asked the guest of honor.

"Not a cent," responded the host. "But I'll get it. How much have you?"

"A penny. How much do I need?"

"I don't know. Let's ask Miss Bailey."

School had not yet formally begun and Teacher was reading. She was
hardly disturbed when the children drove sharp elbows into her shoulder
and her lap, and she answered Eva's--"Miss Bailey--oh, Missis Bailey,"
with an abstracted--"Well, dear?"

"Missis Bailey, how much money takes car-fare to the Central Park?"

Still with divided attention, Teacher replied--"Five cents, honey," and
read on, while Patrick called a meeting of his forces and made
embarrassing explanations with admirable tact.

There ensued weeks of struggle and economy for the exploring party, to
which had been added a chaperon in the large and reassuring person of
Becky Zalmonowsky, the class idiot. Sadie Gonorowsky's careful mother
had considered Patrick too immature to bear the whole responsibility,
and he, with a guile which promised well for his future, had complied
with her desires and preserved his own authority unshaken. For Becky,
poor child, though twelve years old and of an aspect eminently
calculated to inspire trust in those who had never held speech with her,
was a member of the First Reader Class only until such time as room
could be found for her in some of the institutions where such
unfortunates are bestowed.

Slowly and in diverse ways each of the children acquired the essential
nickel. Some begged, some stole, some gambled, some bartered, some
earned, but their greatest source of income, Miss Bailey, was denied to
them. For Patrick knew that she would have insisted upon some really
efficient guardian from a higher class, and he announced with much heat
that he would not go at all under those circumstances.

At last the leader was called upon to set the day and appointed a
Saturday in late May. He was disconcerted to find that only Ignatius
Aloysius would travel on that day.

"It's holidays, all Saturdays," Morris explained; "und we dassent to
ride on no cars."

"Why not?" asked Patri