The Journal staff was genuinely sorry to learn that Tommy had failed to soften old Mrs. McNulty’s heart. Miss Betty didn’t even smile when Joan told her the tragic details of the visit. Joan had gone right over to the Journal office as soon as they returned from Mrs. McNulty’s. Since it was Amy’s day to take care of Tommy, she remained at Joan’s home, helping the little fellow scatter his stone blocks over the grass in the side yard. The first few days they had taken Tommy over to call on the Journal folks, but that soon proved too hectic. There were so many things for him to reach for over there, and the editor seemed to think he interfered with the staff’s work. So Joan had gone alone to tell the news.

“It’s the McNulty pride,” stated Tim from his desk. He had rather hoped Joan might stumble upon a feature story for him in the old lady acting as fairy godmother to the little boy, and he was a bit disappointed. “She could have given up that space in the Historical Building and saved the day. But she’s so proud of having those things in there.”

“It was Tommy’s clothes,” decided the society editor. “The old lady’s probably used to seeing kids Tommy’s age decked out in white dimity and sky-blue ribbon. I’ll tell you what. Let’s take up a collection and outfit the youngster. It won’t change Mrs. McNulty’s heart—too late for that. But if he looked better, perhaps some wealthy resident would take a liking to him and produce a place for a bigger day nursery. Here, I’ll start the finery fund.” She pulled open her desk drawer, took out her red pocketbook and gave Joan a shining quarter.

“Here’s a twin to that one.” Cookie, who had heard it all, was reaching into his pocket.

The Journal staff wasn’t rich, but it was generous. Every one in the editorial and business offices gave something. Gertie could give only a nickel.

“Busted?” teased Tim. “When the ghost walked just yesterday?”

That was the staff’s way of saying that yesterday had been pay day. But Gertie always spent the contents of her envelope on clothes as soon as she got it, and was always in debt.

When the printers and pressmen strolled through on their way home, they were approached and most of them contributed. Dummy gave a quarter. He did like children. Joan remembered the day of the picnic. And Chub added his bit. Mack gave a whole dollar.

The total was overwhelming—almost ten dollars and fifty cents! To-morrow morning, Joan and Amy would take Tommy to Davis’ Department Store and outfit him.

They chose Davis’ for two reasons. It was Plainfield’s largest store—four stories high, with an elevator. And Tommy’s mother was working there. They stopped for a brief chat with her at the handkerchief section. Joan and Amy sat down on the round, twisty stools before the counter, while Tommy gurgled at seeing his mother in this unexpected place.

Her dark eyes shone with pride as they always did when she saw Tommy. She carried him over to show him to the floorwalker and other bosses.

When she came back, she was beaming. “Mr. Dugan liked Tommy so well he said for you girls to tell whoever waits on you that the things are for me,” she told them. “And you’ll get the employee’s discount.”

Then Tommy was perched upon the glass show case, where he swung his sandaled feet unconcernedly while the other salesgirls admired his blue eyes and sunny smile. Joan’s mother had mended the torn overalls with a neat patch so that they didn’t look too forlorn.

Finally, good-bys were said, and they went on up in the elevator to the second floor, where the things Tommy’s size were sold.

It was fun to select everything new for him. And with the discount they could buy a lot. Little underwear suits of cross-barred material, short socks in a variety of colors, sturdy little slippers, two play suits, and a white suit with tiny trousers, for best. It had a yellow duck embroidered on the pocket.

They decided to dress him up so his mother could see him when they passed her counter again. The ducky suit was buttoned on the fat, squirming Tommy, Dutch-blue socks were pulled up around his plump, pink legs, and the new slippers were put on. All the clerks in the children’s section chimed in with the two girls in adoring the little boy. He looked like a different child.

Tommy himself staggered about, almost bursting with importance over his new possessions. Joan and Amy turned from him to hand his sodden little garments to the girl behind the desk to be wrapped with the new things. It didn’t make a very big package and they decided to take it along with them instead of having it sent.

“I’ll lug the package,” offered Joan, “if you’ll steer Tommy.”

They looked around for the little boy—but he was gone!

Why, he had been right there just a moment ago, while they were waiting for the package. They hadn’t taken their eyes off him for more than a second, really. Yet he was gone.

They roamed about aimlessly, calling and peering behind counters and back of the life-sized dolls that stood about, stiffly displaying children’s frocks.

“The little boy?” questioned one salesgirl who looked no older than Amy. “Maybe he wandered over into the Misses and Small Women.”

They went over into that department, shouting “Tommy!” at every few steps and glancing behind all the figures. They even peeped into the fitting rooms—little curtained-off places. In one, a stout mother, who was watching her young lady daughter try on a dress, screamed as Joan suddenly popped her head in. She murmured an apology, explaining that she was hunting for a little boy.

“Well, we haven’t got him,” came the cross answer.

“That woman almost had a fit, as well as a fitting, the way you scared her!” giggled the salesgirl.

She could joke. Tommy hadn’t been in her charge. She hadn’t lost him. Why, it was a terrible thing that had happened, Joan slowly began to realize. They had searched the entire floor, and Tommy simply wasn’t there. They had lost him—and he was a ward of the city. Mrs. Hollis had impressed that fact upon her when they were making their arrangements to take Tommy by the day. What would happen to them? Would they be sent to jail themselves? And his poor mother! How would she stand the shock?

“He looked like he was a millionaire baby in those clothes,” reflected Joan. “Maybe he’s been kidnaped, and we’ll have to pay a ransom.”

All the store employees on that floor had joined in the search by this time. Finally, the young salesgirl suggested that they ask the elevator man whether any one had left the floor with Tommy. Maybe he had noticed him and would remember.

“Well, all right,” agreed Joan, half-heartedly. “Though I hardly believe it will do any good.”

They strolled over to the elevator. The man who ran it was old and wore a black skullcap. He sat on a tall-legged stool while he operated the car.

“Why, yes,” he answered to their question. “There was a little boy—about three years old, I should judge—in a white suit. He came off of this floor awhile ago, with a bunch of women, and I just naturally supposed he was with them.”

Of course, Tommy was only two, but he did look more grown-up in the new clothes.

“Did he go up or down?” Joan demanded.

“Up, I think.” He jerked his black-capped head in answer.

The two girls dashed into the little car and got off at the next floor. It was the women’s wear department. Again they hunted through all the fitting rooms, behind the counters and show cases and everywhere. But no Tommy.

There was still the fourth floor. The last one. Would he be there? Joan was weak with fear. They squeezed into the elevator again. “Furniture, Victrolas, Radios,” thundered the elevator man, as the iron gates opened out.

So many suites of highly polished furniture, so many big, shadowy beds and high bureaus, behind which a little boy could be hidden. Suddenly, the blare of a radio going full blast told them that the music department was just beyond. They went on there. A radio was pealing out “The Stars and Stripes Forever” to a rapt audience of two.

A wizened old lady, in stylish clothes that looked out of place on her, was sitting in one of the wicker chairs provided in the radio department. On her lap was a little boy in a white suit that still had the price tag on one trouser leg, Joan noticed. He was clapping his hands to the music. It was Tommy. The woman was old Mrs. McNulty, Joan recognized at a glance.

The girls breathed audible sighs. However, relief at finding Tommy was drowned out by other mixed emotions when Joan remembered about Mrs. McNulty.

“Come away, Tommy.” She held out her hands. “I don’t believe that lady likes boys.”

But this cunning, clean little Tommy had captured the old witch. He refused to move, and snuggled closer against Mrs. McNulty’s flat old chest.

“But I do!” contradicted the old lady. “I never saw this child before, but I know that he has a soul for music.”

“He’s the same one that we brought to see you yesterday,” Joan told her.

“Yesterday!” repeated Mrs. McNulty. “I don’t recall. Oh, yes, when I had that terrific headache. Are you the girls who called? And is this precious child that nasty little boy?”

The girls nodded.

“I never would have believed it.” Every line of the old face looked surprise.

“How did he get here?” they both asked, then.

“He just came walking into this department,” was the answer. “And went right up to the radio and stood there and listened. Bless his heart.” She actually hugged him and kissed the top of his head.

Joan knew she should say something, but she didn’t know just what. “Clothes do make the man,” she began, remembering that quotation from her English class. “The Journal staff all contributed and we picked out his things this morning before he got lost.”

“Is he a relative of yours?”

“Oh, no!” It was evident that Mrs. McNulty hadn’t half listened to them yesterday, so Joan told the whole story over again, beginning with her visit to the Juvenile Court, then telling about the crowded Day Nursery, and how the Judge had permitted her and Amy to take Tommy by the day. “Couldn’t you reconsider about the Historical Building?” she finished up.

“No. I think the county needs that building. It’s educational. I will not give up an inch on that.” The old head wobbled positively. “But I will help out about the Day Nursery. In a city the size of Plainfield, there ought to be some place else we could get.”

Suddenly a half-memory stirred Joan’s brain. “There is!” she assured her. “I’ve thought of the dandiest place.” She bent her lips to Mrs. McNulty’s ear.

The old witchlike face was frozen with horror at Joan’s whispered words, but after a minute she smiled, and when she smiled, she was uglier than ever. “I never would have thought of it, but I believe it would do. I know the mayor personally, and I know he’ll fix it so we can have it.”

“Have what?” Amy wanted to know.

When they told her, she shuddered. But Joan was sure it would make a wonderful day nursery.

In less than two weeks, everything was ready. Aunt Effie hadn’t had to have the operation after all, so Tommy stayed on with them until the last minute. Joan and Amy, each hugging a package under her arm, hurried along north on Market Street. They’d been raiding the Ten Cent Store for something for Tommy. Something for Tommy meant that all the other babies in the new, bigger and better Day Nursery would enjoy the new playthings, too.

The old sign was gone from the city jail, and a freshly painted one sparkled at them in the sunshine. “DAY NURSERY,” it said.

The girls turned in through the big double doors, with the ease of familiarity, went up the broad, winding stairs, and opened the first door.

The two large front rooms opened out together. In the first one were about a dozen snowy white cribs, holding sleeping babies—all sorts and ages. Tiny, wrinkled ones with tight fists. Big, roly-poly ones with roguish faces. Some with dark eyes and skin. The barred windows cast striped shadows across the counterpanes.

There were gay rag rugs upon the floor, scores of Jessie Wilcox Smith pictures around the walls, boxes of scarlet geraniums in the windows before the ruffled dotted curtains. Low white shelves in one corner held toys. All about were small tables and chairs. Along one wall were hooks holding the daytime clothes, with a pair of shoes, slipped off for the nap, on the floor underneath each hook. On another wall was a row of tiny toothbrushes, all colors, and a row of shiny tin cups. The whole place had a clean baby smell.

“You’d never think the jail could be so nice,” Amy declared as she always did when they came into the rooms. “How did you ever think of it, Jo?”

Mrs. Barnes was over in a far corner beside a crib where she was settling a rosy one-year-old for a nap. They could see her assistant in the other room, sitting in a low chair with a basket of mending on her lap.

“Oh, hello, Joan and Amy.” Mrs. Barnes looked up as they came in. “Here’s a new one. Her name is Mary, and she just came this morning. Isn’t she a darling?”

The girls went over to view the newcomer.

“Tommy’ll be so glad to see you, when he wakes up,” went on Mrs. Barnes. “He jabbers about you all the time. Come and take a peep at him. He’s in the other room, now.”

More bars, more curtains, more geraniums, more cheerful rugs. More cribs with sleeping babies.

“I have twenty now,” she said, like a proud mother. “Look here!”

Tommy, one chubby hand thrust under a flushed cheek was peacefully sleeping, clad only in his new underwear. The girls were surprised to see that he was in a low, wooden bed, instead of an iron crib like the rest. The bed was of dark wood and the headpiece had a carved bird on it.

“Is this bed a new donation?” asked Joan.

“Yes, indeed,” the matron nodded. “Master Tommy’s sleeping in the bed of Mrs. McNulty’s father’s father. She had it sent over from the Historical Building this morning. Said it might as well be somewhere where it would be used.”

Oh! That’d make a great feature story for Tim! Maybe Lefty would come and take a picture of Tommy in the antique bed. Joan’s thoughts ran on.

“And look at this,” the matron pointed to a tiny Victrola on the floor beside Tommy—a child’s toy that really played little records. “Mrs. McNulty is convinced that he is to be a musician.”

“It’ll be a scoop for Tim,” she told Amy, as they walked home.

Amy looked blank.

“Don’t you know what a scoop is?” Joan asked.

“Of course I do.” Amy tossed her head. “It’s a coal basket.”

Joan told her that a scoop was the Star’s having a story that the Journal should have had and did not. She explained it absent-mindedly. She was busy thinking what a fine story this bit of semi-civic news would be for Tim. So appropriate, too, for he could bring in Mr. Hutton’s name. Yes, Tim would be glad. The paper wasn’t doing so well lately, he had confided to her. Uncle John was worrying about how to boost the circulation. Maybe this would help.