“Why, Brenda!” cried Nora, after a moment, as she looked at the pictures one by one. “Do you realize that you have n’t that man’s name, nor his address, even?”
“Why, yes, I have,—Derby Street.”
“But Derby Street may be two miles long. Anyway, you cannot send them by mail. You certainly do not know his name. He did n’t give it to you after all.”
Brenda looked crestfallen at this reminder. She had been picturing to herself the joy of the man when he should open the large envelope which she intended sending with the photographs of himself and the little boy. But naturally she must give up that plan, as she did not know where to send them.
“Oh, well, we ’ll go over to Salem and call on him.”
“Shall you knock at every door in Derby Street, and say, ‘I wish to find the man whose photograph I took on the Fourth of July’?
“Or, you might show the photograph to the Chief of Police; he may be able to identify him.”
“Oh, Nora, he didn’t look like a man that the police would know anything about. He seemed so sad; why, there was a tear in his eye when he spoke about his little boy.”
“Oh, of course I did n’t mean that he was bad, when I spoke about the police, only that’s one of the ways to try to find lost people—to go to the police about them.”
“Perhaps he ’ll come over here,” said Brenda; “you know that I gave him papa’s address. I think that he ought to have some kind of a reward.”
