CHAPTER XXXII
"THIS ISN'T OURS!"
Half an hour later Tom Parsons and his chums left the antique upholstering shop, richer in the possession of an old warming pan, which they did not want, poorer in the sum of six dollars, but also possessing more information than they at first had regarding the Hebrew to whom had been traded their old chair—or, at least, the chair they hoped would prove to be theirs.
"His name is a common Hebrew one," the dealer told them, when he had been thawed out by the trade, "but I don't believe it was Cohen. Anyhow, he lives on the Medford Road, just beyond the village of Rosevale. I remember that, because he told me how long it took him to drive in from there. But if he shouldn't have the chair on which you fellows seem so bent, I can fix you up. I've got an ancient Colonial one that"
"I guess we've got all we need to-day," said Phil, as he and his chums walked out. "Whew!" he exclaimed, as he stood on the sidewalk. "If
