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Around the little newsboy huddled a group of street gamins, counting out their few pennies, and talking excitedly of how they would buy him some flowers. There were tear-stains down their grimy cheeks and it was plain they were pitying him, they who had perhaps yet to tread the paths of sin and deprivation and sorrow for many long years. And the Presence there! So near them, with the pitying eyes!
"Where did you see him, Hooker?" asked Tim Bolton, with sudden interest. "Selling papers down by the Astor House." "Think of that, colonel!" said Tim, disgusted. "Becomin' a common newsboy, when he might be in a genteel employment! Did you speak to him, Hooker?" "Yes, I asked him if he had left you." "What did he say?" "That he had left you for good that he was going to grow up respectable!"
Listen! yonder is the newsboy, shouting, "The Examiner!" that is to say, the accurate photograph of this shifting chaos, where nothing seems stationary long enough to have its picture taken. Among the first to squeeze my hand, with winning smiles and cordial welcome, was my friend Mr. Blocque.
"Thank you, my son; here is your fee," said Old Hurricane, putting a silver dollar into the lad's hand. "What! Lor', it can't be I but it is! He must have made a mistake! What if he did, I don't care! Yes, I do, too! 'Honor bright!" exclaimed the newsboy, looking in wonder and desire and sore temptation upon the largest piece of money he had ever touched in his life. "Governor!"
He slept little, and in the morning awaited with keen impatience the hour of his appointment. On his way to the place he heard a newsboy shouting the words "duel" and "Yankee," followed by the suggestive statement: "Bloody murder in high life." Evidently Lionel Clarke had died of his wound. He saw people standing in groups and reading the paper.
She thought: 'So that is murder, that little thing, that thing over in a minute! It appeared to her that murder in the concrete was less dreadful than murder in the abstract, far less horrible than the strident sound of the word on the lips of a newsboy, or the look of it in the 'Signal. She felt dimly that she ought to be shocked, unnerved, terrified, at the prospect of living, eating, and sleeping with a man who had meant to kill.
"He's got my gold piece and I know it!" declared Link Merwell, loudly. "If he don't pass it over, I'm going to have him arrested." Quite a war of words followed, the loud talking attracting a crowd, including Phil and Roger and the girls. The ragged newsboy broke down completely and commenced to cry bitterly. "This is a shame, Merwell," said the senator's son.
John Telfer, standing by the side of Valmore, waved his cane in the air and began talking. "Beat him again, by Gad!" he exclaimed. "Bully for Sam! Who says the spirit of the old buccaneers is dead? That boy didn't understand what I said about art, but he is an artist just the same!" Windy McPherson, the father of the Caxton newsboy, Sam McPherson, had been war touched.
Shouting "Stop thief" at the top of his voice he raced off in the direction the newsboy had run, and Ben lost no time in taking to his heels in the opposite direction. After doubling round several corners and then doubling on his own trail round another block he felt reasonably secure he had given the inventor the slip and, hailing a cab, was driven to the station.
This was on the twenty-third and twenty-fourth. It was just at dusk, after leaving the men to take down the cable, that Bannon went to the office. A newsboy had been on the grounds with a special edition of a cheap afternoon paper. Hilda had taken one, and when Bannon entered the office he found her reading, leaning forward on the desk, her chin on her hands, the paper spread out over the ledger.
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