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And it would be even worse in less civilised places, where one could count for certain on trouble with some conscientious official. The little newsboy of the place, who is a universal favourite, seeing that his father, a lithographer, is serving a stiff sentence for forgery he brings me every day with the morning's paper the latest gossip concerning myself. "Mr. So-and-so still says you are a spy.
Below they put a small table, with the photograph of a little newsboy on it. All the business-men, the every-day passengers crossing to their homes on the Oakland side, appeared to understand it, and quietly laid some piece of money beside the picture. It seems that it was the stand of a little crippled boy who had for a year or two furnished the daily papers to the passengers passing to the boat.
And almost at the same time he was conscious that their feet were planted upon that selfsame corner past which Ginger walked at midnight. He put a hand on Storch's shoulder. "Let us wait here a few moments," he said. "I am feeling a little tired." A newsboy bellowing the latest edition of the paper broke an unusual and almost profound stillness.
He never cracked a smile as he walked off, but Ted laughed uproariously. A little later two men came out of the Auditorium. "Paper, sir, papers?" "No," answered one of them. The other took a second look at the newsboy and laughed. "He certainly fooled you, Strong. It's Ted." "Good work, Ted," Strong said, with appreciation. "Slip into that automobile while we stand in front of it."
It was in the Rue Lafayette that John Turner had his office, and when he emerged from it into that long street on the evening of the 25th of August, 1850, he ran against, or he was rather run against by, the newsboy who shrieked as he pattered along in lamentable boots and waved a sheet in the face of the passer: "The King is dead! The King is dead!"
"It is outrageous to be accused in this fashion." "Somebody had better call a policeman," said Joe. "I'll do dat," answered a newsboy, and ran off to execute the errand. As the crowd began to collect the swindler saw that he was going to have difficulty in clearing himself or getting away. He looked around, and seeing an opening made a dash for it.
He had for some time devoted himself to the newspaper, and had then purchased a book from the newsboy who perambulated the cars.
He would stand, acknowledged scholar, at the street corner and read out from the soiled copy retrieved by Chunky, the newsboy, the enthralling story of the football day, never stumbling over a syllable, athrill with the joy of being the umbilicus of a tense world, and, when the recital was over, he would have the mortification of seeing the throng pass away from him with the remorselessness of a cloud scudding from the moon.
He saw Sue, all in white, radiant and wonderful, coming toward him down a broad stairway, toward him, the newsboy of Caxton, the smuggler of game, the roisterer, the greedy moneygetter. All during those six weeks he had been waiting for this hour when he should sit beside the little grey-clad figure, getting from her the help he wanted in the reconstruction of his life.
Perceiving his embarrassment, a party of his friends down the street called out in stentorian chorus: "Ay, 't is Babbie Burns." "But what did he do to deserve the statue?" I thundered back. They hung their heads. At last my newsboy recovered himself; his face brightened. "Well?" said I again, "what did he do to deserve this statue?" "He deed!" answered the intelligent little man.
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