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Updated: May 26, 2025
He toyed uncertainly with his still unsold papers worn dirty and ragged as his clothes by this time before he ventured in, picking his way between barrels and heaps of garbage; past the Italian cobbler's hovel, where a tallow dip, stuck in a cracked beer-glass, before a cheap print of the "Mother of God," showed that even he knew it was Christmas and liked to show it; past the Sullivan flat, where blows and drunken curses mingled with the shriek of women, as Nibsy had heard many nights before this one.
Upon the last door a bow of soiled crape was nailed up with two tacks. It had done duty there a dozen times before, that year. Upstairs, Nibsy was at home, and for once the neighbors, one and all, old and young, came to see him. Even the father, ruffian that he was, offered no objection.
Nibsy had remained just inside the door, edging slowly toward his mother, but with a watchful eye on the man at the stove. At the first movement of his hand toward the woodpile he sprang for the stairway with the agility of a cat, and just dodged the missile. It struck the door, as he slammed it behind him, with force enough to smash the panel.
"And now will you be good?" playfully chirruped in Smith. "Now, Nibsy, you will have to tackle a solo; and as you are to be announced as a foreigner, you must treat your audience to something different from anything they have heard before. As you will sing it, of course, none of those present, with, possibly, the exceptions of a few, will undertake to understand what you are driving at.
The chances were at least even of its being available on Christmas-eve, and of Santa Claus having thus done him a good turn after all. Then there was the snug berth in the sandbox you could curl all up in. Nibsy thought with regret of its being, like the hay-barge, so far away and to windward too.
At the thought the tired eye glistened, the aching back straightened, and to the weary foot there came new strength to finish the long task while the city slept. Where a narrow passageway put in between two big tenements to a ramshackle rear barrack, Nibsy, the newsboy, halted in the shadow of the doorway and stole a long look down the dark alley.
He toyed uncertainly with his still unsold papers worn dirty and ragged as his clothes by this time before he ventured in, picking his way between barrels and heaps of garbage; past the Italian cobbler's hovel, where a tallow dip, stuck in a cracked beer-glass, before a picture of the "Mother of God," showed that even he knew it was Christmas and liked to show it; past the Sullivan flat, where blows and drunken curses mingled with the shriek of women, as Nibsy had heard many nights before this one.
A man on his knees in front fanning the fire with an old slouch hat. With each breath of draught he stirred, the crazy old pipe belched forth torrents of smoke at every joint. As Nibsy entered, the man desisted from his efforts and sat up, glaring at him a villanous ruffian's face, scowling with anger. "Late ag'in!" he growled; "an' yer papers not sold. What did I tell yer, brat, if ye dared "
A man on his knees in front fanning the fire with an old slouch hat. With each breath of draught he stirred, the crazy old pipe belched forth torrents of smoke at every point. As Nibsy entered, the man desisted from his efforts and sat up glaring at him. A villainous ruffian's face, scowling with anger. "Late ag'in!" he growled; "an' yer papers not sold. What did I tell yer, brat, if ye dared "
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