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Updated: June 1, 2025
It is more likely that he used a diplomacy which occasionally appeared in his dealings with the world. Certainly the arrangement presently collapsed, for Sheener confessed to me that he had given his savings back to Evans. We were minus a second assistant janitor for a week as a consequence, and when Evans tottered back to the office and would have gone to work I told him he was through.
"A gent like him can't let on that he knows a guy like me." I looked at Sheener, and I forgot old Evans and his son. I looked at Sheener, and I caught his elbow and we turned away. He had been quite right, of course, all the time. Blood will always tell. You can't keep a fast horse in a poor man's stable. And a man is always a man, in any guise. If you still doubt, do as I did. Consider Sheener.
And Sheener in these rôles was not to be despised. I have said he was a newsboy; to put it more accurately, he was in his early twenties, with forty years of experience behind him, and with half the newsboys of the city obeying his commands and worshiping him like a minor god.
The taxi stand was at our left, and they came almost directly toward us. As they approached, Sheener stepped forward, a cheap, somewhat disreputable, figure. His hand was extended toward the younger man. The son saw him, looked at him in some surprise, looked toward his father inquiringly. Evans saw Sheener too, and a red flush crept up his gaunt cheeks.
"When's the boy coming?" "Gets in at midnight to-night," said Sheener. I promised to make haste; and half an hour later I joined them in Sheener's room. Sheener let me in. Evans himself sat in something like a stupor, on a chair by the bed. He was dressed in a cheap suit of ready-made clothes, to which he lent a certain dignity.
But within a day or two I forgot the matter, and would hardly have remembered it if Sheener had not telephoned me a month later. "Say, you're a wise guy, ain't you?" he derided when I answered the phone. I admitted it. "I got a letter from that lawyer in England," he told me. "This Evans is the stuff, just like I said. His wife run away with another man, and he went to the devil fifteen years ago.
Evans's eyes were open; he watched the other, and at last he said huskily: "I say, you know, I'm a bit knocked up." Sheener reassured him. "That's all right, bo," he said. "You hit the hay. Sleep's the dose for you. I ain't going away." Evans moved his head on the pillow, as though lie were nodding. "A bit tight, wasn't it, what?" he asked. "Say," Sheener agreed. "You said something, Bum.
Sheener was a Jewish newsboy; that is to say, a representative of the only thoroughbred people in the world. I have known Sheener for a good many years, and he is worth knowing; also, the true tale of his life might have inspired Scheherazade. A book must be made of Sheener some day.
"Oh, I guess it got done all right. Some one had to do it. We can't pay him for work that some one else does." "Say, don't try to pull that stuff," Sheener protested. "As long as his work is done, you ain't got any kick. This guy has got to have a job, or he'll go bust, quick. It's all that keeps his feet on the ground. If he didn't think he was earning his living, he'd go on the bum in a minute."
Evans waked, under the touch of their hands, and waked to sanity. He was cold sober and desperately sick. When the doctor had done what could be done and gone on his way, Sheener sat down on the edge of the bed and rubbed the old man's head with a tenderness of which I could not have believed the newsboy capable.
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