Attracted by the business-like tone of the newsboy, a gentleman paused as he was ascending¹ the steps of the Astor House, and said, with a smile:

 

"You seem to appreciate the Telegram, my boy. Any important news this afternoon?"

 

"Buy the paper, and you'll see," said the boy, shrewdly.

 

"I see—you don't care to part with the news for nothing. Well, here are your two cents."

 

"Thank you, sir."

 

Still the gentleman lingered, his eyes fixed² upon the keen, pleasant face of the boy.

 

[Pg 10]

 

"How many papers have you sold to-day, my boy?" he asked.

 

"Thirty-six, sir."

 

"Were they all Telegrams?"

 

"No; I sell all the papers. I ain't partial. I'm just as willing to make money on the Mail, or Commercial, or Evening Post, as the Telegram."

 

"I see you have an eye to business. How long have you dealt in papers?"

 

"Three years, sir."

 

"How old are you?"

 

"Fifteen."

 

"What did you do before you sold papers?"

 

A shadow rested on the boy's bright face.

 

"I didn't have to work then, sir," he said. "My father was alive, and he was well off. We lived in a nice house up town, and I went to a private school. But all at once father failed, and soon afterward³ he died, and then everything was changed. I don't like to think about it, sir."

 

The gentleman's interest was strongly excited.

 

"It is a sad story," he said. "Is your mother living?"

 

"Yes, sir. The worst of it is, that I don't make enough to support us both, and she has to work, too."

 

"What does she do?"

 

[Pg 11]

 

"She makes vests for a man on Chatham street."

 

分享到：