Part 26 (2/2)

The last saffron tint of the autumn sun faded from the western sky.

Lights appeared one by one in the windows of the flat buildings and glistened like jewels in the fast gathering dusk. The store windows on either side of the street cast brilliant reflections far across the macadam. The lamplighter, speeding from post to post on a bicycle, paused long enough to leave a flickering beacon on the corner, then sped away with his long torch over one shoulder. Trains came and went.

Business men in well-tailored, immaculate suits walked briskly past.

Weak arched clerks with home pressed trousers slouched wearily along.

Chattering women innumerable scurried by on the walk. His dollar watch showed a quarter past six in the light from the ticket office window and John counted his papers.

Eleven on hand and five paltry coppers in his right trousers' pocket.

Caught with an overstock! Not only had the prospective profits vanished, but a deficiency impended as well. He began to understand the cause of Shultz's question--and supper impended.

He s.n.a.t.c.hed a moment under the light from the street lamp to glance at the funny sheet, for the excitement of the new occupation had prevented such amus.e.m.e.nt earlier in the afternoon. As he unfolded a copy, a glaring headline on the first page held his attention.

Again the turnstiles clicked, and again came the s.h.i.+fting crowd. But John Fletcher was not on the station corner to vend his wares. Instead, that small boy was legging it westward as fast as he could go. Past the school, past the row of dilapidated houses which lay beyond, past the plank-walled football grounds and the last of the gray stone, many-windowed university buildings, into the residence district which he had marked as his goal.

This section of the city was so far removed from the railroad station that the inhabitants made use of the slower street car lines to take them to and fro from work. Frank Smith, bookkeeper in a wholesale house, would be still on his way home, and this difference between the expensive fifteen-minute train service, and the fifty-five minutes of the more plebeian surface system was all that made his plan feasible.

What would Mrs. Smith know of the day's news occurrences?

He waited until his panting grew less violent before he sauntered down the gas lit, unpretentious street, with a cry of,

”Extry paper! All about the big South Side murder! Extry pa-a-a-per here. Extre-e-e-e, extre-e-e-e, extre-e-e-e!”

Heads became silhouetted in numerous windows as their owners tried to catch his words.

”A-a-all about the big South Side murder! Extry pa-a-a-a-per!”

A door swung back, releasing a flood of light against the unkempt front lawn of a two-story cottage. John dashed up the shaky steps.

”Extry, lady? All about the big murder?”

She nodded and handed him a penny. The boy looked at it scornfully.

”Extras are a nickel!”

”But the paper's marked 'one cent.'”

”S'pose it would pay,” his voice was as grave as a financier's, discussing a huge stock transfer, ”to chase all over and miss supper, just to make three cents on eight papers? No, lady, price is a nickel.

Always is.”

He held out his hand. The woman capitulated and went back into the house for the stipulated coin.

The sale wiped out the deficit and made an even break on the venture, the worst to be feared. Selling extras which were not extras to people who thought they were was proving a most profitable undertaking. He resumed his stroll down the street.

”Extra-e-e-e paper here! South Side family murdered! Extry paper! Extry, extry, extre-e-e-e!”

Every fourth or fifth residence yielded its toll to the grewsome lure.

At last but one newspaper remained. He redoubled his vocal efforts.

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