sons waiting to graft copies of the paper and look up "Help Wanted." A boy of fifteen came from a door opening on the alley, crossed to a lunchroom and returned, carrying something in a paper bag. Peewee had risen and was awaiting him.
"Hello," he offered.
The older boy was gracious. "Hello, kid," he vouchsafed.
Peewee squirmed ingratiatingly. "I know what it is you do," he asserted.
The other boy denied upon general principles. "You do not!"
"Oh, yes, I do; the wagonman told me. When someone dies you tell 'em what to print."
The older boy was flattered. "You said it, kid."
"I think you can't always find 'em."
The older boy betrayed corrupting associations. "The hell I can't!"
"I think you can't always," Peewee repeated.
The older boy grew angry. "Say, what are you talking about? I know my job. Say, you think I don't?"
