The question was shot at the youth who stood in front of the newsboy. The youth's pleasant, eager brown eyes were lowered upon a pile of papers. He was reading the headline: "Yanks Face Crucial Game."
He looked up as the custodian of the papers addressed him rather sharply. He flushed. He fancied he was being rebuked for trying to secure his baseball information without paying for it. He was right. He put his hand into the pocket of his well-worn coat and separated out three cents from the few coins he found there.
"Sun," he said pleasantly and held out his ransom. The newsboy stooped, flicked a paper from the top of the pile without disturbing the stone and delivered the almost wet sheets to his customer.
"Goin' up to the game?" asked the newsboy, feeling better now that the sidewalk reader had been turned into a paying account.
"Can't," said the youthful customer, his eyes still darting over the headline.
"Neither can I. But, gee, I bet it'll be a corkin' game," regretted the newsboy.
"You bet. The Yanks'll win though. Babe'll bust one."
The new owner of a copy of the New York Sun sighed. The noonday crowds kept streaming by. Suddenly remembering that he too must be getting along, he folded his paper under his arm and darted into the maelstrom of arms, legs and paws chewing gum. He was a nice looking youth of twenty-odd years. The lock of hair just showing under his
