Rosenblatt's influence. For
no man was more skilled than he in the art of promoting sociability
as an investment. There was still the full complement of boarders
filling the main room and the basement, and these formed a nucleus
around which the social life of a large part of the colony loved
to gather.

It was a cold evening in February. The mercury had run down till it
had almost disappeared in the bulb and Winnipeg was having a taste
of forty below. Through this exhilarating air Kalman was hurrying
home as fast as his sturdy legs could take him. His fingers were
numb handling the coins received from the sale of his papers, but
the boy cared nothing for that. He had had a good afternoon and
evening; for with the Winnipeg men the colder the night the warmer
their hearts, and these fierce February days were harvest days for
the hardy newsboys crying their wares upon the streets. So the
sharp cold only made Kalman run the faster. Above him twinkled the
stars, under his feet sparkled the snow, the keen air filled his
lungs with ozone that sent his blood leaping through his veins.
A new zest was added to his life to-night, for as he ran he
remembered that it was a feast day and that at his home there
would be good eating and dance and song. As he ran he planned
how he would avoid Rosenblatt and get past him into Paulina's room,
where he would be safe, and where, he knew, good things saved from
the feast for him by his sister would be waiting him. To her he
would entrust all his cents above what was due to Rosenblatt,
and with her they would be safe. For by neither threatening nor
wheedling could Rosenblatt extract from her what was entrusted
to her care, as he could from the slow-witted Paulina.

Keenly sensitive to the radiant beauty of the sparkling night,
filled with the pleasurable anticipation of the feast before him,
vibrating in every nerve with the mere joy of living his vigorous
young life, Kalman ran along at full speed, singing now and then in
breathless snatches a wild song of the Hungarian plains. Turning a
sharp corner near his home, he almost overran a little girl.

"Kalman!" she cried with a joyous note in her voice.

"Hello! Elizabeth Ketzel, what do you want?" answered the boy,
pulling up panting.

"Will you be singing to-night?" asked the little girl timidly.

"Sure, I will," replied the lad, who had already mastered in the
school of the streets the intricacies of the Canadian vernacular.

"I