wer 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.

A woman, her arms full of grocery packages, stopped him and fumbled in
her purse. Across the street, a whistle sounded. He dropped the nickel
into his pocket, gave over the last of the troublesome sheets, and
started for home. Again came the whistle. He made a trumpet of his hands
and bellowed "Sold out" as he turned the corner. If he had only more
copies! At least sixty could have been sold.

Nevertheless, fifty cents for the pig bank--a dime was to be reserved
for the morrow's capital--wasn't bad. Surely the other dollar and a half
could be saved by the end of the week. Earni