“Come back here, Billy! You have as much right to this corner as Spot. And don’t you forget that, you Spot,” he flung back over his shoulder as he recrossed the street.
The big stranger who had been left in charge of the papers, watched the proceedings with considerable amusement.
“What’s the trouble, sonny?” he asked, and beneath the stern lines of his face lurked a smile that invited confidence.
The boy recognized him as a rancher, for many of his type came to this great packing center, bringing their herds from the big ranches of the West. You could easily tell them by their breezy manners and friendly ways.
“Oh, that Spot chases every little feller off the block, so there won’t be any com—com—”
“Competition?” the ranchman suggested.
“That’s it—competition. Spot’s nothing but a bully. He won’t pick on anyone his size.”
“And you take it upon yourself to ‘beard the lion in his den’ and act as champion?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” replied the boy, flushing, “but how are all these little fellows going to get a start in business unless somebody takes their part?”
The cattleman eyed the boy keenly. He was quite different from the other little “newsies” shouting hoarsely the startling news of their papers’ headlines. He appeared underfed, as did many of the children of the slums crowding the streets; his clothes were patched and repatched, but they were clean. His face, too, was clean, and his hair, somewhat ragged and uncut, showed the industrious use of comb and brush. He was a lad of about twelve.