“Down to th’ Express. There’s some steam holes in the sidewalk, you know, and they’re as warm as summer. We newsboys lie around ’em, waiting for our papers, and sleep there till they’re ready. Each of us has his own spot, and mine’s an inside one, close to the wall of the building. You ain’t so likely to get trod on if you’re inside, and the whole crew’s after my ‘bed.’ If I shouldn’t get there to look out for it, and another fellow got it, it’d be all day for Towsley. So I’ll be going, ma’am, and much obliged for the stuff.”
Poor Miss Lucy’s face had grown very white. She had never heard anything so pitiful as this, yet the lad explained his circumstances in a cheery, matter-of-fact way that showed he found nothing depressing in them.
“Do you mean to stand there and tell me that that story is true?”
“What about it? I ain’t meaning anything, only telling why I’ve got to hurry. Could you, please, ma’am, say the time of night?”
“It’s a little after nine.”
“That all? Then I can take it easy. Too late for the night papers, and the mornings ain’t out till four o’clock, about.”
“To go to such a ‘bed,’ on such a night, after a supper of ice-cream and cake! I’ve always skipped such articles in the newspapers, for they’re so unpleasant, and I’ve never half believed them. But you mean it, do you?”
“That I must go? I don’t know what you want me to say. I guess I’ve slept my wits away, as Molly says.”
“Towsley, ring that bell. My! what a name!”