"Don't you think you could earn more with me, and in the winter at least, be more comfortable?" asked Douglas.
"Winter!" cried Mickey, his face whitening.
"Yes," said Douglas. "The newsboys always look frightfully cold in winter."
"Winter!" It was a piteous cry.
"What is it, Mickey?" questioned Bruce kindly.
"You know I forgot it," he said. "I was so took up with what I was doing, and thinking right now, that I forgot a time ever was coming when it gets blue cold, and little kids freeze. Gee! I almost wish I hadn't thought of it. I guess I better sell my paper business, and come with you all day. I know I could earn more. I just sort of hate to give up the papers. I been at them so long. I've had such a good time. 'I like to sell papers!' That's the way I always start my cry, and I do. I just love to. I sell to about the same bunch every morning, and most of my men know me, and they always say a word, and I like the rush and excitement and the things that happen, and the looking for chances on the side——"
"There's messenger work in my business."
"I see! I like that! I like your work all right," said Mickey. "Gimme a few days to sell my route to the best advantage I can, and I'll come all day. I'll come for about a half what you are paying now."
"But you admit you need money urgently."
"Well not so urgently as to skin a friend to get it—not even with the winter I hadn't thought of coming. Gee—I don't know just what I am going to do about that."