"I like to sell papers! Sometimes I sell them! Sometimes I don't! Morning paper, lady! Sterilized! Deodorized! Vulcanized! Nice clean paper!"
The girl's eyes betokened interest; her smiling lips encouraged Mickey. He laid his chin over her arm, leaned his head against it and fell in step with her.
"Sometimes I sell them! Sometimes I don't! If I sell them, I'm happy! If I don't, I'm hungry! If you buy them, you're happy! Pa—per?—lady."
"Not to-day, thank you," she said. "I'm shopping, so I don't wish to carry it."
Mickey saw Peaches' slate vanishing. It was a beautiful slate, small so it would not tire her bits of hands, and its frame was covered with red. His face sobered, his voice changed, taking on unexpected modulations.
"Aw lady! I thought you'd buy my paper! Far down the street I saw you coming. Lady, I like your gentle voice. I like your pleasant smile! You don't want a nice sterilized paper?—lady."
The lady stopped short; she lifted Mickey's chin in a firm grip, looking intently into his face.
"Just by the merest chance, could your name be Mickey?" she asked.
"Sure, lady! Mickey! Michael O'Halloran!"
Her smile became even more attractive.