“Haven’t any,” came the quick answer. “They both died when I was little, and I lived with Aunt Florrie, and she used to switch me every time I played hooky to hang around the pressroom at the Journal—”
“The Journal!” gasped the girl. “Why, I live next to it!”
“Then I’ve been in your alley a million times, I guess,” drawled Alex White. “I used to sell papers. Know Papa Sadler?”
Of course. Every one did. Papa Sadler was the name the boys gave to the jolly, middle-aged circulation manager, who managed the newsboys, collected their receipts, and paid them their commissions. Joan recalled how Papa Sadler and his “gang” had enjoyed the picnic. Once Alex had been one of those happy-hearted boys who swarmed around Papa Sadler, quarreling for the best routes and showing off and having fun! How had he happened to end up here?
“Didn’t you like school?” she ventured.
“Nope, couldn’t stand it. Played hooky until the truant officer came, and Aunt Florrie said she wished he would send me here, because she had six kids of her own and I was a bother.” His voice dropped. “I’ll be ever so much obliged to you, if you get me that information,” he said in a funny, formal way. “I’m going to get out on parole soon, for good behavior, and I just gotta know if I can go somewhere and learn the linotype trade.”
“Good-by, Alex White.” With a quick impulse, she reached out and shook his soapy, moist hand. “That’s an easy name. I can remember it.”
It was too bad about Alex. How different things were for him than for Eric Reynolds. Yet, each boy, hardly older than herself, knew firmly what he wanted to be. She guessed Alex’ name had reminded her of Eric—the names were something alike.
She kept thinking about Alex all the rest of the afternoon while the principal showed them over the school. They visited the classrooms and then went through the shops where such things as plumbing, carpentry, and laundry work were being taught.
“But no printing?” Joan asked, suddenly bold.