He waited until his panting grew less violent before he sauntered down the gas lit, unpretentious street, with a cry of,
"Extry paper! All about the big South Side murder! Extry pa-a-a-per here. Extre-e-e-e, extre-e-e-e, extre-e-e-e!"
Heads became silhouetted in numerous windows as their owners tried to catch his words.
"A-a-all about the big South Side murder! Extry pa-a-a-a-per!"
A door swung back, releasing a flood of light against the unkempt front lawn of a two-story cottage. John dashed up the shaky steps.
"Extry, lady? All about the big murder?"
She nodded and handed him a penny. The boy looked at it scornfully.
"Extras are a nickel!"
"But the paper's marked 'one cent.'"
"S'pose it would pay," his voice was as grave as a financier's, discussing a huge stock transfer, "to chase all over and miss supper, just to make three cents on eight papers? No, lady, price is a nickel. Always is."