“How much did you make, Frank?” asked Alvin, meeting his older brother on the sidewalk.
“Forty-six cents. I didn’t do as well as usual.”
“I wish mother would let me sell papers, too.”
“You are only nine years old, Alvin.”
“I am old enough to sell papers.”
“It is a poor business, Alvin. I hope you will never have to do it.”
By this time Frank had ascended the stairs and had entered the humble room occupied by his mother.
“Frank, will you go to the baker’s and get a loaf of bread?”
“Let me go!” said Alvin.
“Very well! Here are ten cents. Now come back directly.”