"I suppose that is true."
"Come on over and talk to mother. What's your handle? Mine is Dick Talcott."
"Nat Nason. I am glad to know you." And our hero shook hands, which made the newsboy grin all over.
With his papers under his arm, Dick Talcott hurried down a side street, and around a corner. He stopped in front of a four-story brick house.
"We live on the third floor," said he. "Come on up," and he led the way up the somewhat narrow stairs. It was pitch-dark, and Nat kept close behind, so as not to run into anything.
"Mother, here is a boy who wants board," announced Dick, as he threw open a door. Then the pair entered a living room, where a middle-aged woman sat by a table, mending some underwear.
The woman arose and came forward, and Nat saw that she was rather pleasant looking. She was a widow, her husband having died only the year previous.
"So you wish board?" she said. "I will show you what rooms I have."
"He don't want to pay much, mother," put in the son. "He's just arrived in New York from the country, and he wants work."
"I can let you have a small hall room, with breakfast and supper, for three dollars and a half," said Mrs. Talcott. "That is the best I can do. Of course, you'll want to take lunch along to your work, unless you get work near here. Where do you come from?"