“I suppose that is the way of the world,” thought Gilbert. “Well, I expected it, and so far as Randolph and his mother are concerned I shall not have much to regret.”
At half-past twelve he stood with his last paper in his hand. They had gone off more slowly than the day before, and he doubted whether he could dispose of the last one.
“Good-morning, Gilbert,” said a cordial voice. “Are you reading the paper?”
“No, Mr. Vivian,” answered our hero; “I am trying to sell it.”
“What! Have you turned newsboy?”
“Yes, sir. I could think of nothing else to do, and I must do something.”
“Was this necessary?” asked the merchant, in a tone of sympathy.
“Yes, sir; I have nothing to depend upon, except what I make in this way.”
“You can’t make a living, can you?”
“I am afraid not by this alone,” said Gilbert.