THE NEWSBOY.
“I WISH YOU, SIR, TO CONTROL YOUR NEWSBOYS.”
“IS this the office of the National Pop-gun and Universal Valve Trumpet?” inquired Sapid in sepulchral tones.
“Hey—what? Oh!—yes,” gruffly replied the clerk, as he scrutinised the applicant.
“It is, is it?” was the response.
“H—umpse;” heaving a porcine affirmative, much in use in the city of brotherly love.
“I am here to see the editor, on business of importance,” slowly and solemnly articulated Sapid. There must have been something professionally alarming in this announcement, if an opinion may be formed from the effect it produced.
“Editor’s not come down yet, is he, Spry?” inquired the clerk, with a cautionary wink at the paste-boy.
“Guess he ain’t more nor up yet,” said Spry; “the mails was late last night.”