“Do you like to read newspapers?” said Tembarom, inspired to his query by a recollection of the vision of things “doin’” in the Sunday “Earth.”
“Wheer’d I get papers from?” the boy asked testily. “Foak like us hasn’t got the brass for ’em.”
“I’ll bring you some New York papers,” promised Tembarom, grinning a little in anticipation. “And we’ll talk about the news that’s in them. The Sunday ‘Earth’ is full of pictures. I used to work on that paper myself.”
“Tha did?” he cried excitedly. “Did tha help to print it, or was it the one tha sold i’ the streets?”
“I wrote some of the stuff in it.”
“Wrote some of the stuff in it? Wrote it thaself? How could tha, a common chap like thee?” he asked, more excited still, his ferret eyes snapping.
“I don’t know how I did it,” Tembarom answered, with increased cheer and interest in the situation. “It wasn’t high-brow sort of work.”
Tummas leaned forward in his incredulous eagerness.
“Does tha mean that they paid thee for writin’ it—paid thee?”