It was five o'clock in the afternoon and five degrees above zero. It was also very windy, which made it seem colder to everybody except the thermometer; and as the thermometer alone exhibited signs of being able to stand a temperature of twenty or thirty or even forty degrees colder without suffering disagreeable consequences, that seemed rather unfair. For the wind, which was blowing not in hysterical gusts but in the calm, relentless, all-day-and-all-night, forty-to sixty-mile gale that you only get west of the Great Lakes, did make it colder; there was no doubt about that. Else why did every one keep out of it as much as possible; walk on the protected side of the street, seek shelter in doorways while waiting for trolley cars, and so forth? Of course the wind made you colder; so much colder that when you were sheltered from it, if only for a moment, you felt comparatively warm, though it was still five degrees above zero. Unless, that is, you happened to be standing over one of those grated openings in the sidewalk that belched forth their welcome though inexplicable gusts of warm air into the outer world; if you could get a place over one of those—gee, but you were the lucky guy!
That was the way you phrased it, at any rate, if you happened to be twelve years old and a newsboy with an income of—well, say thirty dollars a year, if that sounds sufficiently insufficient to provide anything approaching decent clothes, decent food and a decent place to live. If not, make it as little as you like. The point is that the annual income of a certain ten-year-old newsboy, by name of Stodger McClintock, was preeminently, magnificently insufficient to provide any of those commodities. As a consequence of which, Stodger was cold. As another consequence of which Stodger, the gay, the debonair, the unemotional, the anything but tearfully inclined, was very nearly in tears. People do actually suffer from the cold occasionally, even in this effete and over-protected age, and Stodger was suffering. The volcanic opening was all very well, but he could not stay there long. And the prospects for the night were bad, and bad even for supper....
There were tears in James' eyes also as he hurried along from work, but they were entirely due to the wind. As soon as he perceived Stodger, however, who dashed out at him with the customary "Here's yer paper, mister!" at an unexpected place in the side street instead of at the corner as per custom, he realized that his (Stodger's) tears were not entirely due to the wind.
"Well, Stodger! What are you doing down here?" he cried cheerfully.
"Trine t' git woim." Stodger's diction at best was imperfect and it was now further impeded by a certain nasal fluency, the joint result of the cold and contemplation of domestic imperfections. But James understood, perfectly well.
"Well, Stodger, it is cold, I'll have to grant you that!" he rejoined, and instituted fumbling operations into the pocket where he kept his loose silver. "Give me a Star and a Sun and a Mercury, too, will you? This is no time for economy; the announcement of the all-American football team is out to-night. Give me one of every paper you have!"
Pecuniary transaction ensued, parallel with conversation.
"And how do you like this weather, Stodger?"
"Me? Oh, I don't mind."
"Don't you? Well, I do, I'm afraid. This is just a little too cold for my pleasure. But then I'm not a husk, like you."