o think o' the way that boy took ahold o' that job back yonder. Four
months and a half! Yes, sir--"

He expanded this theme once more; and thus he continued to entertain
the stranger throughout the long drive. Darkness had fallen before they
reached the city on their return, and it was after five when Sheridan
allowed Herr Favre to descend at the door of his hotel, where boys were
shrieking extra editions of the evening paper.

"Now, good night, Mr. Farver," said Sheridan, leaning from the car to
shake hands with his guest. "Don't forget I'm goin' to come around and
take you up to--Go on away, boy!"

A newsboy had thrust himself almost between them, yelling, "Extry!
Secon' Extry. Extry, all about the horrable acciDENT. Extry!"

"Get out!" laughed Sheridan. "Who wants to read about accidents? Get
out!"

The boy moved away philosophically. "Extry! Extry!" he shrilled. "Three
men killed! Extry! Millionaire killed! Two other men killed! Extry!
Extry!"

"Don't forget, Mr. Farver," Sheridan completed his interrupted
farewells. "I'll come by to take you up to our house for dinner. I'll be
here for you about half-past five to-morrow afternoon. Hope you 'njoyed
the drive much as I have. Good night--good night!" He leaned back,
speaking to the chauffer. "Now you can take me around to the Central
City barber-shop, boy. I want to get a shave 'fore I go up home."

"Extry! Extry!" screamed the newsboys, zig-zagging among the crowds like
bats in the dusk. "Extry! All about the horrable acciDENT! Extry!" It
struck Sheridan that the papers sent out too many "Extras"; they printed
"Extras" for all sorts of petty crimes and casualties. It was a mistake,
he decided, critically. Crying "Wolf!" too often wouldn't sell the
goods; it was bad business. The papers would "make more in the long
run," he was sure, if they published an "Extra" only when something of
real importance happened.

"Extry! All about the hor'ble AX'nt! Extry!" a boy squawked under his
nose, as he descended from the car.

"Go on away!" said Sheridan, gruffly, though he smiled. He liked to see
the youngsters working so noisily to get on in the world.

But as he crossed the pavement to the brilliant glass doors of the
barber-shop, a second newsboy grasped the arm of the one who had thus
cried his wares.

"Say, Yallern," said this second, hoarse with awe, "'n't chew know who
that IS?"

"Who?"

"It's SHERIDAN!"

"Jeest!" cried the first, staring insanely.