He waited until his panting grew less violent before he sauntered down the gas lit, unpretentious street, with a cry of, "Extry paper! All about the big South Side murder! Extry pa-a-a-per here. Extre-e-e-e, extre-e-e-e, extre-e-e-e!" Heads became silhouetted in numerous windows as their owners tried to catch his words. "A-a-all about the big South Side murder! Extry pa-a-a-a-per!" A door swung back, releasing a flood of light against the unkempt front lawn of a two-story cottage. John dashed up the shaky steps. "Extry, lady? All about the big murder?" She nodded and handed him a penny. The boy looked at it scornfully. "Extras are a nickel!" "But the paper's marked 'one cent.'" "S'pose it would pay," his voice was as grave as a financier's, discussing a huge stock transfer, "to chase all over and miss supper, just to make three cents on eight papers? No, lady, price is a nickel. Always is." He held out his hand. The woman capitulated and went back into the house for the stipulated coin. The sale wiped out the deficit and made an even break on the venture, the worst to be feared. Selling extras which were not extras to people who thought they were was proving a most profitable undertaking. He resumed his stroll down the street. "Extra-e-e-e paper here! South Side family murdered! Extry paper! Extry, extry, extre-e-e-e!" Every fourth or fifth residence yielded its toll to the grewsome lure. At last but one newspaper remained. He redoubled his vocal efforts. A woman, her arms full of grocery packages, stopped him and fumbled in her purse. Across the street, a whistle sounded. He dropped the nickel into his pocket, gave over the last of the troublesome sheets, and started for home. Again came the whistle. He made a trumpet of his hands and bellowed "Sold out" as he turned the corner. If he had only more copies! At least sixty could have been sold. Nevertheless, fifty cents for the pig bank--a dime was to be reserved for the morrow's capital--wasn't bad. Surely the other dollar and a half could be saved by the end of the week. Earning a thousand dollars was as easy as rolling off a log. John kissed his mother good-bye in high good humor, as he left for school in the morning. She watched him for a moment as he danced along the gusty, wind-swept street, and went in to sit by the parlor grate for a few moments. Hardly had she opened her magazine when the front door-bell rang, and the neighbor from across the way stood on the threshold, panting and very much excited. "My dear Mrs. Fletcher," she shrilled in her acrid tones. "Do tell me all about it!" Her hostess led her into the parlor and drew up a companion chair before the fire. "About what?" she asked. "About Mr. Fletcher." The neighbor warmed her hands a moment before the dancing flames, while Mrs. Fletcher looked a mute inquiry.