“You see, we went to the alley, we looked ebery place fur the kid as what threw de papers into de gutter, but he had skipped. So me an’ Skinny talked it over quickly an’ we just gave Joe eight cents an’ told him to go home, to fade away, to forget it. As de case wus settled we thought it no use ter bother you wid dis trouble, an’ we resumed our bizness.” Certainly a new way of settling troubles. There is a small boy who has the reputation of being a little boss in the territory in which he sells, owing to his desire to settle all disputes in his own way. He goes upon the idea that it is absolutely necessary to resort to pretty severe punishment to gain a point. One evening a boy about fifteen years of age came into the office, crying as a boy only can; the tears found considerable trouble in working their way down his cheeks, making his face look as if furrows were established for a time at least. On the left side of his forehead were several clear spots, round in shape, which he pointed to with considerable feeling. The president’s sympathy was aroused, and to the question, how he was hurt, he replied: “Firetop—licked—me. He—hit—me—with—his—fist.” Firetop was not over nine years of age, and the president knew of his fighting qualities, but somehow no one ever presented any charges worthy of investigation. His name, the boys said, “came to him on account of his red hair.” His reputation for honesty was never questioned. He was simply a fighter. He was one of the most successful sellers on the street. Because he was a “pusher, he went every place, and asked every person he met to buy a paper.” While the boy was telling his story, three other members dropped into the office. They stood for sometime looking at the poor boy. “Do you boys know Firetop?” asked the president. “Certainly, we all know him.” “Well, you go out and try to find him and tell him I want him to come here immediately.” Out the boys went and when on the sidewalk started in different directions to find Firetop. Ten minutes passed when Firetop came running into the office. The boys had found him but he was too fleet of foot for them. “Pres., they tell me you wants me, what fur?” “Look at that boy’s face,” said the president, pointing to the injured lad who began to cry in earnest. “I see it. I did it. But say, kid” turning to the boy, “what did I do it fur. Look up at me; say, what did I do it fur?” “For nothin’,” came a faint reply. “Come off, I hain’t going ’round doin’ things fur nothin’. Answer me, you kin talk, what did I do it fur?” No reply. “Didn’t I punch you fur swearing at a lady?” It was some moments before the boy answered, and he drawled out, “yes.” Firetop then told the story. The boy was selling papers on the street, he asked a lady to buy a paper, and because she refused he swore at her, using language seldom seen in print.