_Bennett_—You may stay now, and, after sweeping out the office, and folding that pile of papers in the corner, which I could not sell yesterday, you can accompany me to my Printers, Anderson & Ward, in Ann street, for the _Herald_ papers of to-day. (John sprinkles and sweeps out, and folds the papers in half an hour, and he and Bennett start for Ann street.) _Bennett_ (at his printer’s in Ann street)—Mr. Anderson, are my papers ready? _Anderson_—Yes, but you can’t have them until you pay me for them. _Bennett_—I have not got enough. _Anderson_—Then you can’t have them. _Bennett_—But the newsboys are outside, waiting for them. _Anderson_—I can’t help that. _Bennett_—But, my dear sir, do let me have them. _Anderson_—I shan’t do it. _Bennett_—Will you take my watch? _Anderson_—I have taken that twenty times, and, as I am not a pawnbroker, I am sick of taking your watch as security for the results of my honest labor. _Bennett_—Do take it once more. _Anderson_—I told you, when you last redeemed it, that I should not take it again. _Bennett_ (crying)—Do take it once more, Mr. Anderson. _Anderson_—No, sir. Here, Rufus, put these Heralds in a box, and nail it, and take the box to my house. _John_—Do take his watch once more, kind sir. Mr. Bennett has just employed me, and I’m not afraid to trust him. Besides, just look at his tears. See how big they are, and how fast they flow and roll down his manly cheeks. Do, sir, O do let him have the papers, and spare his tears, and heal his broken heart. _Anderson_ (looking over his spectacles)—Who the devil are you? _John_—I am Johnny Kelly. _Anderson_—What! Does your father live in the Fourteenth Ward? _John_—Yes, sir, and that’s just where I was born, and have always lived, and always mean to, and die there also, and, if possible, I intend to be buried there, in some beautiful cemetery, because I most fondly love the good and generous people of the Fourteenth Ward. And now, Mr. Anderson, have I not often seen you at my father’s, on winter evenings, telling each other funny and pleasing stories of the past? _Anderson_—Seen me at your father’s, you young rogue? Why, to be sure you have. I came to America with your father and mother, and my wife was present when you were born in Mott street, and after your mother got well, we had a great frolic at your Christening, and went to the Park Theatre, and you were the fattest and prettiest baby I ever saw. _John_—You don’t say so? Give me your hand— _Anderson_ (jumping over the counter)—and a kiss, too, you rosy little rascal. (Kisses him, and then turns to Bennett.) There, Bennett, take your papers, and give me your old dumb silver turnip once more, but I’ll be hanged before I will ever take it again. And you may attribute your good luck this time to this bright and pretty and honest little boy, whom I have loved since his infancy. (Bennett and John take the papers, and let the boys outside have some, and then depart for No. 20 Wall street.)