“Pennies, maybe!” hopefully suggested a young Israelite not without guile; he was saving up for an excursion. “Git out! She don’t hand ’em out less’n she didn’t have time to buy nothin’,” a boy scornfully rebuked him. “Didn’ she tell us she hadn’t no use fer money presen’s less’n she was up against it fer time?” “I bet she’s got somepin!” declared a round little colored boy. “We’d ought t’ be gittin’ down town; mos’ in gen’ly she’s here by now, an’ we’s gotter git our af’ernoon ’ditions.” “Oh, chase yourself, Coony! ’Tain’t near two. Dere she is!” The last speaker ended in a triumphant yell, wildly pointing down the street as he jumped up and down, his bare feet thudding on the pavement; his comrades echoed the yell with Indian War Dance gestures. The cause of this suspense and final excitement was a slender young figure, tall for a girl, but looking taller than its actual height because of its boyish lines, the straight short skirt and straight loose jacket which clad it. The girl wore light-weight summer tweed, several colors blended in its weave to a tone of warm brownish drab. Her gloveless hands were thrust into the jacket’s side pockets; she wore a sailor hat, pushed back somewhat from her brow, but even if it had been set on her head straight, it would not have confined her masses of brilliant hair; they wreathed her face in lawless rings which had the effect of a halo worn in jest. She walked with a free, careless grace, a stride that was businesslike, yet springing, as of one who enjoyed the business which claimed her. Her face, which was not pretty, yet was compounded of many irregular charms, enhanced by a perfectly regular beauty of skin, was bright with smiles as she espied the shabby, yelling band awaiting her; the smile displayed an unbroken row of strong white teeth between full red lips. She waved her hand at the lads with a gesture which was like their own as they waved back at her, a straight-out motion from the brim of her hat, then flung widely out to the right. “Gosh, ain’t her hair red!” cried one of the boys, struck by the glow of the rings under the sailor hat in the sunshine. “Red nothin’! You shut up!” “Sure it’s red! What is it, then?” The question in derision, not for information. “It’s--it’s hair.” The defender was at a loss, not being accustomed to define. “You bet! Red hair! Awful red hair!” The triumphant tone was for victory, not because there was any desire to disparage this newsboys’ goddess. “Red hair yourse’f! Your mother’s red-headed!” This was a shot in the dark; acquaintance between these boys, being confined to the streets, did not embrace knowledge of family tints. “Sh’ ain’t! Black!” The wiry little Italian struck his opponent a hard blow on the mouth with the back of his hand, and, with a growl like two puppies, they clinched.