The sea coast echo. [volume] (Bay Saint Louis, Miss.) 1892-current, 1892-08-27

Walls butlJ
ed about like straws on the black and
turbid tide of life that rolls through
the dark streets of great city. Some
undercurrent had drifted the two bits
OF human flotsam and jetsam together,
and that was all the wisest could have
told you of Tom and Dick.
Not that anyone would have con-
sidered it worth while to tell you any
thing at all about them. The police
are the only people supposed to be in
terested in children that sleep in dark
doorways or empty sugar casks, and
their interest is so purely professional
II is only aroused when there is neces-
sity Of carrying the little vagrants up
before the police court charged with
petty larceny.
But there was no morbid self-pity
about them. Some lucky chance-a
horse held in the street, or half-tlpsy
man throwing coins from a club bal
cony to see the gamins fight and
scramble for them-gave the lads the
money to start in life as newsboys,
and thereafter they were as inde-
pendent as lords and gave themselves
airs among their fellows. They hired
an attic and abandoned doorways and
empty barrels as sleeping places for
ever; but the very crown and Joy of
life they found in going to the theater,
where they spent the money that
should have bought them clothes and
food, and where, from the peanut gal
lery, they criticised play and actors
with absolute freedom.
Early and late Dicks shril little
voice could be heard calling: "He-ays
yer mornin' paper-Her-aul-N
Wur-rul!' as he swung himself on the
platform of the incoming trains and
took hair breadth chances of crossing
the street before heavily-laden drays
These were digressions that made life
worth living-the serious business was
selling certain number of papers each
day and settling accounts with the
clerk in the newspaper office, and
above all looking after Tom-for Tom
was weak and timid, and leaned heavi-
ly upon his stronger friend. There was
something sweet, and tender, and fine
in Dicks nature-the something that
made him hiss the villain, and applaud
with all his might when virtue tri-
umphed over vice in the lurid plays he
lovcd-and this dependence of Toms
called out all that was best in him.
He was never too weary to go out of
his way for Tom; and almost as well as
going to the theater he liked the long
nights when they covered over their
attic fire and discussed the subjects of
their little world with the hard philos-
ophy of the street and cynicism of
which they were totally unaware. On
one such occasion as this, when the pa
pers had been full of double-leaded
headlines about some man who was on
everybody's lips, Dick asked:
Tom, what is hero?"
And Tom answered, from the depths
of his own observation: "Oh, a hero's
somebody who does somethin' fine, an
has his name in de papers in big letters,
an when he comes home de band meets
him at de depo' an he rides up in ker-
ridge with four horses. See? / dunno
what he does, but guess he's like John
l.. in de play; you know how he res
cues de gell dat has been done bad to.
OATS what hero is like. l tell yer
it's CRATE, an what I says goes. Oh,
dere's plenty of heroes at the theaty-
de woods is full of 'em.''
II know" interrupted Dick, but I'd
just like to see one clost."'
We'll, replied his companion, scorn-
fully, ''ef yer don't see what yer want,
asst for it. Yer better advertise in de
ne wspaper.'
The suggestion was proffered in de.
rision, but somehow the incongruous-
ness of it did not strike the lad. He
was only the humblest servitor of that
great power we call the press, yet his
life was shaped and nodded by it.
So it happened the next night, Just |
before the World went to press, rag
ged little figure stood before the clerk
~ the counting room and handed him q |