On the sidewalk in front of the "Times" office, facing Printing-House Square, stood a boy of fifteen, with a pile of morning papers under his arm.

"'Herald,' 'Times,' 'Tribune,' 'World'!" he vociferated, with a quick glance at each passer-by.

There were plenty of newsboys near by, but this boy was distinguished by his quick, alert movements, and his evident capacity for business. He could tell by a man's looks whether he wanted a paper, and oftentimes a shrewd observation enabled him to judge which of the great morning dailies would be likely to suit the taste of the individual he addressed.

"Here's the 'Tribune', sir," he said to a tall, thin man, with a carpet-bag and spectacles, who had the appearance of a country clergyman. "Here's the 'Tribune,'—best paper in the city."

"I'm glad you think so, my lad. You may give me one. It's a good sign when a young lad like you shows that he has already formed sound political opinions."

"That's so," said the newsboy.

"I suppose you've seen Horace Greeley?"

"In course, sir, I see him most every day. He's a brick!"

"A what?" inquired the clergyman, somewhat shocked.

"A brick!"

"My lad, you should not use such a term in speaking of one of the greatest thinkers of the times."

"That's what I mean, sir; only brick's the word we newsboys use."

"It's a low word, my lad; I hope you'll change it. Can you direct me to French's Hotel?"

"Yes, sir; there it is, just at the corner of Frankfort Street."

"Thank you. I live in the country, and am not very well acquainted with New York."

"I thought so."

"Indeed! What made you think so?" asked the clergyman, with a glance of inquiry, unaware that his country air caused him to differ from the denizens of the city.

"By your carpet-bag," said the boy, not caring to mention any other reason.

"What's your name, my lad?"

"Rough and Ready, sir."

"What name did you say?" asked the clergyman, thinking he had not heard aright.

"Rough and Ready, sir."

"That's a singular name."

"My right name is Rufus; but that's what the boys call me."

"Ah, yes, indeed. Well, my lad, I hope you will continue to cherish sound political sentiments until the constitution gives you the right to vote."

"Yes, sir, thank you.—Have a paper, sir?"

The clergyman moved off, and Rough and Ready addressed his next remark to a sallow-complexioned man, with a flashing black eye, and an immense flapping wide-awake hat.

"Paper, sir? Here's the 'World'!"

"Give me a copy. What's that,—the 'Tribune'! None of your Black Republican papers for me Greeley's got nigger on the brain. Do you sell many 'Tribunes'?"

"Only a few, sir. The 'World''s the paper! I only carry the 'Tribune' to accommodate a few customers."

"I wouldn't have anything to do with it." And the admirer of the "World" passed on.

"Got the 'Herald'?" inquired the next man.

"Yes, sir, here it is. Smartest paper in the city! Got twice as much news as all the rest of the papers."

"That's where you're right. Give me the 'Herald' for my money. It's the most enterprising paper in America."

"Yes, sir. James Gordon Bennett's a perfect steam-engine!"

"Ever see him?"

"Yes, sir, often. He's a brick!"

"I believe you."

"Paper, sir? 'Tribune,' sir?"

Rough and Ready addressed this question somewhat doubtfully to a carefully dressed and somewhat portly gentleman, who got out of a Fourth Avenue car, and crossed to the sidewalk where he was standing.

"Don't want the 'Tribune.' It's a little too extreme for me. Got the 'Times'?"

"Yes, sir. Here it is. Best paper in the city!"

"I am glad you think so. It's a sound, dignified journal, in my opinion."

"Yes, sir. That's what I think. Henry J. Raymond's a brick!"

"Ahem, my lad. You mean the right thing, no doubt; but it would be better to say that he is a man of statesman-like views."

"That's what I mean, sir. Brick's the word we newsboys use."

Just then a boy somewhat larger than Rough and Ready came up. He was stout, and would have been quite good-looking, if he had been neatly dressed, and his face and hands had been free from dirt. But Johnny Nolan, with whom such of my readers as have read "Ragged Dick" and "Fame and Fortune" are already acquainted, was not very much troubled by his deficiencies in either respect, though on the whole he preferred whole garments, but not enough to work for them.

Johnny was walking listlessly, quite like a gentleman of leisure.

"How are you, Johnny?" asked Rough and Ready. "Where's your blacking-box?"

"Somebody stole it," said Johnny, in an aggrieved tone.

"Why don't you get another?"

"I aint got any money."

"I never knew you when you did have," said the newsboy.

"I aint lucky," said Johnny.

"You won't be till you're a little smarter than you are now. What are you going to do?"

"I dunno," said Johnny. "I wish Mr. Taylor was in this city."

"What for?"

"He used to give me money most every day," said Johnny.

"I don't want anybody to give me money," said Rough and Ready, independently. "I can earn my own living."

"I could get a place to tend a paper-stand, if I had good clo'es," said Johnny.

"Why don't you go to work and earn enough money to buy some, then?" said the newsboy.

"I can't. I aint got no money."

"I've sold sixty papers this morning, and made sixty cents," said Rough and Ready.

"I aint made nothing," said Johnny, despondently.

"Come, I'll tell you what I'll do," said the newsboy. "Here's two 'Tribunes,' two 'Worlds' and 'Times' and three 'Heralds.' Just go round the corner, and sell 'em, and I'll give you all the profits."

"All right!" said Johnny, brightening up at the prospect of making something. "What's the news?"

"Steamboat exploded on the Mississippi! Five hundred people thrown half a mile high in the air! One man miraculously saved by falling in a mud hole! Can you remember all that?"

"Yes," said Johnny. "Give me the papers."

Johnny went round to Nassau Street, and began to cry the remarkable news which had just been communicated to him.

"That ought to sell the papers," said Rough and Ready to himself. "Anyway, Johnny's got it exclusive. There aint any other newsboy that's got it."

In about half an hour Johnny came back empty handed.

"Sold all your papers?" asked the newsboy.

"Yes," said Johnny; "but was that true about the steamboat?"

"Why?"

"'Cause people looked for it, and couldn't find it, and one man said he'd give me a lickin' if I called out news that wasn't true."

"Well, if it isn't true now, it will be some other day. Explosions is a permanent institution. Anyhow, it isn't any worse for us to cry news that aint true, than for the papers to print it when they know it's false."

Whatever may be thought of the morality of Rough and Ready's views on this subject, it must be admitted that in manufacturing news to make his papers sell, he was only imitating the example of some of our most prominent publishers. The same may be said of his readiness to adopt the political views and prejudices of his customers, for commercial profit. I may as well remark here, that, though Rough and Ready is a favorite of mine, for his energy, enterprise, and generous qualities, I do not mean to represent him as a model boy. I shall probably have to record some things of him which I cannot wholly approve. But then it is to be considered that he is a newsboy, whose advantages have been limited, who has been a familiar witness to different forms of wickedness ever since he was old enough to notice anything, and, notwithstanding, has grown up to be a pretty good boy, though not a model.

In fact, one reason why I do not introduce any model boys into my stories is that I do not find them in real life. I know a good many of various degrees of goodness; but most of them have more failings than one,—failings which are natural to boys, springing oftentimes more from thoughtlessness than actual perverseness. These faults they must struggle with, and by determined effort they will be able, with God's help, to overcome them. They have less excuse than the friendless newsboy, because more care has been bestowed upon their education and moral training.

"Here's eleven cents, Johnny," said the newsboy, after receiving from his assistant the proceeds of his sales. "Isn't it better to earn them than have somebody give them to you?"

"I dunno," said Johnny, doubtfully.

"Well, you ought to, then. I've sold fifteen more. That's seventy-five I've sold this morning. What are you going to do with your money?"

"I got trusted for breakfast at the Lodge this mornin'," said Johnny; "but I must earn some more money, or I can't buy any dinner."

"Which do you like best,—selling papers, or blacking boots?"

"I like blackin' boots. 'Taint so hard work."

"Why didn't you take care of your box?"

"I laid it down in a doorway. I guess some boy stole it."

"I'll tell you what I'll do, Johnny. I'll buy you a new box and brush, and we'll go whacks."

"All right," said Johnny.

As the allusion may not be understood by some of my young readers, I will explain that it is a custom among the more enterprising street boys, who are capitalists to a small amount, to set up their more needy fellows in business, on condition that they will pay half their earnings to the said capitalists as a profit on the money advanced. This is called "going whacks." It need hardly be said that it is a very profitable operation to the young capitalist, often paying fifty per cent. daily on his loan,—a transaction which quite casts into the shade the most tempting speculations of Wall Street.

It is noteworthy that these young Bohemians, lawless as they often are, have a strict code of honor in regard to such arrangements, and seldom fail to make honest returns, setting a good example in so far to older business operators.

On receiving Johnny's assent to his proposal, the newsboy proceeded to a street stand on Nassau Street, and bought the necessary articles for his companion, and then the two separated.

Johnny, confiding in his prospects of future profits, stopped at the pie and cake stand at the north-east corner of Nassau and Fulton Streets, and bought of the enterprising old woman who has presided over it for a score of years, a couple of little pies, which he ate with a good appetite. He then shouldered his box and went to business.