crawl home after working half the night, and so he would
fall asleep, a worn, tragic little figure, on a pile of
old papers and sacks in a warm corner near the presses.
He was the head of a household, and every penny counted.
And all the time he was watching things, and learning.
Nothing escaped those keen black eyes. He used to help
the photographer when there was a pile of plates to
develop, and presently he knew more about photography
than the man himself. So they made him staff
photographer. In some marvelous way he knew more ball
players, and fighters and horsemen than the sporting
editor. He had a nose for news that was nothing short of
wonderful. He never went out of the office without
coming back with a story. They used to use him in the
sporting department when a rush was on. Then he became
one of the sporting staff; then assistant sporting
editor; then sporting editor. He knows this paper from
the basement up. He could operate a linotype or act as
managing editor with equal ease.

"No, I'm afraid that Blackie hasn't had much time for
morals. But, Norah dear, I wish that you could hear him
when he talks about his mother. He may follow doubtful
paths, and associate with questionable people, and wear
restless clothes, but I wouldn't exchange his friendship
for that of a dozen of your ordinary so-called good men.
All these years of work and suffering have made an old
man of little Blackie, although he is young in years. But
they haven't spoiled his heart any. He is able to
distinguish between sham and truth because he has been