It was a mistake, he decided, critically. Crying "Wolf!"
too often wouldn't sell the goods; it was bad business. The papers
would "make more in the long run," he was sure, if they published an
"Extra" only when something of real importance happened.
"Extry! All about the hor'ble AX'nt! Extry!" a boy squawked under
his nose, as he descended from the car.
"Go on away!" said Sheridan, gruffly, though he smiled. He liked
to see the youngsters working so noisily to get on in the world.
But as he crossed the pavement to the brilliant glass doors of the
barber-shop, a second newsboy grasped the arm of the one who had
thus cried his wares.
"Say, Yallern," said this second, hoarse with awe, "'n't chew know
who that IS?"
"Who?"
"It's SHERIDAN!"
"Jeest!" cried the first, staring insanely.
At about the same hour, four times a week--Monday, Wednesday, Friday,
and Saturday--Sheridan stopped at this shop to be shaved by the head
barber. The barbers were negroes, he was their great man, and it was
their habit to give him a "reception," his entrance being always
the signal for a flurry of jocular hospitality, followed by general
excesses of briskness and gaiety.
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