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.

But it was not so this evening.
The shop was crowded.

Copies of the "Extra" were being read by men waiting, and by men in the latter stages of treatment.