“Now, good night, Mr. Farver,” said Sheridan, leaning from the car to shake hands with his guest.  “Don’t forget I’m goin’ to come around and take you up to—­Go on away, boy!”

A newsboy had thrust himself almost between them, yelling, “Extry!  Secon’ Extry.  Extry, all about the horrable acciDENT.  Extry!”

“Get out!” laughed Sheridan.  “Who wants to read about accidents?  Get out!”

The boy moved away philosophically.  “Extry!  Extry!” he shrilled.  “Three men killed!  Extry!  Millionaire killed!  Two other men killed!  Extry!  Extry!”

“Don’t forget, Mr. Farver,” Sheridan completed his interrupted farewells.  “I’ll come by to take you up to our house for dinner.  I’ll be here for you about half-past five to-morrow afternoon.  Hope you ’njoyed the drive much as I have.  Good night—­good night!” He leaned back, speaking to the chauffer.  “Now you can take me around to the Central City barber-shop, boy.  I want to get a shave ’fore I go up home.”

“Extry!  Extry!” screamed the newsboys, zig-zagging among the crowds like bats in the dusk.  “Extry!  All about the horrable acciDENT!  Extry!” It struck Sheridan that the papers sent out too many “Extras”; they printed “Extras” for all sorts of petty crimes and casualties.  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.  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.  “Extras” lay upon vacant seats and showed from the pockets of hanging coats.

There was a loud chatter between the practitioners and their recumbent patients, a vocal charivari which stopped abruptly as Sheridan opened the door.  His name seemed to fizz in the air like the last sputtering of a firework; the barbers stopped shaving and clipping; lathered men turned their prostrate heads to stare, and there was a moment of amazing silence in the shop.