selling them across the street? Hardly any buildings to speak of. There was Tony's diner we used to eat at on the corner. Remember? Them were the days." The two men looked at each other, wordless for a moment. The silence stretched far away then snapped back. "But times. change. A man ought to change with them," Brandon said.

Bert made a half shrug again.. "Guess we can't all be happy selling papers."

"God forbid," Brandon remarked as he left the stand. "Can you just see me hawking papers at my age?" He folded the paper Bert had sold him and placed it under his arm with a sweep.

The sound of Bert calling customers followed him as he turned into the marble foyer of the tall office building that was his. As he entered he nodded a greeting to the elevator boy. The boy responded with a broad, extravagant smile and a "Good morning, sir. Secretary's at his desk now, sir. Seems like he just never goes home." Brandon grunted acknowledgement with mock surprise, surprise that had apparently worn thin by the consecutive use of this greeting. He switched his brief case from one hand to the other, rubbing together the fingers of his free hand as if to hasten their ascent.

At his newsstand early next day, Bert put a match to his kerosene stove, blew his warm coffee-breath into a stiff cold fist. He rearranged, unnecessarily, a few of his magazines on the display rack and turned to look at the big round clock on the green pole in front of Max's Jewelry Shop. A press truck swerved to his corner; the young man hurled a bundle of papers to him, saluted, "Hi, Bert," and the truck was gone. Again Bert peered at the clock. Brandon was going to be late ap-

parently. Nervously Bert stomped on one foot then on the other as though to fend off the cold. Five minutes had gone by. Ten.

Bert untied his bundle of papers, glanced at the bold black caption: "Oil Magnate Dies Mysteriously." Just beneath it was a picture of Brandon... the picture he had had taken when they lived together on 24th. Beneath the picture, not quite so clear now, were several columns giving the inaccurate account of Brandon's life. For a fleeting moment, and for only that long, Bert knew Brandon had done no more than hide behind a wealth that glittered not better than a cluster of metallic green flies on a rotten plum.

The bone in Bert's neck moved up and down, then: "Buy your morning. paper here," from a rusty-like voice that rasped as if twenty-five years of storm and sunshine on that corner had affected it. "Read about the life of an oil tycoon. Paper!" Bert was interrupted by an official looking man who held a brief case in his hand. The man produced a sheet of paper from the brief case. He held an unlighted cigarette in his mouth; it bobbed up and down as he spoke. He spoke at great length; lifted his hat and scratched the top of his head with his smallest finger. Bert gesticulated uncertainly, forming half shrugs, as the man folded the paper, replaced it in his case and shook his head.

To the chagrin of the best news reporters in the city Bert shouted: "Get your morning news here. Oil magnate dies mysteriously. I just been told he left his fortune to me!"

And, Bert thought, though he did not know he thought, he would have to plan something to do with the inheritance. Meantime there was work to be done-news to distribute like rubbing cold hands over friendly kerosene stove.

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