With the growth of the colony new houses had been erected which far outshone Paulina’s in magnificence, but Paulina’s still continued to be a social centre chiefly through Rosenblatt’s influence.  For no man was more skilled than he in the art of promoting sociability as an investment.  There was still the full complement of boarders filling the main room and the basement, and these formed a nucleus around which the social life of a large part of the colony loved to gather.

It was a cold evening in February.  The mercury had run down till it had almost disappeared in the bulb and Winnipeg was having a taste of forty below.  Through this exhilarating air Kalman was hurrying home as fast as his sturdy legs could take him.  His fingers were numb handling the coins received from the sale of his papers, but the boy cared nothing for that.  He had had a good afternoon and evening; for with the Winnipeg men the colder the night the warmer their hearts, and these fierce February days were harvest days for the hardy newsboys crying their wares upon the streets.  So the sharp cold only made Kalman run the faster.  Above him twinkled the stars, under his feet sparkled the snow, the keen air filled his lungs with ozone that sent his blood leaping through his veins.  A new zest was added to his life to-night, for as he ran he remembered that it was a feast day and that at his home there would be good eating and dance and song.  As he ran he planned how he would avoid Rosenblatt and get past him into Paulina’s room, where he would be safe, and where, he knew, good things saved from the feast for him by his sister would be waiting him.  To her he would entrust all his cents above what was due to Rosenblatt, and with her they would be safe.  For by neither threatening nor wheedling could Rosenblatt extract from her what was entrusted to her care, as he could from the slow-witted Paulina.

Keenly sensitive to the radiant beauty of the sparkling night, filled with the pleasurable anticipation of the feast before him, vibrating in every nerve with the mere joy of living his vigorous young life, Kalman ran along at full speed, singing now and then in breathless snatches a wild song of the Hungarian plains.  Turning a sharp corner near his home, he almost overran a little girl.

“Kalman!” she cried with a joyous note in her voice.

“Hello!  Elizabeth Ketzel, what do you want?” answered the boy, pulling up panting.

“Will you be singing to-night?” asked the little girl timidly.

“Sure, I will,” replied the lad, who had already mastered in the school of the streets the intricacies of the Canadian vernacular.

“I wish I could come and listen.”

“It is no place for little girls,” said Kalman brusquely; then noting the shadow upon the face of the child, he added, “Perhaps you can come to the back window and Irma will let you in.”

“I’ll be sure to come,” said Elizabeth to herself, for Kalman was off again like the wind.