Hearst was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. His obituaries had been printed by The Journal, The Sun, The Tribune, and The Times. The World printed it. And the World's name was good upon 'Change for anything it chose to report of.

Old Hearst was dead as a door-nail.

Pulitzer knew he was dead. Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Pulitzer and he had been opponents for I don't know how many years. Therefore, Pulitzer was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnized it with an undoubted bargain.

Oh, he was a cold hand on the grindstone, Pulitzer! Cold and hard, without love for anything expect his money, or passion for anything except his war for the biggest slice of the pie that was the New York newspaper business.

Once upon a time, on all of the good days of the year on Christmas Eve, old Pulitzer was sitting in his office. He was keeping a stern eye on his clerk, Mayer Jacobs, who, in a tiny room off to the side, was copying letters. His thick eyebrows knit closely together in disapproval as the clerk interrupted his work, got up, went into Pulitzer's office, and, after respectfully bowing to his master, bend over the coal box.

"Hey there, what do you think you're doing, man?"

"Just...just a bit of coal for the oven, Chief...it's awfully cold in there."

Pulitzer scorned. "What, what, what...you want me to spend a fortune in coal and tinder just because you don't posses a good greatcoat?"

"No Chief, just..." Mayer Jacobs raised his hands, showing his blue fingertips.

"I don't have a much bigger fire than you do, man! But I do invest my money in good clothes, instead of feeding a wife and - what, two children?"

"Three, Chief."

"Three! A waste of money and nothing else, I tell you! Now get back to work! Work! Before I find a better clerk! "

"Yes, Chief. Sorry, Chief." The clerk withdrew, with one last longing glance at the coal box.

No sooner had the clerk withdrawn to his tiny chamber, than two stoutly gentlemen entered, greeting Pulitzer with a "Merry Christmas!"

"Aw... Humbug!" was Pulitzer's whole reply.

"Christmas a humbug, Sir? You don't mean that, I'm sure," the first of the gentlemen, a tall, heavy-set man with rosy cheeks, said cheerfully.

"A humbug it is, and nothing else!" Pulitzer insisted. "What do you want?"

The second gentleman, much thinner than his companion, but with the same cheerful look and bearing, spoke up. "I'm Ebenizer Irving, Mr. Pulitzer, and this is my honored colleague, Mr. Jacob Hall. We're collecting money for the poor children on the streets - orphans and runaways, unloved and uncared for. At this blissful time of the year, it's more than usually desirable to share our own wealth with those less fortunate."

"Are there no orphanages? Are there now workhouses?" Pulitzer growled.

The heavy set man, Hall, heaved a sigh. "Unfortunately, there are..."

"And the Houses of Refuge, are they still in operation?"

"They are, they are, I wish I could say they were not," Mr. Irving replied.

"Oh, good!" Pulitzer exclaimed. "I was afraid from what you said at first that something had occurred to stop them in there work! Well, gentlemen, I support these establishments with my taxes, God knows they're high enough, and I don't see why I should add to this cost by giving any of my hard-earned money to you."

"But...Sir!" Mr. Irving protested. "Many of those unfortunate children can't go there, and many would rather die."

"If they would rather die, they'd better do it, and decrease the surplus population!"

"Sir, I must protest against your words, they..."

"This is my house and my office and if you come here and take up my time then you'll have to shut up and listen to me! Should you not wish to do so, there's the door, you couldn't do me a bigger favor!"

The gentlemen frowned, and exchanged a glance. Shrugging, they bade their good byes, and left.

Pulitzer leered after them, satisfied, and resumed his work with an improved opinion of himself.

When the bell struck seven, Pulitzer rose from his desk, and put on his greatcoat. "I suppose you must have off all day tomorrow?" he asked his clerk, who was already standing at the door, quivering with eagerness to leave.

"If it is convenient, Chief," Mayer Jacobs answered timidly.

"It is not convenient! I have to pay a days wages for no work! 'Only once a year' they say! Humbug! It's still thievery. But I supposed it must be all day. So be there all the earlier the next morning!"

"I will Chief! I will! And Merry Christmas, Sir!"

"Aw, humbug!" Pulitzer grumbled in reply.

But his clerk had already bolted out the door and was halfway down the stairs. He happily shouted "Merry Christmas!" to everyone he met and spontaneously burst into "Jingle Bells" the moment he left the building and stepped out onto the streets, hurrying home.

Pulitzer grunted after him disapprovingly, and left the office at a much slower pace, climbing into his carriage and bellowing at the driver to 'bring him home, and swiftly, if he treasured his employment'.

When Pulitzer arrived at his residence, he withdrew to his library and spread some foreign newspapers on the card table. Pulling out his much used magnifying glass, he began to study them.

In the midst of reading the business news in the London Times, he reached out for his glass of whiskey, and upon not finding it at once, looked up to see - "HEARST!"

William Hearst. He was sitting in his usually chair at the card table, looking at Pulitzer like he used to look, with a smug smile and a twinkle in his eyes, his usual pipe in hand.

Upon looking closer, Pulitzer realized that something was different about his old opponent. His skin seemed to shine in a spooky yellow light, and his body seemed to waver, and have a certain haze-blue touch, much like the little rings of smoke climbing upwards from his pipe. Squinting, Pulitzer nearly fancied he could see the pattern of the chair's back through Hearst's shoulders.

What scared Pulitzer most, though, were the heavy chains that Hearst wore. Thick and black, made from iron, they wound round and round his legs, midriff and shoulders, moneybags and casks hanging from them, pulling Hearst down mercilessly.

"Wha...wha...what are you?"

"I am the ghost of William Randolph Hearst, your business opponent."

"N....nononono, Hearst is dead! And there's no such thing as ghosts! You're an illusion, a bad dream!"

The ghost chuckled. "You never believed what was right before your eyes. Is this an illusion?" As he spoke, the ghost raised his hand, and suddenly Pulitzer felt himself lifted from his chair, and dangling free in the air, slowly drifting towards the fireplace.

"No," Pulitzer protested, "no, this isn't happening!"

Closer and closer to the fireplace he drifted. He felt the soles of his shoes getting warm, then hot, then he noted a smell like burning leather, as the heat became unbearable.

"Do you believe me now, Joseph? Do you?"

"Stop! Stop! I believe! Yes, I believe!"

The ghost snipped his fingers, and Pulitzer tumbled to the floor. Shocked, he scrambled to his feet to face the appearance. "What? What do you want from me?"

"I'm here to warn you."

"W...warn me? Of what?"

"Of yourself."

Pulitzers mouth opened and closed a few times, but no sound came out.

"Joseph, you've always been a worthy opponent. A real businessman, and gentleman. Therefore, I'm here to warn you! Change your ways while there still is time!" At the last statement, the ghost's voice suddenly had a deep ring to it, like graveyard bells.

"Ch...ch...change my ways?" Pulitzer's gaze drifted again to the heavy chains the ghost wore.

Hearst nodded, and raising his hands, shook them to make them rattle and screech loudly. "Do you see these chains I wear?"

"I do."

"These are the chains I forged in my life! Hunting for money, yearning for riches - and never caring for my fellow men. It's my punishment to wear them, for all eternity!"

"B...b...but, you've always been a good man of business..."

"Mankind was my business! The common welfare was my business! But all I ever cared about was money. Hard, cold, soulless money. And therefore I'll wear this chains FOREVER!"

Pulitzer shrank back as the sadness of the ghosts voice at the last word hit him like a blow. "I...I...I'm sorry, William..."

The ghost shook his head. "Don't pity me, pity yourself!"

"M...m...m...me?" Pulitzer asked nervously.

The ghost nodded. "When I died, your chains were just as long as these." He rattled his own again. "But as you're still alive, still hunting for earthly riches, your chains are still growing, and will continue to grow and get longer and heavier, till the day that you die!"

Pulitzer shuddered. He shook his head. "Th...th...that can't be true!"

"It is."

"NO!" Pulitzer exclaimed, dropping down and trying to grab the spirit's hands, then noting with a shock that his hands slipped right through him. "William! What can I do? I beg you, tell me! You said your here to warn me? So there's still hope?"

Hearst's ghost nodded gravely. "Yes. But you must change your ways, your thinking, your life."

"H...h...how?"

"You'll be visited, by three ghosts."

Pulitzer gasped at the prospect of more supernatural visitors.

Hearst's ghost held up three bony fingers. "The first one will haunt you tonight, when the clock strikes twelve. The second one, when the bell strikes one, and the third, always unpredictable, whenever he thinks his time has come."

"C...couldn't I take them all at once, and have it over with, William?"

The ghost ignored him. "First, you'll see the Ghost of Christmas Past, second, the Ghost of Christmas Present, and third, the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come! Listen closely to their lessons, for they're all that's between you, and damnation!" With this, the ghost stood and walked right through Pulitzer, who scrambled around to watch him, stepped into the fireplace and up the chimney, without ever looking back.

Pulitzer stared after him, his mouth still opening and closing mutely, like a fish's on dry land. "Wh...wh...what..." He got to his feet. shaking his head. "A dream. An illusion. A trick my eyes played on me. It's a trick. Yes, yes, a trick..." he mumbled incoherently as he slowly dragged himself to bed. He locked his bedroom door, which he'd never done before. Double locked it. Then he changed, drew the bedcurtains tightly shut, and lay down - atop the covers.

"Aww...humbug. Nothing will happen. Nothing," he mumbled again and again.

The clock tolled nine.

"Ah! In three hours I'll have proof that it was all a dream. I...I'll just lie awake till midnight!" he decided triumphantly. A wise decision, seeing how he could sooner have gone to China then to sleep.

Pulitzer stared at the bed's heaven, waiting, listening to the ticking of the clock.

The clock struck ten. Eleven. Half past. And finally...

"Midnight! And nothing but!" Pulitzer shouted as the old bell struck for the first time. But the uneasy feeling wouldn't leave him, no, it even rose with every strike. At the tenth strike of the bell, he thought he heard the sound of footsteps, coming from...the window?

They drew nearer and nearer, and he heard now, at the eleventh strike, that something was strange about the footsteps...there was another sound to them, like wood on wood.

Pulitzer held his breath, and waited nervously for the twelfth strike. It came Dong! - and at the same time the bedcurtains at Pulitzer's left flew open and revealed - a shining white figure. Clothes, skin, hair - they all were of a shining, unearthly white. The body was that of a tall boy, with curly hair and a broad smile. He was leaning on what Pulitzer now realized was the reason for the wooden sound of his steps - a crutch, of the same ghostly white color.

"Hello, Mr. Pulitzer!" the appearance said cheerfully.

"Wh...wh...who are you?"

The Ghost frowned. "Oh, I's sorry, didn't nobody tell ya I was gonna visit? The Ghost of Christmas Past?"

Pulitzer nodded mutely, too baffled to speak.

"Oh, swell!" the Ghost smiled happily. "Then please get up an' follow me!"

"F...follow you? Where?"

The Ghost opened the closet and beckoned to Pulitzer, who scrambled to his feet almost against his will, and joined him.

"The closet? Into the closet?"

The Ghost chuckled. "Not exactly." Drawing Pulitzer with him, he stepped through the closet's door.

For a moment the world seemed to swim around Pulitzer, and when it slipped into focus again, he found himself in a big tent, in a circle of young men in blue uniforms, singing "Silent Night" loud and way off tune, but cheerfully.

"Do ya recognize dese guys, Mr. Pulitzer?"

"If I recognize them? Of course! We served in the Civil War together. The best battery in the United States Army!" Pulitzer exclaimed with pride.

The Ghost smiled, pointing to a young soldier in the corner, who was accompanying the others on a battered old harmonica.

"That...that's me..." Pulitzer hesitantly stepped closer. "Hey, lad, hey...don't you recognize me?"

The Ghost chuckled. "None of 'em can see or hear us. We's not really here."

Pulitzer nevertheless waved his hand in front of his younger self's face. "Ah..." he grumbled.

"Well..." the Ghost commented. "Seein' how dey's in da middle of a war, dey seem to be in a good mood."

"Oh yes, I remember this Christmas! Our old captain had organized a tree, and a extra ratio of rum for all of us, and we spent the whole evening singing and talking, and then..." suddenly, Pulitzer's eyes wandered to the tent's door.

"Yes?" the Ghost asked with a smile.

"Then she came..."

With a knowing grin, the Ghost asked, "She?"

"My betrothed. She came all the way from New York, by train, carriage and horse....just to see me for Christmas..." A dreamy smile appeared on his face.

Just then, a horse whinnied outside, and a loud, female voice half-sang, half-shouted "Joseph!"

The young soldier with the harmonica jumped up, let go of his instrument and stormed outside. The Ghost clasped his hands, and suddenly Pulitzer and he were standing in front of the tent, watching the young man running up to a brown stallion, and plucking the rider, a young woman with red hair and a pink skirt and blouse, in a hug and kiss.

"Medda! Darling!" he exclaimed, overjoyed.

"Joseph!" she moved in for another kiss, which she didn't break as he set her down.

Meanwhile, the other soldiers had filed out of the tent and were watching the scene, whooping and hollering.

The young Pulitzer smiled at them bashfully as he led his betrothed to meet them. "May I introduce - Medda, that's the boys. And this, gentlemen, is my betrothed, Medda Larkson."

A chorus of "Pleased to meet you" and "I'm honored" answered this announcement.

"Hello boys!" Medda laughed.

"Medda..." young Pulitzer stammered. "How...how...how did you get here? How did you know...I didn't tell you we'd be...here."

A dark-haired soldier standing close to the young couple cracked up. Young Pulitzer turned to him. "Willy? You wrote to her? You old rascal!" He hugged his friend.

Medda laughed, a light, melodic laugh, like bells. "Yes, young Mr. Hearst was nice enough to let me know where I could meet my honey-bunny."

Pulitzer blushed, along with his younger self, as he saw the Ghost grinning at him.

The soldiers laughed and hollered. "Honey-bunny!"

Medda grinned and planted a kiss on young Pulitzer's nose. "Let's have some fun!" She danced into the tent with him. The other soldiers followed, until Pulitzer and the Ghost were left alone outside in the darkness.

Pulitzer looked at the light coming from the tent and sighed. "This was one wonderful day..." he said slowly.

The Ghost smiled. "It sure was nice of Hearst to let Medda know how ya two could meet."

Pulitzer nodded. "We were the closest of friends back then! Not like...later." He blinked, shaking his head in confusion. "Why did you show me that, Ghost?"

"Oh, I'll show ya many t'ings...for example, a coitain Christmas two years after the war..." The Ghost eyes shone with something like...pity?

Understanding, Pulitzer gasped and protested. "No! I don't want to see that. I want to see this celebration." He purposefully strode towards the tent's door. The Ghost didn't motion to stop him, so he drew back the flap, stepped in...

...and found himself on the Brooklyn Bridge, in a clear, chilly night full of stars. A young couple leaned against the railing, not three feet from him. The Ghost of Christmas Past was by his side. "Watch," he said quietly. Numbly, Pulitzer looked at them, saw the young man bend down to kiss the girl, and her stepping back, hiding her face in her red hair, and drawing her purple coat closer around her.

"Joseph..." she began, "Joseph, I asked you to go for a walk for a purpose. We have to...talk, Joseph."

"Talk, darling? About what? There's nothing to talk about! Soon my apprenticeship is over and old Gerringer is going to employ me, and then we'll get married, like we planned."

"No. I will not marry man who doesn't love me."

Pulitzer's younger self seemed baffled. "B...b...but I do love you, Medda! More than anything in the world!"

She shook her head sadly. "No, not more like anything in the world. You love your work more than me, you love your success more than me, and most of all, you love your money more than me!"

He tried to calm her. "Don't be silly, Medda, just wait till we're married, than I'll show you my love...I'll buy you anything your heart desires..."

"Buy, buy, buy! Is this all you ever think about? Is this what you call love?" She drew the ring of her finger. "You're not the man I promised myself to years ago!" She hurled the ring to the ground.

Young Pulitzer grabbed for it, trying to catch it. But he was too slow, and the ring jumped through the banister and fell off the bridge, hitting the water with a final sparkle. "What HAVE you DONE? Do you know what I paid for this ring?" He turned to Medda accusingly.

She slapped him. "Listen to yourself! I just broke our engagement, and even now all that worries you is money, money, MONEY!" She twirled around and ran into he darkness, her high heels sounding ghostly on the pavement.

Young Pulitzer stared after her, flabbergasted.

So did old Pulitzer. "I never saw her again," he mumbled to the Ghost. "I've heard she runs a Vaudeville theatre now, somewhere near Broadway."

The Ghost nodded. "She nevah married," he remarked.

Pulitzer looked at him for a short, eerie moment, then turned away. "Humbug..." he mumbled quietly. "When will you leave, Ghost? Leave me in peace?"

"Soon," the Ghost said. "Real soon. But foist, dere's one more t'ing ya hafta see." He hit his crutch against the railing, and once again Pulitzer felt the world starting to swim.

He found himself in his office. A younger self - not much younger, though, perhaps a few years - was sitting on his desk. A younger Jonathon stood in front of him. "But Chief...do we have to tell them today?" He knotted his hands nervously. "It's Christmas Eve! Surely, if we tell them in two days time..."

"If we tell them in two days time, it only means I'll have to pay them two days of work I don't need! I don't need these packers anymore! The new machine does it much faster! Tell them now, and hinder them from spending money on a celebration they can not afford!"

Jonathon sighed. "Yes, Chief." He scurried off.

"Fifty men..." the Ghost sighed sadly as the younger Pulitzer bent over his work again. "Fifty men, fired on Christmas Eve."

"I had no use for them anymore!"

"Use..." the Ghost repeated, sighing. "Dat's what you always say..." He stomped his crutch on the floor again, and suddenly they were standing at the gates to the World's yard. Fifty bent and dejected man slowly walked out, some turning and shaking their fists at the building behind them, which stood high and cool, mocking their tiny gestures.

The Ghost fell into step behind one of them, a tall man with dark blond hair and freckles, who was dragging his feet as if all the sorrow of the world rested upon his shoulders.

Pulitzer followed him. "Who is this?" he asked.

The Ghost gave a short laugh. "Ya don't even know his name." He smiled sadly. "That's Donald Sullivan. He worked for ya since he came to da States from Ireland, wit' his young wife, Meggie. She was pregnant wit' deir foist son, then. He worked for ya twelve years, an' he always was one of yer best workers - always on time, never missed a day..."

Pulitzer nodded approvingly at that.

"He didn't stand by his wife during the births of their first and second son, though he wanted to, but he had to fulfill his duty..."

"Getting children if one doesn't have the money to raise them is foolishness!" Pulitzer said, busy to avoid the Ghost's searching gaze.

"Dat's all it got him. Fired after twelve years. On Christmas Eve." The Ghost sighed, and pointed to Sullivan, who entered an old shabby tavern, The Red Lion. When the light from the doorway illuminated his face, even Pulitzer shrank back from the sadness and misery in it.

"He'll go home drunk tanight," the Ghost continued. "Drunk an' despaired. He'll get furious. He'll beat his wife an' children - an' he nevah laid hand on 'em before. The mother will die foist, then the younger boy."

Pulitzer pressed his lips tightly together. "The older one?"

"Da police will drag Sullivan off to jail before he kills him, too. Da boy - twelve years old - will be left all alone in da woild."

Pulitzer mustered the pavement. "What will become of him?"

The Ghost was silent. Something in this silence forced Pulitzer to look up, into the Ghost's eyes. Recognition dawned.

"Oh."

The Ghost nodded. "Yes."

Pulitzer closed his eyes for a moment. "Ghost..." he began, but stopped when he felt the now familiar twirl of the world. He opened one only eye, peeking out, afraid of what he'd see...but he found himself alone in his bedchamber.

Fearfully, he stared at the clock. It was five to one. "But...but...that can't be! We must have been gone for more than one hour...or...or...were we gone for more than twenty-four hours? Is this the next night?" Confused, he shook his head, still staring at the clock. Had it all been a dream? For the next five minutes, he watched the hands slowly creep over the face of the clock. As the bell struck one, he fearfully looked around him -and saw nothing. "Ahh... humbug. It was a dream!" he sighed, relieved.

"G'night, yer honor. Sorry, guess I'se late."

Pulitzer whirled around. "Wh...wh...what?"

In the doorway stood another figure, white from head to toe like the first. A boy again, but much shorter, and his figures and hair Italian. He was glancing at a golden pocket watch. "Dat t'ings runnin' late again, so dat's why ya had ta wait. I's da Ghost of Christmas Present, in case ya haven't figured it out yet. I have some t'ings I want to show ya - but foist, how about a game of Blackjack?"

Pulitzer's mouth opened and closed in stunned silence.

The Ghost sighed. "Awright, I guess not. Let's go." He opened the window and stepped on thin air. "Come on, get movin'!"

Hesitantly, Pulitzer peered through the window. "I...I can't fly, Ghost!"

"Dear me! Mortals!" He sighed and took something out of his pocket.

When he shook his closed fist, Pulitzer heard a rattling sound. Suddenly, he felt himself lifted into the air for the second time this day. He slowly drifted out the window and over the town, the Ghost always a few feet ahead of him. "Ghost! L...let me down!" he called out.

The Ghost shook his head. "As a friend of mine would say, ya'd betta forget about it for a liddle while. Ain't much farther, though."

They flew over Broadway and Wallstreet, and landed in the middle of a market place, bustling and humming with activity. People were hurrying to and fro, whistling Christmas carols and wishing each other Merry Christmas. Pulitzer looked around with wonder, like seeing it all for the first time.

The Ghost of Christmas Present watched the market's hustle and bustle with a broad grin on his face, leading Pulitzer through the booths, obviously headed for a destination Pulitzer couldn't guess.

At one place, two vendors erupted in am argument over whose chestnuts were better and worthier to be sold to the hungry customers. Seeing this, the Ghost halted his step, frowned, and produced -

"Cards?" Pulitzer was baffled.

"Dere's more to 'em dan meets da eye," the Ghost assured. He drew one of them, and, with a nonchalant flick of the wrist, threw it right between the fighting vendors - who suddenly smiled at each other, hugged, and assured they'd only been joking.

Pulitzer looked back from the wondrous scene at his strange companion, but the Ghost only smiled, satisfied, and continued on his paths.

"Where are we going, Ghost?" Pulitzer asked.

"Come an' find out," the Ghost chuckled.

They continued their way over the market place and then through narrow alleys. Here and there, the Ghost halted his steps to spread out some cards, and with them the spirit of Christmas, among the people.

The Ghost finally stopped in front of a tenement building. He walked through the door - yes, right through the door, not the doorway. Pulitzer hesitated before it, staring at the wooden panel unbelieving. Suddenly a hand came through it, grabbed his tie and pulled him inside. "Dear me! Ya still don't get it, do ya? We's not a flesh-an'-bones part of da woild. Don't botha 'bout trifles like doors, all right?" He began to ascend the steps, and Pulitzer followed.

"Ghost...why can we go through the door, but don't fall through the steps?" Pulitzer asked - and noted at the same moment, in absolute horror, that his feet began to sink through the staircase.

The Ghost sighed and rolled his eyes. "Why would ya want to fall through da stairs?"

"H...help!" stammered Pulitzer as his knees sank through the step.

The Ghost turned around. "Dear me!" He grabbed Pulitzer by the collar and pulled him up. "I've got ya." Setting him down on the steps, which suddenly felt solid again, he explained, "It's all a matta of da mind, ya know? Don't think about falling through the steps and you don't. Do think of going through the door and you can."

Pulitzer nodded mutely.

"Fine. Come on now." He continued upstairs.

When they reached the fifth floor, the Ghost led him through the door of a small but clean apartment.

A woman was busy at a old, heavy iron stove, and a tall girl with long brown hair put plates and glasses on a shabby wooden table in the room's middle. There was a bed under the window, in which a little boy lay, very pale, and trembling slightly. An older boy sat by his side , wiping the little boy's forehead with a wet cloth and talking to him soothingly.

"Do ya recognize 'em?" the Ghost asked.

"Huh? No, no, I've never seen these..."

But at this moment the elder boy got up to fetch a medicine bottle from the shelf, and Pulitzer stared at him. "That's...that's this boy...David! The one who gave me so much trouble during the strike, Kelly's partner! An impossible boy. Irresponsible, without a hint of respect!"

The Ghost watched as the boy tenderly stroked the hair out of his brother's wet face, and then helped him to take some of the medicine. "Da way he's carin' for little Les dere doesn't seem very irresponsible ta me, Joe."

Pulitzer chewed his lips. "Well...well...maybe not..." he grumbled.

At this moment, the door flew open, and, with a shout of "Merry Christmas!" Mayer Jacobs stood in the doorway.

Pulitzer looked back and forth between his clerk and the eldest boy. "He...he...he is...?"

The Ghost chuckled. "Yes. Ya never knew dis when ya gave Mayer the job, huh? Well, 'Jacobs' aint' no seldom name, I'll give you dat."

Pulitzer frowned. "If I had known he was the father of this boy, I'd never..."

"Good t'ing ya didn't know, den," the Ghost grinned, and watched with a smile as Mayer greeted his family with hugs and kisses. Last, he bowed over his little son's bed. "How are you, Les?" he asked him softly, tenderly stroking his cheek.

"I...I'm fine, papa..." Les answered in a hoarse whisper. A wave of coughs shook him, shook his little body so hard he couldn't breath, so hard he nearly fell off the bed.

Mayer hugged him and stroked his back, holding him till the coughs subsided. "My poor boy..."

"I'm fine," Les repeated firmly.

Mayer placed his little son back on the pillow and tucked him in, "Brave warrior..." he whispered. Then he turned around to his wife. "Well, Esther..." he forced a smile, "How's the Christmas dinner coming along?"

Esther returned the smile, blinking to keep the tears from falling. "Very well. As soon as Sarah finishes laying the table, we can eat."

The girl quickly went to the kitchen corner, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. She took some silverware and spread it out on the table, while Esther checked on the pots a last time.

"All right, everything's ready," she smiled, carrying a plate with a turkey - a very small turkey, hardly the size of a chicken - to the table. Sarah got the bowl of potatoes, while Mayer filled the glasses - at first glance Pulitzer thought with wine, but looking at the bottle closer, he realized it was mere grape juice.

David bent over Les' bed, and the little boy slung his arms around his brother's neck and allowed himself to be lifted up and carried to his chair, where Sarah propped him up securely with two pillows, and Esther placed the warm blanket over his legs.

"What's wrong with the boy, Ghost?" Pulitzer asked, watching the proceedings.

The Ghost shrugged. "They dunno for sure. One day he got dat cough, an' nevah got rid of it again. He's gettin' weaker by the day."

"Why don't they call a doctor?" Pulitzer asked, disdain in his voice.

The Ghost laughed mirthlessly. "Ya's da one who signs Mayer's paycheck, an' still ya have to ask?"

Pulitzer mumbled something unintelligible and turned his eyes away, intently watching the family at the table.

They were cheerful and merry, laughing and telling each other of their days. Little Les was watching them happily, though he was too weak to say much himself, and every bite of the dinner was a visible struggle for him. Still, his little face was glowing with delight, and his eyes were sparkling with joy.

The older family members watched him, and smiled at him, and bestowed all the best pieces on him, and generally made him the center of attention.

When the turkey and the potatoes were finished, Esther once again went to the stove, and brought a little bowl, covered with a cloth, from which a sweet smell rose up.

"Pudding!" little Les shouted excitedly, and grabbed for a spoon with a liveliness far bigger than his weak frame suggested.

Esther smiled and uncovered the dish.

It was a tiny pudding - barely enough, Pulitzer thought, for one, and certainly not for a family of five - but none of the Jacobs mentioned the fact, or seemed even to be aware of it. They looked at it and smiled and seemed no less delighted as if a whole barrel of ice cream and chocolate mousse had been standing on their table.

Esther divided it up, giving little Les the biggest piece, an arrangement clearly appreciated by the whole family - but especially by the happy boy himself.

Little Les dug into his portion, and though it still was obviously not easy for him, devoured it with great ravish.

After the dinner, David carried his little brother back to the bed, and covered him with the blanket tenderly, while his mother and sister cleaned up the table, and Mayer tuned his fiddle.

And then the whole family gathered around little Les' bed, and Christmas Carols were sung, and stories told, and the little room was so full of happiness and joy that even Pulitzer's face began to shine with a little smile.

The Ghost watched him, and asked, with a grin. "Doesn't look like such a 'humbug' aftah all, now does it?"

Pulitzer quickly tightened his lips. "Bah! What reason have they to be merry? They can't afford it!"

"Yeah, but ya know, if they'd wait 'til they can afford it, they'd nevah be merry in all deir lives," the Ghost commented, with a sidelong glance at Pulitzer.

Pulitzer shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "Well...may be..."

"Yeah. Anyway... I'se got somethin' else ta show ya." The Ghost took a pair of dice out of his pocket. Before Pulitzer could question him, he threw them up in the air - and when he caught them again, Pulitzer found they were standing in a big room filled with bunkbeds.

"Wh...where...what..." Pulitzer stammered, looking at the teenage boys around him in confusion.

"Newsboys lodging house, Duane Street," the Ghost said, by way of explanation.

Pulitzer snorted. "Don't tell me they, too, celebrate Christmas!"

"Of course! Why wouldn't they?"

"If anyone ever really should save their money for better purposes..."

The Ghost laughed outright. "Saved money? Ya simply don't get it, huh? They'se barely makin' a livin'. Dere's nuttin' they could save, Joe, really."

"But they do buy presents for themselves, fools they are!" Pulitzer pointed to a basket in a corner, filled with toys, clothes, and candy.

"Do they?" the Ghost asked with a smile. He looked to the door, and following his gaze, Pulitzer saw a tall boy with a cowboy hat entering.

"Kelly!" he hissed.

The Ghost nodded. "Kelly. Or ratha, Sullivan. I believe ya met his fadda?"

Pulitzer looked down. "Yes... Yes," he mumbled, "the other Ghost showed me..."

"Then perhaps you shouldn't think so much about the problems he caused ya, but more - da other way 'round, don't ya think?"

Pulitzer didn't reply to this, but a thoughtful look crossed his face.

The newsies had, in the meantime, greeted Jack with cheers and hugs.

"Ditcha get one, Jack?" a short Italien boy asked.

Pulitzer looked back and forth between him and the Ghost several times in confusion, but was too wrapped up in his thoughts to ask any questions.

"Nah..." the tall boy replied, "Dey was way outta me price range."

"Too bad..." a blonde boy with an eyepatch sighed, "Les would have loved it..."

"Oh, he will," Jack replied with a smile. "He can have mine." With that, he took of his obviously much-worn cowboy hat, and placed it atop the basket of presents.

"These...are all for the little ill boy?" Pulitzer asked very quietly.

The Ghost nodded. "And ya were right - they can't afford it. Most of them just skipped a few meals to buy something. Foolish, huh?" The sarcasm he put in the last word hit Pulitzer like a blow.

"But Jack..." a quiet boy with curly hair and a tan complexion said. "Didn't ya say... I mean... dat ya was never gonna part wit' it?"

Jack shrugged. "Mush... I can always get a new one... Little Les... he..." A pained expression crossed his face. Very quietly, he continued. "He doesn't have the time."

Pulitzer gasped. "No! This little boy...he won't die, Ghost, will he? Will he?"

But the Ghost didn't even have to answer. The hushed that had fallen upon the newsies was all the reply Pulitzer needed.

"Oh no..."

The Ghost looked at him, and there was a shine of approval in his eyes.

"Well... me job here's done," he grinned, and pulled the dice out again. He threw them into the air...

...and suddenly Pulitzer found himself all alone in his bedchamber, surrounded by complete silence, and darkness.

Straining to pierce the dark with his eyes, he looked around the room nervously. "Gh...Ghost?" Is...is the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come here?"

But he heard no reply.

Sighing, he felt his way to the big armchair in the corner, and let himself sink into it. "Might as well stay awake...couldn't sleep anyway..." Gloomily, he sat in the darkness, the pictures of the last hours dancing a melancholy dance in his head.

He didn't know how long he'd sat there - had it been seconds, minutes, hours? - when he chanced to look up. With a shriek of surprise, he jumped out of his chair.

A white figure was standing right in front of him, not two feet away. Pulitzer had no idea how it got there, he sure hadn't heard or seen it come, and even the white shine of the appearance he had not noticed before his eye fell directly upon him.

The Ghost pierced Pulitzer with an incredibly intensive gaze, so intensive it forced him to look away. Then he raised a white cane with a golden top and used it to push Pulitzer back on the seat.

"A...a...are you the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come?"

The Ghost just smirked at him, and turned around, walking towards the door. Something in his air forced Pulitzer to obey an unspoken order and follow him.

"Gh...Ghost...what will you..."

But the Ghost silenced him with a short gesture of his hand, not even bothering to turn around.

Sighing, Pulitzer gave up and followed the Ghost in silence. When he reached the door, he was not surprised to feel the world begin to shift. He closed his eyes briefly, half afraid of what would be expecting him.

When he opened them again, he found himself in a dark basement, only lit by a lonely light bulb hanging from the ceiling.

"Where...where are we?" he stammered.

The Ghost didn't reply, but pointed with his cane to a big device on near the staircase.

Pulitzer looked over. "A Platenpress? Wait...that...that's my Platenpress! We're...yes...isn't this the basement under the distribution office?"

The Ghost made no motion to reply, but Pulitzer heard loud noise coming from the upper end of the staircase. Looking up, he saw a fat man and two teenage boys stomping down the stairs. They were carrying some bundles, stealthily hidden under their jackets.

"I...I know this man! He's the one who sells the papers to the newsboys! So I was right! This is my basement!"

Still, the Ghost didn't answer, but made a sharp gesture towards the group.

Pulitzer observed them quietly.

"Ha! Da old man's watch will be worth quite a deal!" the fat man laughed, pulling something from his bundle.

"An' dese chandeliers! How much do you t'ink dey'll get us, Uncle Weas?" one of the teenagers asked.

"I bet dey's worth some hundred!" the other chimed in. "An' den dere's also da bedcurtains! I'll go and sell them tomorrow and then I'll get new clothes and a girl and have a great time playing poker," he laughed.

"Morris, Shaddup!" Weasel replied. "We'll hide the stuff here fer some months, an' THEN we'll sell 'em, an' ya can do wit' your part whatever ya want. Understood?"

"Yes Uncle Weas..." the boy mumbled. The other boy laughed at him.

"An' look what I'se got!" He pulled something from his pocket.

Weasel squinted his eyes to look at it. Then he laughed. "His gold teeth? Oscar, you's great."

"I got his spectacles!" Morris offered. "Gold framed."

"Very good. Gee, one should t'ink a man of his power'd have someone who cares fer him enough ta see to it no one robs him of his ev'ry possession before his body's even cold...good for us he didn't!"

There laughing faces was the last Pulitzer saw of them, before the Ghost waved his cane and the earth once more began to shift.

He found himself in a cold room, with heavy curtains blocking out the light. Only the gaps between them allowed a dim light to slip in. The room was empty but for a bed against the front wall. A man was lying on it, face hidden in the shadows, motionless, dead. Most of his clothes seemed to have been ripped from his body, the bedsheets were missing, so were the curtains - it looked as if vultures had made a feast of an easy prey, and so they had - just, these vultures had not had wings and beaks, but sneaky feet, and fast fingers.

"Wh...why...why have you brought me here, Ghost?"

No reply.

The cold and darkness of the bedchamber rested heavily on Pulitzer. Suddenly, he felt he could not breath. In despair, he cried out: "Ghost...has this man no friend? Is there no one who...Ghost, isn't there anyone anywhere feeling anything, anything at all, about his death?"

The Ghost smirked, and nodded.

"Show me Ghost, I pray you, show me!" Pulitzer clapped his hands over his face in despair...

...and when he lowered them again, found himself in another bedchamber, where an older couple, muffled in linen nightshirts and with woolen caps upon their heads, toasted each other with bubbling champagne.

"The mayor?" Pulitzer wondered. "And his wife?"

"To you, my love."

"And to you! But...Harold, isn't it awfully mean of us celebrate the death of a good man?"

"A good man?" the husband laughed. "A good man? All the years he humiliated me, often nearly ruined me, forced me to be his slave! No darling, he deserves no better!"

Pulitzer's face was ashen. "Is this all, Ghost? The only feeling you can show me, the only emotion anyone has about his death, is joy?"

Again, the Ghost nodded.

"Has he not one friend, then? One person in all of God's creation who'll sigh and maybe squint a tear from his eye on his graveside?" He stretched his hands to the Ghost imploringly. A cold stare met his pleading gaze, and more than any words could ever have, these dark eyes showed Pulitzer that no, no one would ever weep for the deceased, or say one prayer for the resting of his soul.

"This is dreadful!" exclaimed Pulitzer. "Please, Ghost, please! Can the world be so cold? Please, tell me it's not, please! Tell me there's still love and tenderness somewhere! Show me, or I shall never be able to sleep again!"

The Ghost did not move. Pulitzer fell upon his knees. "Please Ghost, please!"

The cane's top made a short, harsh sound as it hit the floor, and presently Pulitzer found himself again in the Jacobs' small apartment.

He looked around. The room was very different from how he'd last seen it, but he could not tell why. The same old threadbare carpet, the same shabby furniture, the same small fire, the same people clustered around little Les' bed... "The bed!"

It was empty.

"Ghost...is...the little boy, is he...he was so young, so..."

The Ghost stared at him grimly.

Pulitzer stepped closer to the family. They were talking to each other in hushed voices.

"He was always so happy..." Sarah said quietly. She was clutching a woolen bunny which Pulitzer remembered sitting on the little boy's pillow.

"Yes," David added, his voice trembling. "he'd not want us to cry about his...about his..." His voice broke and he sobbed.

Mayer, who was also crying unashamedly, hugged his son. "He's at a better place now, David..."

"But we need him here!"

"I know, son...I know..." He looked at Esther and tried to send her a smile, but the tears were coming too fast now. His wife was quietly weeping into her apron.

Sarah stood up and put her arms around her mother.

"It's been months now," Esther wept, "And still I think I hear him calling to me."

"I know, mama...I...know...we all do."

"He'll always be with us, children," Mayer said quietly. "for whatever happens, we'll never, never forget our little Les! He'll always be in our hearts, won't he? Always a part of us!"

"Yes, papa! Yes!" The family huddled closer together, trying to give each other the strength each needed so much, trying to fill a gap they knew could never be filled.

Pulitzer felt an unaccustomed moistness on his cheeks. Reaching for it, he found his skin and beard wet. His vision blurred, and he realized that he was crying. Crying for another human being. He gulped, and did not attempt to wipe away the tears, nor open his mouth to say 'Humbug.' He just stood quietly, staring at the scene, until the world began to shift around him once more.

"A...a graveyard?" Pulitzer's voice trembled. He hunched his shoulders, turned his head nervously from left to right, even glanced over his shoulder. Cold monuments of marble, stone and wood surrounded him.

The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come stood by his side. Slowly, majestically, he raised his cane, and pointed the golden top at a stone, a big black grave stone a few yards from Pulitzer's right.

Pulitzer lifted his eyes to read the writing, but it was too dark, and he was standing too far off. Instinctively, he took a step towards the stone, but then hesitated, stopped and turned around, not wanting to know the name that was written there.

The Ghost made his imploring gaze sternly. His eyes were clearly conveying an order, and he was not to be moved.

"Ghost...if...before I read what's written there, tell me...are these the shadows of the things that will be, or that might be?"

The Ghost did not respond.

"Please! Please give me an answer!" Pulitzer sobbed. "Let me know there is still hope, let me..."

A dangerous fire flamed up in the Ghost's eyes, and Pulitzer no longer dared to disobey. He turned around, and slowly, very slowly, with steps like those of a much older man, approached the stone.

And there! There it was written, in big letters etched deeply into the black marvel:

"No!" Seeing what he had feared in his heart, a fear he had not wanted to acknowledge even to himself, now a horrible truth, Pulitzer fell down on his knees and wept. All the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come had shown him came floating back. The man for whom no one wept, over whose death some even rejoiced - this man had been no one but himself! Pulitzer remembered what the other ghosts had shown him, thought about all he might have done and did not do. His weeping became louder and louder, became a howling of despair and regret.

He did not know for how long he had been cowering on the ground, he could not begin to count the tears he had shed, when suddenly he realized that he was no longer in darkness. Looking up, and looking around, he found that he was not on the graveyard anymore. He was back at home, in his own bedroom, and the morning sun was shining in through the window.

Slowly, he got up and looked about himself.

"Wa...was it a dream?" But no, too clear were the memories, too vivid the pictures in his mind. "What day is it...what day...how long..." Pulitzer hastily dressed and stormed out of his room, and down the staircase, and out of the house. At the door, he met his servant, who was just coming in with a shopping basket. "What day is today?" he asked excitedly.

"S...Sir?"

"What day man, what day?"

"Why... Christmas day, Sir."

"Christmas day! I didn't miss it! The spirits can do it all in one night! Of course they can!" And with a happy shout, he stormed away, leaving a very confused servant behind.

Pulitzer ran all the way to Greely Square, too excited to use his carriage. On the way, he stopped twice, once at a butcher, to purchase "the biggest turkey available, to be send to Mayer Jacobs, I'll write down the address", and a second time at a baker's, where he bought a big plum pudding for the same purpose.

Once arrived on Greely Square, he looked about himself uncertainly. "Now where...THERE!" He shot forward to grab a little newsboy, who'd just awoken from his sleep upon the cold steps of the Greely statue. "Where're the newsies?"

"Wh...what?" The little boy stared at him with huge, frightened eyes. "We...we didn't do nuttin', Sir! We'se not strikin'! It's Christmas day! We nevah woiks on Christmas day, honest!"

Pulitzer let go of the kid. "Look, boy, I'm sorry, I did not mean to scare you. Just...I know there's a lodging house somewhere here...on Duane Street. Can you take me there?"

The boy nodded mutely.

"Good, good, there's a good fellow!" He followed the boy who'd turned round and started walking, slowly and always glancing back, as if expecting an attack. "Why don't you sleep there yourself? This statue's much too cold and dangerous for a little kid like you..."

"I ain't liddle! An'... well... I can't afford it."

Pulitzer shook his head sadly. "Of course, of course...it's always the money. Here." He pressed a five dollar note into the shocked child's hand. "That should pay your way for a while, shouldn't it?"

The boy nodded, his eyes huge. "Umm...It's the house over there. With the sign." He pointed, and, as Pulitzer turned his head, took off running, obviously not about to give the man a chance to change his mind and demand the money back.

Pulitzer chuckled. "What a clever little boy! Quick thinker." He headed towards the Lodging House and entered. There was no one in the lobby, but a choir of young voices could be heard from upstairs, singing Deck the Halls merrily. Pulitzer headed upstairs, and bashfully entered a big room - the same her remembered visiting with the Ghost. He'd only watched the singing for a moment, when one of the youngest boys noticed him. He let out a squeal of panic, pointed a finger at him and grabbed for the hand of an old man sitting close to him.

The singing stopped and everyone turned to stare at Pulitzer. After a moment of shock, the boy Pulitzer knew as Jack Kelly jumped up.

"Joe! What da heck is YA doin' here on Christmas? Can't ya leave us alone for one single day of da year?"

"Umm..." Pulitzer began. He suddenly realized that he did not really know why he had come here." "No... I just...just wanted to...umm..."

"Inform us dat da new price for the papes is seventy cents per hundred now?" a blonde boy with an eyepatch asked, frowning.

That gave Pulitzer an idea. "No! No, on the contrary! I mean, yes, the paper does have a new price..." He saw the face of every single person in the room darkening and hastened to continue, "and the new price is forty sends per hundred!"

The boys gasped.

"Ah, what am I saying, forty! I meant thirty-five! No, thirty! How does thirty sound?" Pulitzer beamed at the boys.

"Umm...Joe...are ya all right?" Jack asked tentatively.

"Oh yes, yes! I've never been better in all my life!"

"An' ya's serious?" asked a tall boy with a crutch, who reminded Pulitzer eerily of the Ghost of Christmas Past. He blinked at him for a moment in confusion.

"Yes...yes...why would I lie?"

"So...where's the catch?" a big newsie in a pink shirt asked, watching Pulitzer full of distrust.

"There is none! I just want to make your lives a little easier!" There was so much honesty and joy in Pulitzer's voice that the boys finally believed him. Cheers and whistles filled the room.

"Well, Joe...what can I say...t'anks." Jack offered his hand, which Pulitzer shook elatedly.

"My pleasure, my pleasure, but now lets go and have a party!"

"Party...um...like...your treat?" Jack asked, his eyes wide.

"Sure, sure, a big party for my most important employees!"

The boy with the eyepatch grinned and jumped up. "Great! Where?"

"Umm...well...I don't...I don't know. Where do you usually celebrate?"

Everyone shouted at once "Medda's!"

Pulitzer froze. "Medda's...umm...Medda's..."

"Is dat a problem, Joe?" Jack asked, puzzled.

Pulitzer stared at the floor for a moment. When he looked back up, his decision was made. "No, not at all. Let's go to Medda's!"

With a howl of joy, the boys stormed out of the door. Pulitzer and the old man, who introduced himself as Kloppman, owner of the lodging house, had to struggle to keep up with them. When the theatre came in view, Pulitzer hesitated again.

"Anyt'in' wrong, Joe?" Jack sounded genuinely worried.

"No..."

"Hey, Jack!" A curly-haired boy approached.

"Yes, Mush?"

"Shouldn't we send someone ta Dave's so he an' his family can join da party."

"Shoot, ya's right. Could ya..."

"No!" Pulitzer interjected quickly. "No, don't!"

"But dey's our friends, we'd like ta have them with us, plus, they need..."

"Nonono! They're provided for, believe me."

Jack shrugged. "Okay. Ya's da host, after all."

They entered the building, and were met by a tall woman in a pink and purple dress. Pulitzer involuntarily took a step back - she still looked so much like she had on this cold Christams evening on the bridge.

"Medda..." he whispered.

She looked up from where she'd been hugging and kissing newsies. "Joe! What are you..."

He hesitated, not knowing what too say. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jack looking back and forth between them, obviously sensing their uneasiness.

"Umm... yeah" the newsie leader spoke up. "Joe's kind enough to sponsor us a Christmas party here in dis fine establishment. So, ya can close down fer all da udda guest Mr. Pulitzer here'll gladly pay whatever it costs, right?"

Pulitzer nodded mutely.

After a moment of confusion, Medda smiled. "All right. How nice of you." She instructed Tony to close down the main door and let the newsies into the big hall. "I was planning on having an open party for whatever customer might stroll in, but of course I much rather celebrate with my favorite boys," she smiled. With a glance at Pulitzer she added. "Maybe we can have a little chat later, over a glass of punch?"

Pulitzer nodded, the smile returning to his face. "Sure!" he said elatedly.

"Splendid! But first - I have some songs to sing!" With that, Medda jumped on the stage and gave her guests a potpourri of all her favorite songs.

The party lasted till late at night. All the newsies agreed that this had been the best celebration since they won the strike - a statement Pulitzer commented with a quiet chuckle. His mood, enthusiastic from the beginning, had become better and better all evening - some said he particularly brightened up after the 'little chat' he'd had with the Swedish Meadowlark.

The next morning, Pulitzer hurried to be at his office even earlier than usual. He was giddy with the hope to catch Mayer Jacob's being late. And indeed - Mayer's celebration with the family had, because of the anonymous presents, taken longer than the poor man had originally intended, and so he arrived nearly half an hour after the appointed time.

Pulitzer greeted him with a stern look, hiding the grin he could not suppress behind the morning paper. "Well?"

"I...I...I'm sorry, Sir! I promise it won't happen again! I'll stay longer today, chief! An hour! Two!"

Pulitzer slapped his desk with his flat hand. "You're late, man. Half an hour. Thirty minutes of MY precious time. Can you deny it?"

"N...no, Chief."

"You do of course realize that leaves me but one choice?"

Mayer hung his head. "Yes, Chief."

"Very well. So I will do the only thing left to me and...raise your salary."

Mayer looked up, his mouth and eyes wide open. "S...Sir?"

Pulitzer couldn't withhold his laughter any longer. Tears of merriment sprang to his eyes. "I'll raise your salary, man! Double, no triple it. How does that sound?"

Mayer looked at him, blinked, blinked again, and finally stammered. "Th... thank you, Chief."

"Oh, don't thank me, you deserve it." Pulitzer beamed. "Oh, and this boy of yours, little Les..."

"Y...Yes, Chief?"

"Would it suit you if I sent my private doctor by later today to decide upon the best therapy for the poor kid? Perhaps all he needs are a few weeks in the mountains! I'd be happy to provide that for him. And you wife, and Sarah...in short, all of you."

Mayer's face was one big question mark. "Ah...aha..."

"Yes! When was the last time I gave you a few weeks off?"

"N...never, Chief."

"See?" Pulitzer chuckled. "I knew it was high time. So, would it suit you?"
'
"S...sure, Sir... It'd suit me fine..."

"Good, good! Then go on home, and spend some time with your family! It's Boxing day, who'd want to work?" With a smile, Pulitzer waved him off, and, after the very confused Mayer had departed, left the office himself, wandering in the direction of Broadway...

Pulitzer was true to his word. The best doctors available worked together to make little Les the happy young boy he used to be. They were at liberty to use any therapy they deemed necessary, no matter how expensive. Little Les and his family soon could afford to rent a little house in a much greener area of New York, and all three children returned to school.

Pulitzer did not forget the newsies, either. In addition to the lower prices they had to pay for their papers now, he founded a lot of new lodging houses where they could live for free, and appointed Kloppman to oversee all of them. In the evenings, the newsies could attend free school classes or learn crafts, and the most talented ones among them got college scholarships from Mr. Pulitzer. And of course there were the big celebrations Pulitzer sponsored every Christmas, for all the newsies, factory workers, sweat shop kids and everyone in need in the whole city.

In just a short while, Pulitzer became widely known as a man who really knew the joys of sharing, and had made his fellow creatures the true center of his life.
May this be truly said of us, and all of us. And, as little Les would say "Carryin' the Banner!"