Work Title

Spikey Evans


Myron Scarbrough


In the afternoons, before most of The Sun's staff had come to work, the windows of the sports room were tightly shut and the radiator sizzled merrily. The room was hot to a point well beyond mere discomfort, and the copy boy with the two o'clock mail or the occasional match-maker with his notice of a boxing tournament never tarried long in its unwholesome atmosphere.

While the torrid room and its stagnant air drove copy boy and match-maker from its tropic-Iike confines in short order, it never got the best of Spikey Evans. Spikey was human, and he knew when he was hot and when he was cold, when he had air and when he didn't. He could open a window when he thought one should be opened, and he could turn a radiator's valve when he thought the valve ought to be turned. But when he was in this particular room, miserable though it was, he was oblivious of the stagnant air and the sizzling radiator. He was in a world apart from the world of the copy boy or the match-maker or the radiator.



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