The first time I met Jimmy (not his real name), he was selling newspapers on the corner of Fourth Street and Broadway in Santa Monica. I was on my way home from work. As I reached the intersection, he approached me eagerly and flashed a quick smile from his grimy face that beamed right into my heart.

"Here's your paper, Mister," he said, as he thrust the Evening Outlook into my hand. I couldn't resist his appeal. I took the paper and gave him a coin. He beamed me one more smile of thanks and dashed across the street to sell another paper.

This boy was a ragamuffin, if there ever was one. His freckled face was dirty, and his head was covered with uncut, tousled hair the color of straw. His toes stuck out of the holes in canvas shoes laced with pieces of string.

His soiled corduroy trousers were frayed at the bottoms and torn at the knees. His shirt was buttonless and tucked carelessly into the top of of his pants, one side flapping in the breeze as he ran. His pants were held up by a piece of string instead of a belt. He looked as though he had never seen soap and water.

I thought about him all the way home. I knew I felt sorry for him, but my feelings were more than that.

He needed my help.

I have always enjoyed working with boys and was working with them at the time in Scouting and church. I had great faith in boys and their inherent goodness.

This boy kept popping up in my mind. I had the urge to do something for him. By five o'clock the next day, I had a tentative plan. I again walked down Fourth Street. The boy was there. This time I gave him a smile as he approached, and when he handed me a paper, I asked his name. He accepted the coin before he replied, "Jimmy."

In a voice as warm and friendly as I could make it, I asked how old he was. He hesitated, then looked me squarely in the eye and answered, "I'm 12. Why?"

"Well, I like you, Jimmy, and I'm interested in you. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

He hesitated, "What about?"

"Tell me, Jimmy, where do you live?"

He pointed vaguely to the north. "On Tenth Street." This was not very specific, but I let it pass.

I gave him a level look and said, "Jimmy, how would you like to be a Boy Scout?" He looked at me as if he could hardly believe his ears. Then he glanced down at his ragged clothing and spoke in a bantering tone. "In these clothes — are you kidding?

That's a laugh." But I had seen a gleam in his eyes. I caught his interest, though he tried not to show it.

I knew I would have to do some fast thinking to sell myself to this lad. But if I were going to make the sale, it had to be now.