by A. A. Milne
Hetherington drew a long sigh of relief.
* * *
"I guess this is worth cigars for the house, sergeant," he said. "I'll[24] send 'em round to-morrow—meanwhile, how about—how about the other?"
* * *
"He's gone to the hospital," said the sergeant, grimly. "The doctor says he wasn't drunk—just another case of freezing starvation."
* * *
"Starvation? And I guyed him! Great God!" muttered Hetherington to himself.
Chapter 3
"Narrow escape, Mr. Hetherington," said the sergeant. "Ought to be a lesson to you sports. What was your game, anyhow?"
* * *
"Oh, it wasn't any game—" began Hetherington.
* * *
"Huh! Just a case of too much lunch, eh?" said the officer. "You'd had as much too much as the other feller'd had too little—that it?"
* * *
"No," said Hetherington. "Just a general lack of confidence in my fellow-men, plus a cussed habit of butting into matters that aren't any of my business; but I'm glad I butted in, just the same, if I can be of any earthly use to that poor devil of a Santa Claus. Do you suppose there's any way to find out who he is?"
* * *
"Well, we've made a good start, anyhow," said the sergeant. "We've found out who he isn't. When he comes to in the mornin', if he does, maybe he'll be able to help us identify him."
* * *
"To-morrow!" murmured Hetherington. "And who knows but he's got a family waiting for him somewhere right now, and as badly off as he is."
* * *
"Ye dropped this, sir," said Larry, the officer off duty. "It come out of the red coat—mebbe it'll help—"
* * *
He handed Hetherington the crumpled piece of paper that had fallen to the floor when he tore Santa Claus's cloak from his back. It was sadly dirty, but on one side of it was a childish scrawl in pencil. Hetherington ran over it rapidly, and gulped.
* * *
"Read that, sergeant!" he said, huskily.
* * *
The sergeant read the following:
* * *
""DEAR SANDY CLORS:—my Popper says hell hand you this here leter when he sees you to ast you not to fergit me and jimmy like you did last yeer. you aint been to see me an jimmy since popper lost his Jobb and he says its becoz you lost our adres so ime ritin to tell you weve moved since you come the lass time and am now livin now on the Topp flor of fore 69 varrick streete noo york which youd ort not to find it hard to git down the chimbley bein on the topp flor closte to the roofe so i thort ide rite and tell you what me and jimmyd like to hav you bring us wenn you come. I nede some noo shues and a hatt and my lasst dol babys all wore out and sum candy if you can work it in sumhow, not havin had much since popper lost his jobb, and jimmies only gott one mitt left and his shues is wore throo like mine is only a little worser, and a baseball batt and hed like sum candy to. if there wass anything lefft ovvur for us from lass crissmis wich you dident kno ware to find us to giv it to us we wuddent mind havin that two but you needent mind about that if its misslayde we can git along all rite all rite on whot ive sed alreddy. ime leven and jimmies nine and we hope youl hav a mery crismiss like wede hav if youd come to see us.
* * *
"yure efexinite frend mary muligan.
* * *
"p. s dont fergit the adres topp flor 469 varrick strete noo york. take back chimbley middel floo."
* * *
"I'm sorry to say, Mr. Hetherington," said the sergeant, clearing his throat with vociferous unction, "that the town's full of Mary and Jimmie Mulligans—but, anyhow, I guess this is good enough evidence for me to scratch out your name and enter the record under James Mulligan."
* * *
"Thank you, sergeant," said Hetherington, gratefully. "And it's good enough evidence for me that this town needs a Santa Claus a blooming sight more than I thought it did. What time is it?"
* * *
"Seven-thirty," replied the sergeant.
* * *
"Good!" said Hetherington. "Shops don't close till ten—I guess I've got time. Good night—see you first thing in the morning. Come along, chauffeur, I'll need you for some time yet."
* * *
"Good night, Mr. Hetherington," said the sergeant. "Where are you bound in case I need you any time?"
* * *
"Me?" said Hetherington with a grin, "why, my address is 561 Fifth Avenue, but just now I'm off to do my Christmas shopping early."
* * *
And resuming possession of his own hat and overcoat, and taking the Santa Claus costume under his arm, Hetherington passed out, the chauffeur following.
* * *
"These New York sports is a queer bunch!" said the sergeant as Hetherington disappeared.
Chapter 4
At half-past nine down-town was pretty well deserted, which made it easy for the chauffeur of a certain red taxi-cab to make fairly good time down Broadway; and when at nine-forty-five the panting mechanism drew up before the grim walls of a brick tenement, numbered 469 Varick Street, the man on the box was commendably proud of his record.
* * *
"That was goin' some, sir," he said, with a broad grin on his face. "I don't believe it's ever been done quicker outside o' the fire department."
* * *
"I don't believe it has, old man," said Hetherington as he alighted. "Now if you'll help me up-stairs with these packages and that basket there, we'll bring this affair to a grand-stand finish."
* * *
The two men toiled slowly up the stairs, Hetherington puffing somewhat with the long climb; and when finally they had reached the top floor he arrayed himself in the once despised garb of Santa Claus again. Then he knocked at the door. The answer was immediate. A white-faced woman opened the door.
* * *
"Jim!" she cried. "Is it you?"
* * *
"No, madam," replied Hetherington. "It's a friend of Jim's. Fact is, Mrs. Mulligan, Jim has—"
* * *
"There's nothin' happened to Jim, has there?" she interrupted.
* * *
"Nothing at all, madam, nothing at all," said Hetherington. "The work was a little too much for him to-day—that's all—and he keeled over. He's safe, and comfortable in the—well, they took him to the hospital, but don't you worry—he'll be all right in a day or two, and meanwhile I'm going to look after you and the kiddies."
* * *
The chauffeur placed the basket inside the door.
* * *
"You'll find a small turkey, and some—er—some fixings in it, Mrs. Mulligan," said Hetherington. "Whatever ought to go with a turkey should be there, and—er—have the kiddies gone to bed?"
* * *
"Poor little souls, they have," said the woman.
* * *
"Well, just you tell 'em for me," said Hetherington, "that Santa Claus received little Mary's letter, will you, please? And—er—and if they don't mind a very late call like this, why I'd like to see them."
* * *
The woman looked anxiously into Hetherington's eyes for a moment, and then she tottered and sat down.
* * *
"You're sure there's nothin' the matter with Jim, sir?" she asked.
* * *
"Absolutely, Mrs. Mulligan," Hetherington answered. "It's exactly as I have told you. The cold and hunger were too much for him, but he's all right, and I'll guarantee to have him back here inside of forty-eight hours."
* * *
"I'll call the childer," said Mrs. Mulligan.
* * *
Two wide-eyed youngsters shortly stood in awed wonder before their strange visitor, never doubting for a moment that he was Santa Claus himself.
* * *
"How do you do, Miss Mulligan?" said Hetherington, with a courtly bow to the little tot of a girl. "I received your letter this afternoon, and was mighty glad to hear from you again, but I've been too busy all day to
write you in return, so I thought I'd call and tell you that it's all right about those shoes, and the hat, and the new doll-baby, and the things for Jimmie. Fact is, I've brought 'em with me. Reginald," he added, turning to the chauffeur, who stood grinning in the doorway, "just unfasten that bundle of shoes, will you, while I get Jimmie's new mitts and the base-ball bat?"
* * *
"Yes, sir," said the chauffeur, suiting his action to the orders, and with a right good will that was pleasant to see.
* * *
"Reginald is my assistant," said Santa Claus. "Couldn't get along without Reginald these days—very busy days they are—so many new kiddies in the world, you know. There, Jimmie—there's your bat. May you score many a home-run with it. Here's a ball, too—good thing to have a ball to practise with. Some day you'll be a Giant, perhaps, and help win the pennant. Incidentally, James, old boy, there's a box of tin soldiers in this package, a bag of marbles, a select assortment of tops, and a fur coat; just try that cap on, and see if you can tell yourself from a Brownie."
* * *
The children's eyes gleamed with joy, and Jimmie let out a cheer that would have aroused the envy of a college man.
* * *
"You didn't mention it in your note, Mary, dear," continued Santa Claus, turning to the little girl, "but I thought you might like to cook a few meals for this brand-new doll-baby of yours, so I brought along a little stove, with a few pots and pans and kettles and things, with a small china tea-set thrown in. This ought to enable you to set her up in housekeeping; and then when you go to school I have an idea you'll find this little red-riding-hood cloak rather nice—only it's navy blue instead of red, and it looks warm."
* * *
Hetherington placed the little cloak with its beautiful brass buttons and its warm hood over the little girl's shoulders, while she stood with her eyes popping out of her head, too delightedly entranced to be able to say a word of thanks.
* * *
"Don't forget this, sir," said the chauffeur, handing Hetherington a package tied up in blue ribbons.
* * *
"And finally," said Hetherington, after thanking Reginald for the reminder, "here is a box of candy for everybody in the place. One for Mary, one for Jimmie, one for mother, and one for popper when he comes home."
* * *
"Oh thank you, thank you, thank you!" cried the little girl, throwing herself into Hetherington's arms. "I knowed you'd come—I did, I did, I did!"
* * *
"You believed in old Santa Claus, did you, babe?" said Hetherington, huskily, as the little girl's warm cheek pressed against his own.
* * *
"Yes, I did—always," said the little girl, "though Jimmie didn't."
* * *
"I did so!" retorted Jimmie, squatting on the floor and shooting a glass agate at a bunch of miggles across the room. "I swatted Petey Halloran on the eye on'y yesterday for sayin' they wasn't no such person."
* * *
"And you did well, my son," said Hetherington. "The man or boy that says there isn't any Santa Claus is a—is a—well, never you mind, but he is one just the same."
* * *
And bidding his little friends good night, Hetherington, with the chauffeur close behind him, left them to the joys of the moment, with a cheerier dawn than they had known for many weary days to follow.
Chapter 5
"Good night, sir," said the chauffeur, as Hetherington paid him off and added a good-sized tip into the bargain. "I didn't useter believe in Santa Claus, sir, but I do now."
* * *
"So do I," said Hetherington, as he bade the other good night and lightly mounted the steps to his house.
The House of The Seven Santas
John Kendrick Bangs
The House of The Seven Santas
FOR once the weather bureau had scored a good, clean hit. The bull's-eye was pierced squarely in the middle, and the promised blizzard falling upon the city at noon held the metropolis completely in its grip. Everything in the line of public transportation in and out of the town was tied up so tightly that it did not seem possible that it would ever be unraveled again. The snow was piling waist high upon the streets, and the cutting winds played their fantastic pranks with a chill and cruel persistence.
* * *
It was with great difficulty that Dobbleigh made his way into the Grand Central Railway Station. Like other suburban commuters at Christmas time, he was heavily laden with bundles of one kind and another. He fairly oozed packages. They stuck out of the pockets of his heavy ulster. A half dozen fastened together with a heavy cord he carried in his right hand, and some were slung about his shoulders, and held there by means of a leathern strap. The real truth was that Dobbleigh had been either too busy, or had forgotten the wise resolutions of the autumn, and had failed to do his Christmas shopping early, with the result that now, on Christmas Eve, he was returning to the little Dobbleighs with a veritable Santa Claus' pack, whose contents were designed to delight their eyes in the early hours of the coming morning.
* * *
It was with a great sense of relief that he entered the vast waiting room of the station, and shook the accumulated snow from his coat, and removed the infant icicles from his eyes, but his joy was short-lived. Making his way to the door, he paused to wish the venerable doorman a Merry Christmas.
* * *
"Fierce night, Hawkins," he said, as he readjusted his packages. "I shall be glad enough to get home."
* * *
The old man shook his head dubiously.
* * *
"I'm afraid you won't enjoy that luxury to-night, Mr. Dobbleigh," he said. "We haven't been able to get a train out of here since one o'clock, and the way things look now there won't be any business at this stand for twenty-four hours, even if we have luck."
* * *
"What's that?" returned Dobbleigh. "You don't mean to say—"
* * *
"No trains out to-night, sir," said the doorman. "The line's out of commission from here to Buffalo, anyhow, and nobody knows what's going on west of there. The wires are down, and we're completely shut off from the world."
* * *
Dobbleigh gave a long, low whistle.
* * *
"By Jove, Hawkins," he muttered ruefully. "That's tough."
* * *
"Kind o' hard on the kiddies, eh?" said the old doorman sympathetically.
* * *
"Mighty hard," said Dobbleigh, with a catch in his voice. "No chance of anything—not even a freight?" he went on anxiously.
* * *
"Couldn't pull a feather through with thirty locomotives," was the disheartening response. "I guess it's the hotel for yours to-night, sir."
* * *
Dobbleigh turned away, and pondered deeply for a few moments. Taking care of himself for the night was not, under the circumstances, a very difficult proposition, for his club was not far away, so that he was not confronted with the uncomfortable prospect of sleeping on the benches of the railway station, but the idea of the little Dobbleighs not finding their treasures awaiting them on the morrow, to say nothing of the anxiety of Mrs. Dobbleigh over his non-arrival, was, to say the least, disconcerting.
* * *
"Oh, well," he said philosophically, after going over the pros and cons of the situation carefully, "what's the use of worrying? What must be must be, and I'll have to make the best of it."
* * *
He buttoned his heavy coat up snugly about his neck, and, seizing his bundles with a firmer grip, wished the old doorman a good night, and went out again into the storm. Fifteen minutes later, looking more like a snowman than an ordinary human being, he entered the club, and, if it be true that misery finds comfort in company, he was not doomed to go without consolation. There were five other fellow-sufferers there trying to make the best of it.
* * *
"Hello, Dobby," cried his friend and neighbor, Grantham. "What's happened to you—a
n eighteen-karat family man spending his Christmas Eve at a club? Shame on you!"
