"Every year, about Christmas time, a number of letters find their way to the Post Office; they are variously addressed to Santa Claus, Kris Kringle, or St. Nicholas, and are the outcome of childish faith. One is forced to wonder how often they must be followed by disappointment, since there can appear no claimant for them."
The doctor, we have said, read the paragraph twice over, and then, lowering his paper, sat looking thoughtfully into the fire. After a while a smile broke over his face, and he returned to his sheet. But the smile did not leave his lips till he extinguished the light and went to his room, leaving the sleeping Kittyboy curled up on the hearth-rug in a condition of delicious warmth and comfort.
When, the next morning, at the sight of buckets and brooms brought in by the housemaid, Kittyboy scampered out, it was to find refuge in the dining-room, just as the doctor opened the door to go to his breakfast. This time Kittyboy was not driven out, for the cheery waitress said, "It brings good luck, doctor, sorr, to have a cat come to the house, especially a black cat." And by the time the doctor had finished, indulgently feeding Kittyboy with bits from his own plate, and Kittyboy had responded by such antics as kept the doctor laughing, it was an understood thing that the little cat was fairly adopted into the family.
The invasion of a common little street cat into the bachelor's household quite scandalized the good housekeeper, who could not get it out of her head that Kittyboy had in some way purloined the cream, but, said the cheerful Maggie, "It's far too quiet here to suit me, and the doctor actually ate his breakfast this morning without the paper at his elbow. I certainly am glad to see some sort of a young creature about the house." The housekeeper gave a sniff, but even she smiled furtively a moment later at sight of Kittyboy wildly chasing his tail.
Buttoning himself up well in his overcoat, the doctor, after breakfast, took his way down town, and went straight to the city Post Office. He did not stop as he passed through the long corridor till he reached the private office of the Postmaster himself.
"Hello, Brewster, what brings you here so early?" questioned that worthy, looking up from his desk. "Haven't any complaints to make about Uncle Sam's mail, have you? Don't be too hard on us if things aren't just on time. There is a great rush from now till after the holidays, and you old bachelors are so methodical that, if a letter is a minute and a quarter late, you think the entire Post Office system is tottering. Sit down."
"No," replied the doctor. "I didn't come to complain, Hardy, I came to see if I could collect the mail for Santa Claus."
Mr. Hardy put down his pen, and stared at his visitor. "What are you driving at, anyhow?" he asked. "Oh, I see; some charity Christmas tree, or something. How much will let me off, doc?"
The doctor smiled. "I'm not on that errand at all. I simply want to know if it is possible to have any letters, now lying in this office, addressed to Santa Claus, delivered to me?"
Mr. Hardy looked thoughtful for a moment. "Are there any such letters?" he then asked.