The doctor felt in his pocket for the last evening's paper, which he had taken the precaution to carry with him, and silently pointed out the paragraph he had read the night before.
Mr. Hardy nodded understandingly. "I don't see why you shouldn't have them," he replied finally; "I'll get them for you, doc, if it's possible," and, leaving the office, he presently returned with about half a dozen letters, which he handed to his friend. "There you are," he said. "No need to ask what you're going to do with them. It's just like the things you used to do when we were lads. It takes me back to the old days when Christmas comes around. Come up and see us, doc; the latch string is always out," and he turned to his desk, as the doctor with his budget left the room.
The latter went directly to his club, and opened the funny, smudgy little notes. Some of them printed; some sprawled across a wide page, some very zig-zag and uncertain.
"Don't, good Santa Claus, forget our corner," read one, "20uth and Purl street, if you can't git down the chimney cause they are reggyters come in the window, we'll leave it a little bit open so you can hist it easy.
"Bob."
"That youngster's all right," nodded the doctor. "I know the locality, and there's not a doubt but that his stocking will be well-filled."
The next was printed.
"I am a good girl bring me the doll. Fill wants a bow narrow,"
—but there was no address, and this, too, was laid aside.
Then came a queer little, half-printed, half-written epistle: