"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.
IV
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.