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.