"Right you are, Santa Claus," said the sergeant, opening the envelope and taking out the delicately scented sheet of paper within. "I'll give you two guesses at the name signed to this, and if you get it right once I'll give you the coat, and Mr. Hetherington Number One in our evening's consignment of Hetheringtons gets re-christened."
"'Anita'!" growled Hetherington.
"You win!" said the sergeant, handing over the letter.
Hetherington drew a long sigh of relief.
"I guess this is worth cigars for the house, sergeant," he said. "I'll 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.
III
"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.