II
As soon as Mr. Broadstreet recovered himself and cleared his eyes from the blinding snow, he saw a heavy, black Shadow on the sidewalk enveloping his own person and resting upon the figure of a man who had evidently just sheltered himself behind the high stone steps, for his footprints leading from the street were still quite fresh. As the man thrashed his arms and stamped vigorously, to start the blood through his benumbed feet, a bright button or two gleamed upon his breast through the cape of his greatcoat. Mr. Broadstreet now recognized him as the policeman whose beat it was, and whom he had occasionally favored with a condescending nod, as he came home late at night from the theater or the club. He had never addressed him by so much as a word, but now the Shadow was full upon him, and Mr. Broadstreet felt that here was his first opportunity.
“Good-evening, officer!” he shouted cheerily, through the storm. “Wish you a Merry Christmas to-morrow.”
“Thank you, sir; same to you,” replied the other, with a touch of the cap and a pleased glance at the great man. “Hard times for the boys to-night, though.”
“It is hard,” said Mr. Broadstreet compassionately. “And you’re rather cold, I suppose?” he added awkwardly, after a pause.
“Rather!”
“Why, bless me,” a bright thought striking him, “wouldn’t you like a cup of hot coffee, now?”