The officer looked up again, surprised. “I would that, sir, first-rate,” he answered heartily.
Mr. Broadstreet stepped to the side door and pressed the electric knob.
“Bring out a good cup of coffee for this man,” he said to the girl who answered the bell. “And, officer, buy the folks at home a trifle for me; Christmas, you know.” As he spoke, he put a big silver dollar into the astonished policeman’s hand, and at the same time the Shadow vanished, leaving the light from the bright, warm hall falling fairly upon the snow-covered cap and buttons.
A muffled roll and jingling of bells made themselves heard above the wind, and a street-car came laboring down the street through the heavy drifts. Mr. Broadstreet, without a thought as to the destination of the car, but impelled by some unseen force, clambered upon the rear platform. The conductor was standing like a snowman, covered with white from head to foot, collar up around his ears, and hands deep in his pockets. And the Shadow was there again. Broad and gloomy, it surrounded both conductor and passenger in its bleak folds.
“Tough night, sir,” remarked the former, presently.
“Yes, yes, it is, indeed,” replied Mr. Broadstreet, who was thinking what in the world he could give this man, except money. “And Christmas Eve, too!”
“That’s a fact,” said the conductor. “Just the luck of it, I say. Now to-morrow I get four hours lay-off in the afternoon, and my wife, she was planning to take the children and go to the play. But they’re none of ’em over strong, and ’t won’t do to take ’em out in this snow. Besides, like’s not ’twill storm all day.”
“Children?” exclaimed Mr. Broadstreet, seeing a way out of his difficulty; “how many?”
“Two girls and a boy, all under seven.”