Mr. Broadstreet patted the shoulder gently. “Come, come,” he said, trying to speak cheerily; “it isn’t so bad as that, you know. Times are better, and there’s plenty of work.”
“Work!” cried the man bitterly. “Yes, for the friends of the rich; for the young and strong; for the hopeful, but not for me. I tell you, sir,” he continued, raising his clenched fist until the ragged sleeve fell back and left his long, gaunt wrist bare in the biting wind, “I’ve walked from end to end of Boston, day after day, answering every advertisement, applying for any kind of honorable employment; but not even the city will take me to shovel snow in the streets, and I’m discouraged, discouraged.”
To Mr. Broadstreet’s dismay, the poor fellow suddenly hid his face in his hands, and broke down in a tempest of sobs.
Ah, how dark the Shadow was then! The storm had ceased, but the keen northwest wind still swept the streets, filling the air with fine, icy particles of snow, and driving to their warm homes those who had remained down town to make their last purchases.
The man shivered and sobbed by turns, and was quite the sport of the wind, which was buffeting him with its soft, cruel paws; when suddenly the world seemed to grow warmer. He felt something heavy and soft upon his back and around his neck. Mechanically thrusting his arms through the sleeves which opened to meet them, and looking up in amazement, he beheld his new friend standing upon the sidewalk in his dressing-gown, a genial smile upon his beaming face, and his hand outstretched. The lawyer laughed gleefully at his consternation.
“It’s all right,” he said, as the Discouraged Man tried to pull off the ulster and return it to its owner. “I’m warmer than ever. Come on, let’s go home and see your wife and children. Don’t stop to talk!” and seizing the other by the hand, or rather the cuff of his sleeve, which was much too long for him, he hurried him off, snatching a couple of wreaths from the stand as he went by, and dropping a half-dollar in their place.
It was a strange experience for the proud lawyer, that walk through the dark streets, floundering among snow-drifts, slipping, tumbling, scrambling along over icy sidewalks and buried crossings, the long-skirted gown flapping about his heels in the most ridiculous way. He kept his eyes steadily fixed on the Shadow, which was always before him, now turning down a side street, now doubling on itself, ever growing more and more distinct, and drawing its two followers farther and farther into the lowest quarter of the city. The stars were out now, and seemed to flicker in the fierce wind like the gas lights upon the street corners. Mr. Broadstreet felt curiously warm without his ulster and as light-hearted as a boy.
As they passed through the most brilliantly-lighted streets, however, he saw much that filled him for the moment with sadness. For the Shadow now grew enormously large, and rested upon many places. It brooded darkly over the brilliant saloons that lined the way, and that clothed themselves in the very garments of Christmas to attract the innocent and foolish, so that, drawn by the sheen of holly and evergreen, and the show of festivities and good cheer, they might enter and find their own destruction. Oftentimes, too, the Shadow flitted along the street in company with some man or woman who to all outward appearance was calm and content with life; perhaps even happy, one would have said. In the black folds of the Shadow, brutal-faced ruffians hid their bleared eyes; houses were draped as in some time of national mourning; once, the slight, pretty figure of a young girl came up, wearing the Shadow flauntingly about her neck, like a scarf; she stopped, and seemed about to address Mr. Broadstreet with bold words. As she met his kind, pitying glance, however, her own eyes fell, her lips quivered, she drew the Shadow about her face and fled. Alas! he could do nothing for such as her, unless that gentle, fatherly face should come before her again, in her solitude, and, by its silent eloquence, lead her to better things.