Upon the street-cars Mr. Broadstreet became famous that winter for his obliging manner and pleasant ways with the employees. Indeed, he more than once persisted in remaining on the platform with the conductor at the imminent risk of freezing his ears and nose, until he was fairly driven within doors.
Down town he behaved still more queerly, leaving the office long before dark, and being discovered in the oddest places imaginable; now diving into narrow courts, and up steep staircases, now plunging into alleyways and no thoroughfares; and returning home late to dinner, greatly exhausted, with little or no money in his pockets. In these days, too, he began to talk about the sufferings of the poor, the abuses of the liquor law, the need of strong, pure women to go among the outcasts of our great, troubled city and perform Christlike deeds.
One bitter cold night he was much later than usual. It had been snowing heavily, and his wife had begun to worry a little over the absence of her husband, when she heard the click of his key in the front door. When Mr. Broadstreet entered, sprinkled with snow from head to foot, what was her amazement to see him standing there with fur cap and gloves, and a glowing face, but no ulster!
“Alonzo, Alonzo,” she cried, from the head of the stairs, “what will you forget next? Where have you left it?”
“Why,” said he simply, “I’ve found the Discouraged Man. And the doctor at the hospital says she’ll get well, after all.”
