Ten minutes later a passing taxi was hailed by a shivering gentleman
carrying an iron pot full of pennies and nickels and an occasional
quarter in one hand, and a turkey-red coat, trimmed with white cotton
cloth, thrown over his arm. Strange to say, considering the inclemency
of the night, he wore neither a hat nor an overcoat.
"Where to, sir?" queried the chauffeur.
"The police-station," said Hetherington. "I don't know where it is, but
the one in this precinct is the one I want."
"Ye'll have to pay by the hour to-night, sir," said the chauffeur. "The
station ain't a half-mile away, sir, but Heaven knows how long it'll
take us to get there."
"Charge what you please," retorted Hetherington. "I'll buy your darned
old machine if it's necessary, only get a move on."
The chauffeur, with some misgivings as to the mental integrity of his
fare, started on their perilous journey, and three-quarters of an hour
later drew up in front of the police-station, where Hetherington, having
been compelled in self-defense to resume the habiliments of Santa Claus
under penalty of freezing, alighted.
"Just wait, will you?" he said, as he alighted from the cab.
"I'll go in with you," said the chauffeur, acting with due caution. He
had begun to fear that there was a fair chance of his having trouble
getting his fare out of a very evident lunatic.
Utterly forgetful of his appearance in his festal array, Hetherington
bustled into the station, and shortly found himself standing before the
sergeant behind the desk.
"Well, Santa Claus," said the official, with an amused glance at the
intruder, "what can I do for you to-night? There ain't many rooms with a
bath left."
Hetherington flushed. He had intended to greet the sergeant with his
most imposing manner, but this turkey-red abomination on his back had
thrust dignity out in the cold.
"I have come, officer," he said, as impressively as he could under the
circumstances, "to make some inquiries concerning a man who was brought
here about an hour ago--I fear in a state of intoxication."
"We have known such things to happen here, Santa," said the officer,
suavely. "In fact, this blotter here seems to indicate that one George
W. Hetherington, of 561 Fifth Avenue--"
"Who?" roared Hetherington.
"George W. Hetherington is the name on the blotter," said the sergeant;
"entered first as a D. D., but on investigation found to be suffering
from--"
"But that's my name!" cried Hetherington. "You don't mean to tell me he
claimed to be George W. Hetherington?"
"No," said the sergeant. "The poor devil didn't make any claims for
himself at all. We found that name on a card in his hat, and a letter
addressed to the same name in his overcoat pocket. Puttin' the two
together we thought it was a good enough identification."
"Well, I'll have you to understand, sergeant--" bristled Hetherington,
cockily.
"None o' that, Santa Claus--none o' that!" growled the sergeant, leaning
over the desk and eying him coldly. "I don't know what game you're up
to, but just one more peep in that tone and there'll be two George W.
Hetheringtons in the cooler this night."
Hetherington almost tore the Santa Claus garb from his shoulders, and
revealed himself as a personage of fine raiment underneath, whatever he
might have appeared at a superficial glance. As he did so a crumpled
piece of paper fell to the floor from the pocket of the turkey-red coat.
"I don't mean to do anything but what is right, sergeant," he said,
controlling his wrath, "but what I do want is to impress it upon your
mind that _I_ am George W. Hetherington, and that having my name spread
on the blotter of a police court isn't going to do me any good. I
loaned that fellow my hat and coat to get a square meal, while I took
his place--"
The officer grinned broadly, but with no assurance in his smile that he
believed.
"Oh, you may not believe it," said Hetherington, "but it's true, and if
this thing gets into the papers to-morrow morning--"
"Say, Larry," said the sergeant, addressing an officer off duty, "did
the reporters copy that letter we found in Hetherington's pocket?"
"Reporters?" gasped Hetherington. "Good Lord, man--yuh-you don't
mum-mean to say yuh-you let the reporters--"
"No, chief," replied Larry. "They ain't been in yet--I t'ink ye shoved
it inter yer desk."
"So I did, so I did," grinned the sergeant. Here he opened the drawer in
front of him and extracted a pretty little blue envelope which
Hetherington immediately recognized as a particularly private and
confidential communication from--well, somebody. This is not a _cherchez
la femme_ story, so we will leave the lady's name out of it altogether.
It must be noted, however, that a sight of that dainty missive in the
great red fist of the sergeant gave Hetherington a heart action that
fifty packages of cigarettes a day could hardly inflict upon a less
healthy man.
"That's the proof--" cried Hetherington, excitedly. "If that don't
prove it's my overcoat nothing will."
"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.