"Narrow escape, Mr. Hetherington," said the sergeant. "Ought to be a
lesson to you sports. What was your game, anyhow?"
"Oh, it wasn't any game--" began Hetherington.
"Huh! Just a case of too much lunch, eh?" said the officer. "You'd had
as much too much as the other feller'd had too little--that it?"
"No," said Hetherington. "Just a general lack of confidence in my
fellow-men, plus a cussed habit of butting into matters that aren't any
of my business; but I'm glad I butted in, just the same, if I can be of
any earthly use to that poor devil of a Santa Claus. Do you suppose
there's any way to find out who he is?"
"Well, we've made a good start, anyhow," said the sergeant. "We've found
out who he isn't. When he comes to in the mornin', if he does, maybe
he'll be able to help us identify him."
"To-morrow!" murmured Hetherington. "And who knows but he's got a family
waiting for him somewhere right now, and as badly off as he is."
"Ye dropped this, sir," said Larry, the officer off duty. "It come out
of the red coat--mebbe it'll help--"
He handed Hetherington the crumpled piece of paper that had fallen to
the floor when he tore Santa Claus's cloak from his back. It was sadly
dirty, but on one side of it was a childish scrawl in pencil.
Hetherington ran over it rapidly, and gulped.
"Read that, sergeant!" he said, huskily.
The sergeant read the following:
"DEAR SANDY CLORS:--my Popper says hell hand you this here leter
when he sees you to ast you not to fergit me and jimmy like you
did last yeer. you aint been to see me an jimmy since popper
lost his Jobb and he says its becoz you lost our adres so ime
ritin to tell you weve moved since you come the lass time and am
now livin now on the Topp flor of fore 69 varrick streete noo
york which youd ort not to find it hard to git down the chimbley
bein on the topp flor closte to the roofe so i thort ide rite
and tell you what me and jimmyd like to hav you bring us wenn
you come. I nede some noo shues and a hatt and my lasst dol
babys all wore out and sum candy if you can work it in sumhow,
not havin had much since popper lost his jobb, and jimmies only
gott one mitt left and his shues is wore throo like mine is only
a little worser, and a baseball batt and hed like sum candy to.
if there wass anything lefft ovvur for us from lass crissmis
wich you dident kno ware to find us to giv it to us we wuddent
mind havin that two but you needent mind about that if its
misslayde we can git along all rite all rite on whot ive sed
alreddy. ime leven and jimmies nine and we hope youl hav a mery
crismiss like wede hav if youd come to see us.
"yure efexinite frend mary muligan.
"p. s dont fergit the adres topp flor 469 varrick strete noo
york. take back chimbley middel floo."
"I'm sorry to say, Mr. Hetherington," said the sergeant, clearing his
throat with vociferous unction, "that the town's full of Mary and Jimmie
Mulligans--but, anyhow, I guess this is good enough evidence for me to
scratch out your name and enter the record under James Mulligan."
"Thank you, sergeant," said Hetherington, gratefully. "And it's good
enough evidence for me that this town needs a Santa Claus a blooming
sight more than I thought it did. What time is it?"
"Seven-thirty," replied the sergeant.
"Good!" said Hetherington. "Shops don't close till ten--I guess I've got
time. Good night--see you first thing in the morning. Come along,
chauffeur, I'll need you for some time yet."
"Good night, Mr. Hetherington," said the sergeant. "Where are you bound
in case I need you any time?"
"Me?" said Hetherington with a grin, "why, my address is 561 Fifth
Avenue, but just now I'm off to do my Christmas shopping early."
And resuming possession of his own hat and overcoat, and taking the
Santa Claus costume under his arm, Hetherington passed out, the
chauffeur following.
"These New York sports is a queer bunch!" said the sergeant as
Hetherington disappeared.