As soon as Mr. Broadstreet recovered himself and cleared his eyes from
the blinding snow, he saw a heavy, black Shadow on the sidewalk
enveloping his own person and resting upon the figure of a man who had
evidently just sheltered himself behind the high stone steps, for his
footprints leading from the street were still quite fresh. As the man
thrashed his arms and stamped vigorously, to start the blood through
his benumbed feet, a bright button or two gleamed upon his breast
through the cape of his greatcoat. Mr. Broadstreet now recognized him
as the policeman whose beat it was, and whom he had occasionally
favored with a condescending nod, as he came home late at night from
the theater or the club. He had never addressed him by so much as a
word, but now the Shadow was full upon him, and Mr. Broadstreet felt
that here was his first opportunity.
“Good-evening, officer!” he shouted cheerily, through the storm. “Wish
you a Merry Christmas to-morrow.”
“Thank you, sir; same to you,” replied the other, with a touch of the
cap and a pleased glance at the great man. “Hard times for the boys
to-night, though.”
“It _is_ hard,” said Mr. Broadstreet compassionately. “And you’re
rather cold, I suppose?” he added awkwardly, after a pause.
“Rather!”
“Why, bless me,” a bright thought striking him, “wouldn’t you like a
cup of hot coffee, now?”
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.”
“Got any Christmas presents for them?--don’t mind my asking.”
“Well, I’d just ’s lief show you what I _have_ got. ’T ain’t much, you
know, but then it’s _somethin’_.”
He stepped inside the door, laid aside his snowy mittens, and taking
from the corner of the seat a small brown parcel, carefully removed
the string and wrappings.
“There,” he said, with a sort of pleading pride in his eyes, “I guess
these’ll please ’em some. ’Taint much, you know,” he added again,
glancing at his passenger’s fur cap, as he displayed the presents on
the car-seat.
A very red-cheeked and blue-eyed doll, with a placid countenance quite
out of keeping with her arms; these members being so constructed as to
occupy only two positions, one of which expressed unbounded
astonishment, and the other gloomy resignation; a transparent slate,
with a dim cow under the glass, and “fifteen cents,” plainly marked in
lead pencil on one corner of the frame, and a rattle for the girl
baby.
As the conductor held up these articles in his stiff, red fingers,
turning the doll about so as to show her flaxen braid to the best
advantage, and inducing the arms to take the positions alluded to, the
Shadow crept away, and had well-nigh disappeared. But it returned
again, thicker than ever, when he said, with a little choke in his
voice, “I did mean to get ’em a little tree, with candles on it, and a
picture-book or two; but our pay ain’t overmuch, and we had sickness,
and--and”--he was very busy doing up the bundle, and very clumsy he
must have been, too, for it was a long time before the wide-looped,
single bow-knot was tied, and the parcel carefully put away again.
Mr. Broadstreet winked hard, and his eyes shone.
“How long before you pass here on the way back?” he asked.
“About thirty-five minutes it’ll take us to get round, sir, on account
of the snow. It’s my last trip.”
“Very well. Now, conductor--ahem! what did you say your name was?”
“Tryson, sir; David Tryson.”
“Then, ahem! Mr. Tryson--just ring your bell when you reach the corner
there, on the up trip; and dodge into that store where the lights
are. You’ll find a bundle waiting for you. Good-night conduct--Mr.
Tryson, and a Merry Christmas to you and yours!”
“Good-night, sir! God bless you, sir! Merry”--but his passenger was
gone.
As he reached the sidewalk, Mr. Broadstreet turned and looked after
the car. Whether it was the light from the street lamp, or the broad
flood of radiance that poured out from the windows of the toy-shop
just beyond, he could not tell; but the rear platform was illuminated
by a pure, steady glow, in the very center of which stood the
conductor, smiling and waving his hand. No sign of a Shadow; not a bit
of it. Mr. Broadstreet looked carefully about him, but it was nowhere
to be seen. Even the snow, which all this time continued to fall
without interruption, seemed to fill the air with tiny lamps of soft
light.
Ah, that toy-shop! Such heaps of blocks, and marbles, and sleds; such
dolls with eyes that would wink upside down, exactly like a hen’s;
such troops of horses and caravans of teams; such jangling of toy
pianos, and tooting of toy horns, and shrieking of toy whistles,
(these instruments being anxiously tested by portly papas and mammas,
apparently to be sure of a good bargain, but really for the fun of the
thing); such crowds of good-natured people, carrying canes, and drums,
and hoop-sticks under their arms, taking and giving thrusts of these
articles and being constantly pushed and pulled and jammed and trodden
upon with the most delightful good humor; such rows of pretty girls
behind the counters, now climbing to the summits of Ararats where
innumerable Noah’s Arks, of all sizes, had been stranded; all these
girls being completely used up with the day’s work, of course, but
more cheerful and willing than ever, bless them! such scamperings to
and fro of cash-boys, and diving into the crowd, and emergings in
utterly unexpected places--were never seen before in this quiet old
city.
Mr. Broadstreet embarked on the current, and with an unconsciously
benevolent smile on his round face was borne half-way down the store
before he could make fast to a counter.
“What can I do for you, sir?” If the girlish voice was brisk and
businesslike it was at the same time undeniably pleasant.
Mr. Broadstreet started. “Why, I want some presents; Christmas
presents, you know,” he said, looking down into the merry brown eyes.
“Boy or girl, sir, and how old?”
Mr. Broadstreet was fairly taken aback by her promptness. His wife
always did the Christmas shopping.
“Let me see,” he began hurriedly; “two girls and a--no, I mean two
boys--why, bless me,” he went on in great confusion, as her low laugh
rang out among the woolly sheep with which she happened to be
surrounded, “I’ve really forgotten. That is--Oh, I see; you needn’t
laugh,” and Mr. Broadstreet’s own smile broadened as he spoke,
“they’re not mine. I never heard of them until five minutes ago, and
I declare I don’t remember which is which. At any rate there are three
of them, all under seven.”
“How would a lamb do for the oldest? Real wool and natural motion?” in
proof of which latter assertion she set all their heads nodding in the
most violent manner, until it made her customers quite dizzy to look
at them. Mr. Broadstreet picked out the biggest one. “He seems
to--ah--bow more vigorously than the rest,” he said.
The girl then proceeded to display various toys and gay-colored
picture-books, Mr. Broadstreet assenting to the choice in every
instance, until a large, compact bundle lay on the counter, plainly
marked,
“_Mr. Tryson, Conductor. To be called for._”
As the lawyer was leaving the store, he remembered something, and
turned back.
“I forgot,” he said, “I wanted to buy a tree”--
“Just round the corner,” interrupted the brown-eyed girl over her
shoulder, without looking at him. She was already deep in the
confidence of the next customer, who had told her the early history of
two of her children, and was now proceeding to the third. Mr.
Broadstreet buttoned up his coat collar, and stepped out once more
into the storm. A few moments’ walk brought him to a stand where the
trees were for sale. And what a spicy, fragrant, delicious, jolly
place it was, to be sure! The sidewalk was flanked right and left with
rows upon rows of spruce, pine and fir trees, all gayly decked with
tufts of snow; every doorway, too, was full of these trees, as if they
had huddled in there to get out of the storm. Here and there were
great boxes overflowing with evergreen and holly boughs, many of which
the dealers had taken out and stuck into all sorts of crannies and
corners of their stands, so that the glossy leaves and scarlet berries
glistened in the flaring light of the lamps. Wreaths of every size and
description--some made of crispy gray moss, dotted with bright
amaranths, some of holly--were threaded upon sticks like beads, and
were being constantly pulled off and sold to the muffled customers who
poured through the narrow passageway in a continuous stream.
“All brightness,” thought Mr. Broadstreet, “and no Shadow this time.”
None? What was that black ugly-looking stain on the fallen snow,
extending from his own feet to one of the rude wooden stands where
traffic was busiest? Mr. Broadstreet started, and scrutinized it
sharply. He soon discovered the outline of Christmas Present. Beyond a
doubt it was the Shadow again.