"Did you see this committee yesterday, Mr. Mathews?" asked the
philanthropist.
His secretary looked up.
"Yes, sir."
"You recommend them then?"
"Yes, sir."
"For fifty thousand?"
"For fifty thousand--yes, sir."
"Their corresponding subscriptions are guaranteed?"
"I went over the list carefully, Mr. Carter. The money is promised, and
by responsible people."
"Very well," said the philanthropist. "You may notify them, Mr. Mathews,
that my fifty thousand will be available as the bills come in."
"Yes, sir."
Old Mr. Carter laid down the letter he had been reading, and took up
another. As he perused it his white eyebrows rose in irritation.
"Mr. Mathews!" he snapped.
"Yes, sir?"
"You are careless, sir!"
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Carter?" questioned the secretary, his face
flushing.
The old gentleman tapped impatiently the letter he held in his hand. "Do
you pay no attention, Mr. Mathews, to my rule that NO personal letters
containing appeals for aid are to reach me? How do you account for this,
may I ask?"
"I beg your pardon," said the secretary again. "You will see, Mr.
Carter, that that letter is dated three weeks ago. I have had the
woman's case carefully investigated. She is undoubtedly of good
reputation, and undoubtedly in need; and as she speaks of her father as
having associated with you, I thought perhaps you would care to see her
letter."
"A thousand worthless fellows associated with me," said the old man,
harshly. "In a great factory, Mr. Mathews, a boy works alongside of the
men he is put with; he does not pick and choose. I dare say this woman
is telling the truth. What of it? You know that I regard my money as
a public trust. Were my energy, my concentration, to be wasted by
innumerable individual assaults, what would become of them? My fortune
would slip through my fingers as unprofitably as sand. You understand,
Mr. Mathews? Let me see no more individual letters. You know that Mr.
Whittemore has full authority to deal with them. May I trouble you to
ring? I am going out."
A man appeared very promptly in answer to the bell.
"Sniffen, my overcoat," said the philanthropist.
"It is 'ere, sir," answered Sniffen, helping the thin old man into the
great fur folds.
"There is no word of the dog, I suppose, Sniffen?"
"None, sir. The police was here again yesterday sir, but they said as
'ow--"
"The police!" The words were fierce with scorn. "Eight thousand
incompetents!" He turned abruptly and went toward the door, where he
halted a moment.
"Mr. Mathews, since that woman's letter did reach me, I suppose I must
pay for my carelessness--or yours. Send her--what does she say--four
children?--send her a hundred dollars. But, for my sake, send it
anonymously. Write her that I pay no attention to such claims." He went
out, and Sniffen closed the door behind him.
"Takes losin' the little dog 'ard, don't he?" remarked Sniffen, sadly,
to the secretary. "I'm afraid there ain't a chance of findin' 'im now.
'E ain't been stole, nor 'e ain't been found, or they'd 'ave brung him
back for the reward. 'E's been knocked on the 'ead, like as not. 'E
wasn't much of a dog to look at, you see--just a pup, I'd call 'im. An'
after 'e learned that trick of slippin' 'is collar off--well, I fancy
Mr. Carter's seen the last of 'im. I do, indeed."
Mr. Carter meanwhile was making his way slowly down the snowy avenue,
upon his accustomed walk. The walk, however, was dull to-day, for
Skiddles, his little terrier, was not with him to add interest and
excitement. Mr. Carter had found Skiddles in the country a year and
a half before. Skiddles, then a puppy, was at the time in a most
undignified and undesirable position, stuck in a drain tile, and unable
either to advance or to retreat. Mr. Carter had shoved him forward,
after a heroic struggle, whereupon Skiddles had licked his hand.
Something in the little dog's eye, or his action, had induced the
rich philanthropist to bargain for him and buy him at a cost of half
a dollar. Thereafter Skiddles became his daily companion, his chief
distraction, and finally the apple of his eye.
Skiddles was of no known parentage, hardly of any known breed, but
he suited Mr. Carter. What, the millionaire reflected with a proud
cynicism, were his own antecedents, if it came to that? But now Skiddles
had disappeared.
As Sniffen said, he had learned the trick of slipping free from his
collar. One morning the great front doors had been left open for two
minutes while the hallway was aired. Skiddles must have slipped down the
marble steps unseen, and dodged round the corner. At all events, he
had vanished, and although the whole police force of the city had been
roused to secure his return, it was aroused in vain. And for three
weeks, therefore, a small, straight, white bearded man in a fur overcoat
had walked in mournful irritation alone.
He stood upon a corner uncertainly. One way led to the park, and this he
usually took; but to-day he did not want to go to the park--it was too
reminiscent of Skiddles. He looked the other way. Down there, if one
went far enough, lay "slums," and Mr. Carter hated the sight of slums;
they always made him miserable and discontented. With all his money
and his philanthropy, was there still necessity for such misery in the
world? Worse still came the intrusive question at times: Had all his
money anything to do with the creation of this misery? He owned no
tenements; he paid good wages in every factory; he had given sums such
as few men have given in the history of philanthropy. Still--there
were the slums. However, the worst slums lay some distance off, and he
finally turned his back on the park and walked on.
It was the day before Christmas. You saw it in people's faces; you saw
it in the holly wreaths that hung in windows; you saw it, even as you
passed the splendid, forbidding houses on the avenue, in the green that
here and there banked massive doors; but most of all, you saw it in the
shops. Up here the shops were smallish, and chiefly of the provision
variety, so there was no bewildering display of gifts; but there were
Christmas-trees everywhere, of all sizes. It was astonishing how many
people in that neighbourhood seemed to favour the old-fashioned idea of
a tree.
Mr. Carter looked at them with his irritation softening. If they made
him feel a trifle more lonely, they allowed him to feel also a trifle
less responsible--for, after all, it was a fairly happy world.
At this moment he perceived a curious phenomenon a short distance before
him--another Christmas-tree, but one which moved, apparently of its own
volition, along the sidewalk. As Mr. Carter overtook it, he saw that
it was borne, or dragged, rather by a small boy who wore a bright red
flannel cap and mittens of the same peculiar material. As Mr. Carter
looked down at him, he looked up at Mr. Carter, and spoke cheerfully:
"Goin' my way, mister?"
"Why," said the philanthropist, somewhat taken back, "I WAS!"
"Mind draggin' this a little way?" asked the boy, confidently, "my hands
is cold."
"Won't you enjoy it more if you manage to take it home by yourself?"
"Oh, it ain't for me!" said the boy.
"Your employer," said the philanthropist, severely, "is certainly
careless if he allows his trees to be delivered in this fashion."
"I ain't deliverin' it, either," said the boy. "This is Bill's tree."
"Who is Bill?"
"He's a feller with a back that's no good."
"Is he your brother?"
"No. Take the tree a little way, will you, while I warm myself?"
The philanthropist accepted the burden--he did not know why. The boy,
released, ran forward, jumped up and down, slapped his red flannel
mittens on his legs, and then ran back again. After repeating these
manoeuvres two or three times, he returned to where the old gentleman
stood holding the tree.
"Thanks," he said. "Say, mister, you look like Santa Claus yourself,
standin' by the tree, with your fur cap and your coat. I bet you don't
have to run to keep warm, hey?" There was high admiration in his look.
Suddenly his eyes sparkled with an inspiration.
"Say, mister," he cried, "will you do something for me? Come in to
Bill's--he lives only a block from here--and just let him see you. He's
only a kid, and he'll think he's seen Santa Claus, sure. We can tell him
you're so busy to-morrow you have to go to lots of places to-day. You
won't have to give him anything. We're looking out for all that. Bill
got hurt in the summer, and he's been in bed ever since. So we are
giving him a Christmas--tree and all. He gets a bunch of things--an air
gun, and a train that goes around when you wind her up. They're great!"
"You boys are doing this?"
"Well, it's our club at the settlement, and of course Miss Gray thought
of it, and she's givin' Bill the train. Come along, mister."
But Mr. Carter declined.
"All right," said the boy. "I guess, what with Pete and all, Bill will
have Christmas enough."
"Who is Pete?"
"Bill's dog. He's had him three weeks now--best little pup you ever
saw!"
A dog which Bill had had three weeks--and in a neighbourhood not a
quarter of a mile from the avenue. It was three weeks since Skiddles had
disappeared. That this dog was Skiddles was of course most improbable,
and yet the philanthropist was ready to grasp at any clue which might
lead to the lost terrier.
"How did Bill get this dog?" he demanded.
"I found him myself. Some kids had tin-canned him, and he came into our
entry. He licked my hand, and then sat up on his hind legs. Somebody'd
taught him that, you know. I thought right away, 'Here's a dog for
Bill!' And I took him over there and fed him, and they kept him in
Bill's room two or three days, so he shouldn't get scared again and run
off; and now he wouldn't leave Bill for anybody. Of course, he ain't
much of a dog, Pete ain't," he added "he's just a pup, but he's mighty
friendly!"
"Boy," said Mr. Carter, "I guess I'll just go round and"--he was about
to add, "have a look at that dog," but fearful of raising suspicion, he
ended--"and see Bill."
The tenements to which the boy led him were of brick, and reasonably
clean. Nearly every window showed some sign of Christmas.
The tree-bearer led the way into a dark hall, up one flight--Mr. Carter
assisting with the tree--and down another dark hall, to a door, on which
he knocked. A woman opened it.
"Here's the tree!" said the boy, in a loud whisper. "Is Bill's door
shut?"
Mr. Carter stepped forward out of the darkness. "I beg your pardon,
madam," he said. "I met this young man in the street, and he asked me
to come here and see a playmate of his who is, I understand, an invalid.
But if I am intruding--"
"Come in," said the woman, heartily, throwing the door open. "Bill will
be glad to see you, sir."
The philanthropist stepped inside.
The room was decently furnished and clean. There was a sewing machine in
the corner, and in both the windows hung wreaths of holly. Between the
windows was a cleared space, where evidently the tree, when decorated,
was to stand.
"Are all the things here?" eagerly demanded the tree-bearer.
"They're all here, Jimmy," answered Mrs. Bailey. "The candy just came."
"Say," cried the boy, pulling off his red flannel mittens to blow on his
fingers, "won't it be great? But now Bill's got to see Santa Claus. I'll
just go in and tell him, an' then, when I holler, mister, you come on,
and pretend you're Santa Claus." And with incredible celerity the boy
opened the door at the opposite end of the room and disappeared.
"Madam," said Mr. Carter, in considerable embarrassment, "I must say one
word. I am Mr. Carter, Mr. Allan Carter. You may have heard my name?"