LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

       III

      "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.

       IV

      At half-past nine down-town was pretty well deserted, which made it easy for the chauffeur of a certain red taxi-cab to make fairly good time down Broadway; and when at nine-forty-five the panting mechanism drew up before the grim walls of a brick tenement, numbered 469 Varick Street, the man on the box was commendably proud of his record.

      "That was goin' some, sir," he said, with a broad grin on his face. "I don't believe it's ever been done quicker outside o' the fire department."

      "I don't believe it has, old man," said Hetherington as he alighted. "Now if you'll help me up-stairs with these packages and that basket there, we'll bring this affair to a grand-stand finish."

      The two men toiled slowly up the stairs, Hetherington puffing somewhat with the long climb; and when finally they had reached the top floor he arrayed himself in the once despised garb of Santa Claus again. Then he knocked at the door. The answer was immediate. A white-faced woman opened the door.

      "Jim!" she cried. "Is it you?"

      "No, madam," replied Hetherington. "It's a friend of Jim's. Fact is, Mrs. Mulligan, Jim has—"

      "There's nothin' happened to Jim, has there?" she interrupted.

      "Nothing at all, madam, nothing at all," said Hetherington. "The work was a little too much for him to-day—that's all—and he keeled over. He's safe, and comfortable in the—well, they took him to the hospital, but don't you worry—he'll be all right in a day or two, and meanwhile I'm going to look after you and the kiddies."

      The chauffeur placed the basket inside the door.

      "You'll find a small turkey, and some—er—some fixings in it, Mrs. Mulligan," said Hetherington. "Whatever ought to go with a turkey should be there, and—er—have the kiddies gone to bed?"

      "Poor little souls, they have," said the woman.

      "Well, just you tell 'em for me," said Hetherington, "that Santa Claus

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