Around the Yule Log - Willis Boyd Allen

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      “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

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