Ten minutes later a passing taxi was hailed by a shivering gentleman carrying an iron pot full of pennies and nickels and an occasional quarter in one hand, and a turkey-red coat, trimmed with white cotton cloth, thrown over his arm. Strange to say, considering the inclemency of the night, he wore neither a hat nor an overcoat.
A TOAST TO SANTA CLAUS
Whene’er I find a man who don’t
Believe in Santa Claus,
And spite of all remonstrance won’t
Yield up to logic’s laws,
And see in things that lie about
The proof by no means dim,
I straightway cut that fellow out,
And don’t believe in him.
The good old Saint is everywhere
Along life’s busy way.
We find him in the very air
We breathe day after day–
Where courtesy and kindliness
And love are joined together,
To give to sorrow and distress
A touch of sunny weather.
“Where to, sir?” queried the chauffeur.
“The police-station,” said Hetherington. “I don’t know where it is, but the one in this precinct is the one I want.”
“Ye’ll have to pay by the hour to-night, sir,” said the chauffeur. “The station ain’t a half-mile away, sir, but Heaven knows how long it’ll take us to get there.”
