"Christmas," he explained, languidly. "Always so tedious. Like Sunday."
"It makes me homesick," said another, a melancholy little man who was
forever bragging of his native Duluth.
"Christmas," I repeated--"to-morrow!"
It was Christmas Eve, and I had not known it! I leaned back in my chair
in sudden loneliness, what pictures coming before me of long-ago
Christmas Eves at home!--old Christmas Eves when there was a Tree....
My name was called; the night City Editor had an assignment for me. "Go
up to Sim Peck's, on Madison Street," he said. "He thinks he's got
something on David Beasley, but won't say any more over the telephone.
See what there is in it."
I picked up my hat and coat, and left the office at a speed which must
have given my superior the highest conception of my journalistic zeal.
At a telephone station on the next corner I called up Mrs.
Apperthwaite's house and asked for Dowden.
"What are you doing?" I demanded, when his voice had responded.
"Playing bridge," he answered.
"Are you going out anywhere?"
"No. What's the trouble?"
"I'll tell you later. I may want to see you before I go back to the
office."
"All right. I'll be here all evening."
I hung up the receiver and made off on my errand.
Down-town the streets were crowded with the package-laden people,
bending heads and shoulders to the bitter wind, which swept a blinding,
sleet-like snow horizontally against them.
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