The Argosy, Christmas 1912 — page 125: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

ONE CROWDED CHRISTMAS. son & Co. for a new house then in course of construction. “Robert A. McNutt it was,” Frank nodded, recalling the entries he had made on the books of the firm, “and consequently it stands to reason that Robert Anderson McNutt, Jr., must be his son. Now, .let’s see, where was that house he was putting up? Oh, yes, I remember, No. 69 Grenadine Terrace. Or, come to think of it, wasn’t it 96? Still that makes no difference. Grenadine Terrace isn’t much more than. two or three blocks long, and the kid here is sure to spot his home, if he once sets eyes on it. The only thing I’ve got to do is get him out there.” But with that he halted abruptly, confronted by a new complication. The locality he spoke of was a new fashionable subdivision remote from trolley lines, and so far distant as to make any thought of walking thither with the tired-out child a practical impossibility. The only feasible means of getting there, indeed, was by taxicab, and_it didn’t require much arithmetic to fig- ure that the ride would just about ex- haust his three dollars. If Frank hesitated, though, it was not for long. “T want to go home,” wailed the weary boy in his arms. “ Santa Claus is coming to our house, and if he don’t find me there maybe he'll go ’way again, and not leave anything.” “Never you fret about Santa, old man,’ Swanson assured him. ‘“ You and I are going to beat him to it.” And shouldering the child, he lost no time in hunting up a cab and clamber- ing aboard. “Three bucks will surely get me out there,” was the way his reflections ran; “and as for getting back, my legs are good, while if no other bed offers, a park bench is always available.” So, dismissing his own difficulties with light-hearted philosophy, he set himself to trying to discover how his little companion had strayed so far away from home. 111 But Robert Anderson McNutt, Jr., by this time was strongly disposed to slumber, and beyond imparting the fact that he had gone away with a strange lady to find Santa’s reindeers, and that he had run out of a cellar when a black- mustached man had forgot and left the door open, Swanson was able to gather but little from his confused narrative. Indeed, before they had covered half the distance, his answers ceased alto- gether, and he was sound asleep with his head pillowed on Frank’s shoulder. So they arrived at 69 Grenadine Ter- race, and, as the cab halted, Swanson gazed up rather doubtfully at the house, a bit taken aback to find it all dark. If this were the place, surely there would be more signs of excitement apparent; yet he was almost positive that No. 69 was the residence to which the heating apparatus had been delivered. He determined, at any rate, to make inquiries, rather than needlessly arouse the sleeping boy, and therefore mount- ed the steps and gave a vigorous pull at the bell. He was confident as he stood there that he could hear some one moving around inside; but it was only after a long delay and repeated ringing that the door was opened a crack or two, and a man’s face thrust cautiously out. “Does Mr. McNutt, the lawyer, live here?” inquired Swanson. The other surveyed him suspicious- ly. “ What do you want with him?” he countered. “T have his little son down here in my cab, and—”’ But he got no further. With an ex- cited exclamation the man rushed past him down to the vehicle, and, lifting out the still sleeping child, bore him up the steps and into the house. The door was slammed in Frank’s face, and the latter, after lingering on the stoop a minute or two, decided that he must have been forgotten, and re- turned to the curb to pay off his waiting chauffeur. The meter registered just ten cents more than the entire amount in Swan- CoOMmicbook CO