“But, but,” gasped Harry.
Dorothy was edging him towards the door.
“How much money have you?” she demanded.
Harry gloomily put his hand in his pocket and counted out a handful of bills.
“Exactly twenty-five dollars and five cents.”
“Very well! Now listen! These are the conditions. You go out and give this money to anybody you care to whom you have never seen before. Don’t give more than two dollars to any one person. And be back here by ten o’clock with no more than five cents in your pocket.”
“But,” declared Harry, still backing toward the door, “I want my twenty-five dollars.”
“Harry,” said Dorothy sweetly, “I am surprised!” And with that, she slammed the door in his face.
“I insist,” muttered Harry, “that this is a most unusual proceeding.”
He walked down the steps and hesitated.
“Now,” he thought, “where shall I go?”
He considered a moment and finally started off toward Broadway. He had gone about half a block when he saw a gentleman in a top hat approaching. Harry hesitated. Then he made up his mind, and, stepping toward the man, emitted what he intended for a pleasant laugh but what sounded more like a gurgle, and loudly vociferated, “Merry Christmas, friend!”
“The same to you,” answered he of the top hat, and would have passed on, but Harry was not to be denied.
“My good fellow—” he cleared his throat. “Would you like me to give you a little money?”
“What?” yelled the man.
“You might need some money, don’t you know, to—er—buy the children—a—a rag doll,” he finished brilliantly.
The next moment his hat went sailing into the gutter, and when he picked it up the man was far away.
“There’s five minutes wasted,” muttered Harry, as, full of wrath toward Dorothy, he strode along his way. He decided to try a different method with the next people he met. He would express himself more politely.
A couple approached him,—a young lady and her escort. Harry halted directly in their path and, taking off his hat, addressed them.
“As it is Christmas, you know, and everybody gives away—er—articles, why—”
“Give him a dollar, Billy, and let’s go on,” said the young lady.
Billy obediently thrust a dollar into Harry’s hand, and at that moment the girl gave a cry of surprise.
“Why, it’s Harry Talbot,” she exclaimed, “begging!”
But Harry heard no more. When he realized that he knew the girl he turned and sped like an arrow up the street, cursing his foolhardiness in taking up the affair at all.
He reached Broadway and started slowly down the gaily lighted thoroughfare, intending to give money to the street Arabs he met. All around him was the bustle of preparation. Everywhere swarmed people happy in the pleasant concert of their own generosity. Harry felt strangely out of place as he wandered aimlessly along. He was used to being catered to and bowed before, but here no one spoke to him, and one or two even had the audacity to smile at him and wish him a “Merry Christmas.” He nervously accosted a passing boy.
“I say, little boy, I’m going to give you some money.”
“No you ain’t,” said the boy sturdily. “I don’t want none of your money.”
Rather abashed, Harry continued down the street. He tried to present fifty cents to an inebriated man, but a policeman tapped him on the shoulder and told him to move on. He drew up beside a ragged individual and quietly whispered, “Do you wish some money?”
“I’m on,” said the tramp. “What’s the job?”
“Oh! there’s no job!” Harry reassured him.
“Tryin’ to kid me, hey?” growled the tramp resentfully. “Well, get somebody else.” And he slunk off into the crowd.
Next Harry tried to squeeze ten cents into the hand of a passing bellboy, but the youth pulled open his coat and displayed a sign “No Tipping.”
With the air of a thief, Harry approached an Italian bootblack, and cautiously deposited ten cents in his hand. At a safe distance he saw the boy wonderingly pocket the dime, and congratulated himself. He had but twenty-four dollars and ninety cents yet to give away! His last success gave him a plan. He stopped at a newsstand where, in full sight of the vender, he dropped a two-dollar bill and sped away in the crowd. After several minutes’ hard running he came to a walk amidst the curious glances of the bundle-laden passers-by, and was mentally patting himself on the back when he heard quick breathing behind him, and the very newsie he had just left thrust into his hand the two-dollar bill and was off like a flash.
The perspiration streamed from Harry’s forehead and he trudged along despondently. He got rid of twenty-five cents, however, by dropping it into a children’s aid slot. He tried to get fifty cents in, but it was a small slot. His first large sum was two dollars to a Salvation Army Santa Claus, and, after this, he kept a sharp lookout for them, but it was past their closing time, and he saw no more of them on his journey.
He was now crossing Union Square, and, after another half hour’s patient work, he found himself with only fifteen dollars left to give away. A wet snow was falling which turned to slush as it touched the pavements, and the light dancing pumps he wore were drenched, the water oozing out of his shoes with every step he took. He reached Cooper Square and turned into the Bowery. The number of people on the streets was fast thinning and all around him shops were closing up and their occupants going home. Some boys jeered at him, but, turning up his collar, he plodded on. In his ears rang the saying, mocking yet kindly, “It is more blessed to give than to receive.”
He turned up Third Avenue and counted his remaining money. It amounted to three dollars and seventy cents. Ahead of him he perceived, through the thickening snow, two men standing under a lamp post. Here was his chance. He could divide his three dollars and seventy cents between them. He came up to them and tapped one on the shoulder. The man, a thin, ugly-looking fellow, turned suspiciously.
“Won’t you have some money, you fellow?” he said imperiously, for he was angry at humanity in general and Dorothy in particular. The fellow turned savagely.
“Oh!” he sneered, “you’re one of these stiffs tryin’ the charity gag, and then gettin’ us pulled for beggin’. Come on, Jim, let’s show him what we are.”
And they showed him. They hit him, they mashed him, they got him down and jumped on him, they broke his hat, they tore his coat. And Harry, gasping, striking, panting, went down in the slush. He thought of the people who had that very night wished him a Merry Christmas. He was certainly having it.
Miss Dorothy Harmon closed her book with a snap. It was past eleven and no Harry. What was keeping him? He had probably given up and gone home long ago. With this in mind, she reached up to turn out the light, when suddenly she heard a noise outside as if someone had fallen.
Dorothy rushed to the window and pulled up the blind. There, coming up the steps on his hands and knees, was a wretched caricature of a man. He was hatless, coatless, collarless, tieless, and covered with snow. It was Harry. He opened the door and walked into the parlor, leaving a trail of wet snow behind him.
“Well?” he said defiantly.
“Harry,” she gasped, “can it be you?”
“Dorothy,” he said solemnly, “it is me.”
“What—what has happened?”