Santa Clauss Partner | Page 9

hillside swarmed again into life and fun and joy. He did not know this; but he bore off with him a new thorn which even his feeling of civic virtue could not keep from rankling. His head ached, and he grew crosser and crosser with every step.
He had never seen so many beggars. It was insufferable. For this evening, at least, every one was giving--except Livingstone. Want was stretching out its withered hand even to Poverty and found it filled. But Livingstone took no part in it. The chilly and threadbare street-venders of shoe-strings, pencils and cheap flowers, who to-night were offering in their place tin toys, mistletoe and holly-boughs, he pushed roughly out of his way; he snapped angrily at beggars who had the temerity to accost him.
"Confound them! They ought to be run in by the police!"
A red-faced, collarless man fell into the same gait with him, and in a cajoling tone began to mutter something of his distress.
"Be off. Go to the Associated Charities," snarled Livingstone, conscious of the biting sarcasm of his speech.
"Go where, sir?"
"Go to the devil!"
The man stopped in his tracks.
A ragged, meagre boy slid in through the crowd just ahead of Livingstone, to a woman who was toiling along with a large bundle. Holding out a pinched hand, he offered to carry the parcel for her. The woman hesitated.
--"For five cents," he pleaded.
She was about to yield, for the bundle was heavy. But the boy was just in front of Livingstone and in his eagerness brushed against him. Livingstone gave him a shove which sent him spinning away across the sidewalk; the stream of passers-by swept in between them, and the boy lost his job and the woman his service.
The man of success passed on.
CHAPTER V
If Livingstone had been in a huff when he left his office, by the time he reached his home he was in a rage.
As he let himself in with his latch-key his expression for a moment softened. The scene before him was one which might well have mellowed a man just out of the snowy street. A spacious and handsome house, both richly and artistically furnished, lay before him. Rich furniture, costly rugs, fine pictures and rare books, gave evidence not only of his wealth but of his taste. He was not a mere business machine, a mere money-maker. He knew men who were. He despised them. He was a man of taste and culture, a gentleman of refinement. He spent his money like a gentleman, to surround himself with objects of art and to give himself and his friends pleasure. Connoisseurs came to look at his fine collection and to revel in his rare editions. Dealers had told him his collection was worth double what it had cost him. He had frowned at the suggestion; but it was satisfactory to know it.
As Livingstone entered his library and found a bright fire burning; his favorite arm-chair drawn up to his especial table; his favorite books lying within easy reach, he felt a momentary glow.
He stretched himself out before the fire in his deep lounging-chair with a feeling of relief. The next moment, however, he was sensible of his fatigue, and was conscious that he had quite a headache. What a fool he had been to walk up through the snow! And those people had worried him!
His head throbbed. He had been working too hard of late. He would go and see his doctor next day and talk it over with him. He could now take his advice and stop working for a while; he was worth--Confound those figures! Why could not he think of them without their popping in before his eyes that way!
There was a footfall on the heavily carpeted floor behind him, so soft that it could scarcely be said to have made a sound, but Livingstone caught it. He spoke without turning his head.
"James!"
"Yes, sir. Have you dined, sir?"
"Dined? No, of course not! Where was I to dine?"
"I thought perhaps you had dined at the club. I will have dinner directly, sir," said the butler quietly.
"Dine at the club! Why should I dine at the club? Haven't I my own house to dine in?" demanded Livingstone.
"Yes, sir. We had dinner ready, only--as you were so late we thought perhaps you were dining at the club. You had not said anything about dining out."
Livingstone glanced at the clock. It was half-past eight. He had had no idea it was so late. He had forgotten how late it was when he left his office, and the walk through the snow had been slow. He was hopelessly in the wrong.
Just then there was a scurry in the hall outside and the squeak of childish voices. James coughed and turned quickly towards the door.
Livingstone wanted an outlet.
"What is that?"