the rain had fallen--a nasty, drizzling rain which made the going soggy
and caused people to greet one another with frowns. Late that afternoon
the mercury had started a rapid downward journey. Fires were piled high
in the furnaces, automobile-owners poured alcohol into their radiators.
The streets were deserted early, and the citizens, for the most part, had
retired shiveringly under mountains of blankets and down quilts still
redolent of moth-balls.

Winter had come with freezing blasts which swept around corners and
chilled to the bone. The rain of two days became a driving sleet, which
formed a mirror of ice over the city.

On the seat of his yellow taxicab, Spike Walters drew a heavy lap-robe
more closely about his husky figure and shivered miserably. Fortunately,
the huge bulk of the station to his right protected him in a large
measure from the shrieking wintry winds. Mechanically Spike kept his eyes
focused upon the station entrance, half a block ahead.

But no one was there. Nowhere was there a sign of life, nowhere an
indication of warmth or cheer or comfort. With fingers so numb that they
were almost powerless to do the bidding of his mind, Spike drew forth his
watch and glanced at it. Midnight!

Spike replaced the watch, blew on his numb fingers in a futile effort to
restore warmth, slipped his hands back into a pair of heavy--but, on
this night, entirely inadequate--driving-gloves, and gave himself over to
a mental rebellion against the career of a professional taxi-driver.

"Worst night I've ever known," he growled to himself; and he was not
far wrong.