Midnight! No train due until 12.25, and that an accommodation from some
small town up-State. No taxi fares on such a train as that. The
north-bound fast train--headed for New York--that was late, too. Due at
11.55, Spike had seen a half-frozen station-master mark it up as being
fifty minutes late. Perhaps a passenger to be picked up there--some
sleepy, disgruntled, entirely unhappy person eager to attain the warmth
and coziness of a big hotel.

Yet Spike knew that he must wait. The company for which he worked
specialized on service. It boasted that every train was met by a
yellow taxicab--and this was Spike's turn for all-night duty at the
Union Station.

All the independent taxi-drivers had long since deserted their posts. The
parking space on Cypress Street, opposite the main entrance of the
station--a space usually crowded with commercial cars--was deserted. No
private cars were there, either. Spike seemed alone in the drear December
night, his car an exotic of the early winter.

Ten minutes passed--fifteen. The cold bit through Spike's overcoat,
battled to the skin, and chewed to the bone. It was well nigh unbearable.
The young taxi-driver's lips became blue. He tried to light a cigarette,
but his fingers were unable to hold the match.

He looked around. A street-car, bound for a suburb, passed noisily. It
paused briefly before the railroad-station, neither discharging nor
taking on a passenger, then clanged protestingly on its way. Impressed in
Spike's mind was a mental picture of the chilled motorman, and of the
conductor huddled over the electric heater within the car. Spike felt a