struggled through the storm to-night; these were people who carried
their own bundles home. You saw them: toilers and savers, tired mothers
and fathers, worn with the grinding thrift of all the year, but now for
this one night careless of how hard-saved the money, reckless of
everything but the joy of giving it to bring the children joy on the one
great to-morrow. So they bent their heads to the freezing wind, their
arms laden with daring bundles and their hearts uplifted with the
tremulous happiness of giving more than they could afford. Meanwhile,
Mr. Simeon Peck, honest man, had chosen this season to work harm if he
might to the gentlest of his fellow-men.

I found Mr. Peck waiting for me at his house. There were four other men
with him, one of whom I recognized as Grist, a squat young man with
slippery-looking black hair and a lambrequin mustache. They were donning
their coats and hats in the hall when I arrived.

"From the 'Despatch,' hay?" Mr. Peck gave me greeting, as he wound a
knit comforter about his neck. "That's good. We'd most give you up. This
here's Mr. Grist, and Mr. Henry P. Cullop, and Mr. Gus Schulmeyer--three
men that feel the same way about Dave Beasley that I do. That other
young feller," he waved a mittened hand to the fourth man--"he's from
the 'Journal.' Likely you're acquainted."

The young man from the 'Journal' was unknown to me; moreover, I was far
from overjoyed at his presence.

"I've got you newspaper men here," continued Mr. Peck, "because I'm
goin' to show you somep'n' about Dave Beasley that'll open a good many
folk's eyes when it's in print."