When they reached the door, old Bob rose, turned in after them, and,
still fiddling, played the procession and himself down the hall.

And so they marched away, and we were left staring into the empty
room....

"My soul!" said the "Journal" reporter, gasping. "And he did all
THAT--just to please a little sick kid!"

"I can't figure it out," murmured Sim Peck, piteously.

"_I_ can," said the "Journal" reporter. "This story WILL be all over
town to-morrow." He glanced at me, and I nodded. "It'll be all over
town," he continued, "though not in any of the papers--and I don't
believe it's going to hurt Dave Beasley's chances any."

Mr. Peck and his companions turned toward the street; they went
silently.

The young man from the "Journal" overtook them. "Thank you for sending
for me," he said, cordially. "You've given me a treat. I'm FER Beasley!"

Dowden put his hand on my shoulder. He had not observed the third figure
still remaining.

"Well, sir," he remarked, shaking the snow from his coat, "they were
right about one thing: it certainly was mighty low down of Dave not to
invite ME--and you, too--to his Christmas party. Let him go to thunder
with his old invitations, I'm going in, anyway! Come on. I'm plum
froze."