“There’s the preliminary story,” he said.  “Conway wrote it, and it moved several good people to stop at the business office on their way down-town and leave something for the released convict’s Christmas dinner.  The story is a very good story, and impressed them,” he went on, counting out the bills as he spoke, “to the extent of fifty five dollars.  You take that and give it to him, and tell him to forget the past, and keep to the narrow road, and leave jointed jimmies alone.  That money will give you an excuse for talking to him, and he may say something grateful to the paper, and comment on its enterprise.  Come, now, get up.  I’ve spoiled you two boys.  You’ve been sulking all the evening because Conway got that story, and now you are sulking because you have got a better one.  Think of it—­getting out of prison after four years, and on Christmas Eve!  It’s a beautiful story just as it is.  But,” he added, grimly, “you’ll try to improve on it, and grow maudlin.  I believe sometimes you’d turn a red light on the dying gladiator.”

The conscientiously industrious Conway, now that his fear of being sent out again was at rest, laughed at this with conciliatory mirth, and Bronson smiled sheepishly, and peace was restored between them.

But as Bronson capitulated, he tried to make conditions.  “Can I take a cab?” he asked.

The city editor looked at his watch.  “Yes,” he said; “you’d better; it’s late, and we go to press early to-night, remember.”

“And can I send my stuff down by the driver and go home?” Bronson went on.  “I can write it up there, and leave the cab at Fifteenth Street, near our house.  I don’t want to come all the way down-town again.”

“No,” said the chief; “the driver might lose it, or get drunk, or something.”

“Then can I take Gallegher with me to bring it back?” asked Bronson.  Gallegher was one of the office-boys.

The city editor stared at him grimly.  “Wouldn’t you like a type-writer, and Conway to write the story for you, and a hot supper sent after you?” he asked.

“No; Gallegher will do,” Bronson said.

Gallegher had his overcoat on and a night-hawk at the door when Bronson came down the stairs and stopped to light a cigar in the hallway.

“Go to Moyamensing,” said Gallegher to the driver.

Gallegher looked at the man to see if he would show himself sufficiently human to express surprise at their visiting such a place on such a night, but the man only gathered up his reins impassively, and Gallegher stepped into the cab, with a feeling of disappointment at having missed a point.  He rubbed the frosted panes and looked out with boyish interest at the passing holiday-makers.  The pavements were full of them and their bundles, and the street as well, with wavering lines of medical students and clerks blowing joyfully on the horns, and pushing through the crowd with one hand on the shoulder of the man in front.  The Christmas greens hung in long lines, and only stopped where a street crossed, and the shop fronts were so brilliant that the street was as light as day.