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 personal resentment against that conductor.  Comfort seemed unfair on a night like this; heat a luxury more to be desired than much fine gold.

From across the street the light of the White Star Cafe beckoned.  Ordinarily Spike was not a patron of the White Star, nor other eating establishments of its class.  The White Star was notoriously unsanitary, its food poisonously indigestible; but as Spike’s eyes were held hypnotically by the light he thought of two things—­within the circle of that light he could find heat and a scalding liquid which was flavored with coffee.

The vision was too much for Spike.  The fast train, due now at 12.45, might bring a fare.  It was well beyond the bounds of reason that he would get a passenger from the accommodation due in a few minutes.  There were no casuals abroad.

The young driver clambered with difficulty from his seat.  He staggered as he tried to stand erect, his numb limbs protesting against the burden of his healthy young body.  A gale howled around the dark Jackson Street corner of the long, rambling station, and Spike defensively covered both ears with his gloved hands.

He made his way eagerly across the street; slipping and sliding on the glassy surface, head bent against the driving sleet, clothes crackling where particles of ice had formed.  Spike reached the door of the eating-house, opened it, and almost staggered as the warmth of the place smote him like a hot blast.

For a few seconds he stood motionless, reveling in the sheer animal comfort of the change.  Then he made his way to the counter, seated himself on a revolving stool, and looked up at the waiter who came stolidly forward from the big, round-bellied stove at the rear.

“Hello, George!”