At all events, he
had vanished, and although the whole police force of the city had been
roused to secure his return, it was aroused in vain. And for three
weeks, therefore, a small, straight, white bearded man in a fur
overcoat had walked in mournful irritation alone.
He stood upon a corner uncertainly. One way led to the park, and this
he usually took; but to-day he did not want to go to the park--it was
too reminiscent of Skiddles. He looked the other way. Down there, if
one went far enough, lay "slums," and Mr. Carter hated the sight of
slums; they always made him miserable and discontented. With all his
money and his philanthropy, was there still necessity for such misery
in the world? Worse still came the intrusive question at times: Had all
his money anything to do with the creation of this misery? He owned no
tenements; he paid good wages in every factory; he had given sums such
as few men have given in the history of philanthropy. Still--there were
the slums. However, the worst slums lay some distance off, and he
finally turned his back on the park and walked on.
It was the day before Christmas. You saw it in people's faces; you saw
it in the holly wreaths that hung in windows; you saw it, even as you
passed the splendid, forbidding houses on the avenue, in the green that
here and there banked massive doors; but most of all, you saw it in the
shops.
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