Down-town the streets were crowded with the package-laden people, bending heads and shoulders to the bitter wind, which swept a blinding, sleet-like snow horizontally against them. At corners it struck so tumultuous a blow upon the chest of the pedestrians that for a moment it would halt them, and you could hear them gasping half-smothered “AHS” like bathers in a heavy surf. Yet there was a gayety in this eager gale; the crowds pressed anxiously, yet happily, up and down the street in their generous search for things to give away. It was not the rich who 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.” “Well, what is it?” I asked, rather sharply. “Jest hold your horses a little bit,” he retorted. “Grist and me knows, and so do Mr. Cullop and Mr. Schulmeyer. And I'm goin' to take them and you two reporters to LOOK at it. All ready? Then come on.” He threw open the door, stooped to the gust that took him by the throat, and led the way out into the storm. “What IS he up to?” I gasped to the “Journal” man as we followed in a straggling line. “I don't know any more than you do,” he returned. “He thinks he's got something that'll queer Beasley. Peck's an old fool, but it's just possible he's got hold of something. Nearly everybody has ONE thing, at least, that they don't want found out. It may be a good story. Lord, what a night!”