The officer, after a long look at him, turned silently and walked slowly in the direction of the hill. He moved so deliberately and with such evident reluctance that Livingstone's blood boiled. He hurried after him. "Here," he said, as he overtook him, "I am going to see that you stop that sliding and enforce the law, or I shall report you for failure to perform your duty. I see your number--268." "All right, sir. You can do as you please about that," said the officer, rather surlily, but politely. Livingstone walked close after him to the hilltop. The officer spoke a few words in a quiet tone to the boys who were at the summit, and instantly every sled stopped. Not so the tongues. Babel broke loose. Some went off in silence; others crowded about the officer, expostulating, cajoling, grumbling. It was "the first snow;" they "always slid on that hill;" "it did not hurt anybody;" "nobody cared," etc. "This gentleman has complained, and you must stop," said the officer. They all turned on Livingstone with sudden hate. "Arr-oh-h!" they snarled in concert. "We ain't a-hurtin' him! What's he got to do wid us anyhow!" One more apt archer than the rest, shouted, "He ain't no gentleman--a _gentleman_ don't never interfere wid poor little boys what ain't a-done him no harm!" But they stopped, and the more timid or impatient stole off to find new and less inconveniently guarded inclines. Livingstone passed on. He did not know that the moment he left and the officer turned his back, the whole hillside swarmed again into life and fun and joy. He did not know this; but he bore off with him a new thorn which even his feeling of civic virtue could not keep from rankling. His head ached, and he grew crosser and crosser with every step. He had never seen so many beggars. It was insufferable. For this evening, at least, every one was giving--except Livingstone. Want was stretching out its withered hand even to Poverty and found it filled. But Livingstone took no part in it. The chilly and threadbare street-venders of shoe-strings, pencils and cheap flowers, who to-night were offering in their place tin toys, mistletoe and holly-boughs, he pushed roughly out of his way; he snapped angrily at beggars who had the temerity to accost him. "Confound them! They ought to be run in by the police!" A red-faced, collarless man fell into the same gait with him, and in a cajoling tone began to mutter something of his distress. "Be off. Go to the Associated Charities," snarled Livingstone, conscious of the biting sarcasm of his speech. "Go where, sir?" "Go to the devil!" The man stopped in his tracks. A ragged, meagre boy slid in through the crowd just ahead of Livingstone, to a woman who was toiling along with a large bundle. Holding out a pinched hand, he offered to carry the parcel for her. The woman hesitated. --"For five cents," he pleaded.