November, with its whispered promises of winter fun, was past, and the Christmas month, with snow and ice, had been ushered in. Usually in the latitude of Boyd City, the weather remains clear and not very cold until the first of the new year; but this winter was one of those exceptions which are met with in every climate, and the first of December brought zero weather. Indeed, it had been unusually cold for several weeks. Then, to make matters worse, a genuine western blizzard came howling across the prairie, and whistled and screamed about the streets, from which it had driven everything that could find a place of shelter. The stores on Broadway were vacant, save a few shivering clerks. In the offices, men sat with their feet on the stove and called to mind the biggest storms they had ever known; while street cars stood motionless and railway trains, covered with ice and snow, came puffing into the stations three or four hours behind time. In spite of the awful weather, George Udell spent the evening at the Wilson home on the east side. He had not seen Clara for nearly two weeks and the hour was rather late when he arose to prepare for the long, cold walk to his boarding house. "And I must wait, Clara?" he asked again, as they stood in the hallway, and the girl answered rather sharply, "Yes, you must wait. I do wish you would be sensible, George." The printer made no reply, but paused for some time with his hand on the door-knob, as though reluctant to leave her in such a mood. Then with an "Alright, goodnight," he stepped out into the storm, his mind filled with bitter thoughts that had best be left unspoken. The man did not know how heavy was the heart of the girl who stood at the window watching long after his form had vanished into the night.
The wind was terrific and the snow cut the printer's face like tiny needles, while he was forced again and again to turn his back to the blast in order to breathe, and in spite of his heavy clothing was chilled to the bone before he had gone three blocks. On Broadway, he passed saloon after saloon, brilliant with glittering chandeliers and attractive with merry music, inviting all the world to share the good-fellowship and cheer within. He thought of his rooms, how cold and lonely they would be, and had half a mind to stop at the hotel for the night. For an instant he hesitated, then with a shake, "What folly," pushed on again. As he struggled along, fighting every inch of the way, with head down and body braced to the task, warm lights from the windows of many cozy homes fell across his path, and he seemed to feel the cold more keenly for the contrast. Then through the storm, he saw a church, dark, grim and forbidding, half-hidden in the swirling snow, the steps and entrance barricaded with heavy drifts. A smile of bitter sarcasm curled his lip as he muttered to himself: "How appropriate; what a fine monument to the religious activity of the followers of Christ," and he almost laughed aloud when he remembered that the sermon delivered there the Sunday before was from the text, "I was a stranger and ye took me not in." Suddenly he stopped and stood peering through the storm. In the light of an electric arc, which sizzled and sputtered on the corner, he saw a dark form half hidden in the snow piled about the doorway of the building. Stepping closer, he reached out and touched it with his foot, then bending down, he discovered to his horror that it was the body of a man.
George tried to arouse the fallen one and lift him to his feet, but his efforts only met with failure, and the other sank back again on his bed of snow. The printer studied a moment. What should he do? Then his eyes caught a gleam of light from a house near by. "Of course," he thought, "Uncle Bobbie Wicks lives there." Stooping again, he gathered the man in his arms, and with no little effort, slowly and painfully made his way across the street and along the sidewalk to Mr. Wicks's home.
Uncle Bobbie was sitting before the fire, dozing over his Sunday School quarterly, when he was aroused by the sound of heavy feet on the porch and a strange knock, as though someone was kicking at the door. Quickly he threw it open, and Udell, with his heavy burden, staggered into the room.
"Found him on the church steps," gasped the printer, out of breath, as he laid the stranger on a couch. "I'll go for a doctor," and he rushed out into the storm again, returning some thirty minutes later with Dr. James at his heels. They found Uncle Bobbie, who had done all that was possible, sitting beside the still form on the couch. "You're too late, Doc," he said. "The poor chap was dead before George left the house."
The physician made his examination. "You're right, Mr. Wicks," he answered, "we can do nothing here. Frozen to death. Must have died early in the evening."
The doctor returned to his home to get what sleep he could before another call should break his rest, and all that night the Christian and the infidel sat together, keeping watch over the dead body of the unknown man.
The next morning the coroner was summoned; the verdict was soon handed in, "Death by exposure." Or the body was found a church statement that there had been paid to the current expense fund, in the quarter ending August first, the sum of three dollars, but the name written with lead pencil was illegible. Besides this, was a prayer-meeting topic-card, soiled and worn, and a small testament, dog-eared, with much fingering, but no money. A cheap Christian Endeavor pin was fastened to the ragged vest. There was nothing to identify him, or furnish a clew as to where he was from. The face and form was that of a young man, and though thin and careworn, showed no mark of dissipation. The right hand was marked by a long scar across the back and the loss of the little finger. The clothing was very poor.
Among those who viewed the body in the undertaking rooms where it lay for identification, was Dick, and Udell, who was with him, thought that he seemed strangely moved as he bent over the casket. George called his attention to the disfigured hand, but Dick only nodded. Then, as they drew back to make room for others, he asked in a whisper, "Did they search thoroughly for letters or papers? Sometimes people hide important documents in their clothing, you know."
"No, there was nothing," answered George. "We even ripped out the linings."
When they reached the open air Dick drew a long breath. "I must hurry back to the office," he said. "I suppose you'll not be down to-day."
"No, I must arrange for the funeral; you can get along I guess."
"Oh yes, don't worry about that," was the reply, and the young man started off down the street, but at the corner he turned, and walking rapidly, in a few moments reached the church where the body of the stranger was found.
The steps and walks had been carefully cleaned and the snow about the place was packed hard by the feet of the curious crowd who had visited the scene earlier in the morning.
Dick looked up and down the street. There was no one in sight. Stepping swiftly to the pile of snow which the janitor had made with his shovel and broom, he began kicking it about with his feet. Suddenly, with an exclamation, he stopped and again glanced quickly around. Then stooping, he picked up a long, leather pocketbook, and turning, walked hurriedly away to the office.
The body was held as long as possible, but when no word could be had as to the poor fellow's identity, he was laid away in a lot purchased by the printer, who also bore the funeral expenses. When Uncle Bobbie would have helped him in this, George answered: "No, this is my work. I found him. Let me do this for his mother's sake."
The funeral was held in the undertaking rooms. Dick Falkner, Uncle Bobbie and his wife, and Clara Wilson, with George, followed the hearse to the cemetery.
To-day, the visitor to Mt. Olive, will read with wonder, the inscription on a simple stone, bearing no name, but telling the story of the young man's death, and followed by these words, "I was a stranger and ye took me not in."
The church people protested loudly when it was known how the grave was to be marked, but George Udell answered that he wanted something from the Bible because the young man was evidently a Christian, and that the text he had selected was the only appropriate one he could find.
The evening after the funeral, Charlie Bowen and Dick sat alone in the reading room, for the hour was late and the others had all gone to their homes. Charlie was speaking of the burial. "I tell you," he said, "it looks mighty hard to see a man laid away by strangers who do not even know his name, and that too, after dying all alone in the snow like a poor dog. And to think that perhaps a mother is watching for him to come home; and t............