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Updated: May 26, 2025
Down by the printing-offices there were the steam-gratings, and a chance corner in the cellars, stories and stories underground, where the big presses keep up such a clatter from midnight till far into the day. As he passed them in review, Nibsy made up his mind with sudden determination, and, setting his face toward the south, made off down town.
Nobody answering, it was pushed open, first a little, then far enough to admit the shrinking form of a little ragamuffin, the smaller of the two who had stood breathing peep-holes on the window pane of the delicatessen store the night before when Nibsy came along. He dragged with him a hemlock branch, the leavings from some Christmas tree at the grocery.
Conscious only of a vague discomfort that had succeeded terror and pain, Nibsy wondered uneasily why they were all so kind. Nobody had taken the trouble to as much as notice him before. When he had thrust his papers into their very faces they had pushed him roughly aside. Nibsy, unhurt and able to fight his way, never had a show.
"It's from Sante Claus," he said, laying it on the coffin. "Nibsy knows." And he went out. Santa Claus had come to Nibsy, after all, in his alley. And Nibsy knew. The December sun shone clear and cold upon the city. It shone upon rich and poor alike.
Nobody answering, it was pushed open, first a little, then far enough to admit the shrinking form of a little ragamuffin, the smaller of the two who had stood breathing peep-holes on the window-pane of the delicatessen store the night before when Nibsy came along. He dragged with him a hemlock branch, the leavings from some Christmas-tree fitted into its block by the grocer for a customer.
A tarpaulin was spread upon the snow and upon it he laid his burden, while the silent crowd made room and word went over to the hospital for the doctor to come quickly. Very gently they lifted poor little Nibsy for it was he, caught in his berth by a worse enemy than the "cop" or the watchman of the hay barge into the ambulance that bore him off to the hospital cot, too late.
At the thought the tired eye glistened, the aching back straightened, and to the weary foot there came new strength to finish the long task while the city slept. Where a narrow passage-way put in between two big tenements to a ramshackle rear barrack, Nibsy, the newsboy, halted in the shadow of the doorway and stole a long look down the dark alley.
"It's from Sante Claus," he said, laying it on the coffin. "Nibsy knows." And he went out. Santa Claus had come to Nibsy, after all, in his alley. And Nibsy knew.
Upon the last door a bow of soiled crape was nailed up with two tacks. It had done duty there a dozen times before, that year. Upstairs, Nibsy was at home, and for once the neighbors, one and all, old and young, came to see him. Even the father, ruffian that he was, offered no objection.
The chances were at least even of its being available on Christmas Eve, and of Santa Claus having thus done him a good turn after all. Then there was the snug berth in the sand-box you could curl all up in. Nibsy thought with regret of its being, like the hay barge, so far away and to windward, too.
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