The sight of a figure staggering up a snow drift to a bedroom window in Keppel Street aroused no astonishment in the breast of a stolid policeman. It was the only way of entry into some of the houses in that locality. Yet a little further on the pavements were clear and hard.
The sight of a figure staggering up a snowdrift to a bedroom window in Keppel Street aroused no astonishment in the breast of a stolid policeman.

Besides, the figure was pounding on the window, and burglars don\'t generally do that. Presently the sleeper within awoke. From the glow of his oil-stove he could see that it was past twelve.

"Something gone wrong at the office?" Fisher muttered. "Hang the paper! Why bother about publishing Chat this weather?"

He rolled out of bed, and opened the window, draught of icy air caught his heart in a grip like death for the moment. Gough scrambled into the room, and made haste to shut out the murderous air.

"Nearly five below zero," he said. "You must come down to the office, Mr. Fisher."

Fisher lit the gas. Just for the moment he was lost in admiration of Gough\'s figure. His head was muffled in a rag torn from an old sealskin jacket. He was wrapped from head to foot in a sheepskin recently stripped from the carcase of an animal.

"Got the dodge from an old Arctic traveller," Gough explained. "It\'s pretty greasy inside, but it keeps that perishing cold out."

"I said I shouldn\'t come down to the office to-night," Fisher muttered. "This is the only place where I can keep decently warm. A good paper is no good to us—we shan\'t sell five thousand copies to-morrow."

"Oh, yes, we shall," Gough put in eagerly; "Hampden, the member for East Battersea, is waiting for you. One of the smart city gangs has cornered the coal supply. There is about half a million tons in London, but there is no prospect of more for days to come. The whole lot was bought up yesterday by a small syndicate, and the price to-morrow is fixed at three pounds per ton—to begin with. Hampden is furious."

Fisher shovelled his clothes on hastily. The journalistic instinct was aroused.

At his door Fisher staggered back as the cold struck him. With two overcoats, and a scarf round his head, the cold seemed to drag the life out of him. A brilliant moon was shining in a sky like steel, the air was filled with the fine frosty needles, a heavy hoar coated Gough\'s fleecy breast. The gardens in Russell Square were one huge mound, Southampton Row was one white pipe. It seemed to Gough and Fisher that they had London to themselves.

They did not speak, speech was next to impossible. Fisher staggered into his office and at length gasped for brandy. He declared that he had no feeling whatever. His moustache hung painfully, as if two heavy diamonds were dragging at the ends of it. The fine athletic figure of John Hampden, M.P., raged up and down the office. Physical weakness or suffering seemed to be strangers to him.

"I want you to rub it in thick," he shouted. "Make a picture of it in to-morrow\'s Chat. It\'s exclusive information I am giving you. Properly handled, there\'s enough coal in London to get over this crisis. If it isn\'t properly handled, then some hundreds of families are going to perish of cold and starvation. The State ought to have power to commandeer these things in a crisis like this, and sell them at a fair price—give them away if necessary. And now we have a handful of rich men who mean to profit by a great public calamity. I mean Hayes and Rhys-Smith and that lot. You\'ve fallen foul of them before. I want you to call upon the poorer classes not to stand this abominable outrage. I want to go down to the House of Commons to-morrow afternoon with some thousands of honest working-men behind me to demand that this crime shall be stopped. No rioting, no violence, mind. The workman who buys his coals by the hundredweight will be the worst off. If I have my way, he won\'t suffer at all—he will just take what he wants."

Fisher\'s eyes gleamed with the light of battle. He was warm now and the liberal dose of brandy had done its work. Here was a good special and a popular one to his hand. The calamity of the blizzard and the snow and the frost was bad enough, but the calamity of a failing coal supply would be hideous. Legally, there was no way of preventing those City bandits from making the most of their booty. But if a few thousand working-men in London made up their minds to have coal, nothing could prevent them.

"I\'ll do my best," Fisher exclaimed. "I\'ll take my coat off to the job—figuratively, of course. There ought to be an exciting afternoon sitting of the House to-morrow. On the whole I\'m glad that Gough dragged me out."

The Chat was a little late to press, but seeing that anything like a country edition was impossible, that made little difference. Fisher and Gough had made the most of their opportunity. The ears of Messrs. Hayes & Co. were likely to tingle over the Chat in the morning.

Fisher finished at length with a sigh of satisfaction. Huddled up in his overcoat and scarf he descended to the street. The cold struck more piercingly than ever. A belated policeman so starved as to be almost bereft of his senses asked for brandy—anything to keep frozen body and soul together. Gough, secure in his grotesque sheepskin, had already disappeared down the street.

"Come in," Fisher gasped. "It\'s dreadful. I was going home, but upon my word I dare not face it. I shall sleep by the side of my office fire to-night."

The man in blue slowly thawed out. His teeth chattered, his face was ghastly blue.

"An\' I\'ll beg a shelter too, sir," he said. "I shall get kicked out of the force. I shall lose my pension. But what\'s the good of a pension to an officer what\'s picked up frozen in the Strand?"

"That\'s logic," Fisher said sleepily. "And as to burglars——"

"Burglars! A night like this! I wish that the streets of London were always as safe. If I might be allowed to make up the fire, sir——"

But Fisher was already asleep ranged up close alongside the fender.