The Ghost of Christmas Present by Scott Abbott Page A

followed.
    â€œWhat a character,” George said as he dropped a large bill into the paper cup now circling its way around the crowd.
    â€œHe’s our very own Cupid,” said the young woman who held onto Kent’s arm as he tucked in another bill and passed the cup.
    â€œI got a letter from my son, who’s been given last-minute leave to come home for Christmas,” said Mindy happily to no one in particular. “And he predicted it. I don’t know. Maybe he even made it happen.”
    She dropped her own bill into the cup. The crowd didn’t disperse, but just stood and watched in wonder as Mindy, the lady from the café who was always short on time and temper, walked up to the green-robed Ghost and embraced him.
    Patrick stood still. He was entirely unaccustomed to being touched by the strangers from whom he begged. After all, generosity and compassion for a fellow human only went so far. No one actually touched a street person. In fact, he had come to believe that people gave money precisely in order to avoid personal contact. But then he became Patrick Guthrie again, school drama teacher, father to Braden, and the kind of man who could return a hug to a nice lady who just needed to bridge the gap till her own son was in her arms once more. The crowd broke out in a street-corner ovation.
    Mindy stepped back and joined in the spontaneous applause, which slowly died down to silence. Patrick stood alone like an actor on a stage whose rapt audience waited for a final soliloquy. “If we shadows have offended, think but this and all is mended. That you have but slumbered here while these visions did appear, and this weak and idle theme no more yielding but a dream.”
    The evening crowd listened intently as Patrick offered the weekend farewell. Even the traffic noise seemed to die away as he continued his parting words. “Gentles do not reprehend. If you pardon, we will mend. And as I am an honest Puck—”
    â€œSomebody stole my wallet!” Mindy yelled.
    The thug traded nods with his cohort, who moved through the crowd as people began checking their jackets and pants.
    â€œMine’s gone, too!” cried Kent’s fiancée.
    â€œAnd mine!” reverberated through the crowd as the thug’s cohort brushed up against Patrick, whose incredulous gaze saw more people finding empty pockets and purses.
    â€œIt’s the beggar!” shouted the thug.
    The cohort grabbed Patrick, who fought to pull away, but the moment he broke free from his grip, a shower of leather dropped from his green robe and rained on the sidewalk. Patrick stood inside the ring of wallets and change purses surrounding his legs and looked up at the eyes that stared back in disbelief.
    Patrick picked up what he recognized to be ­Mindy’s wallet and tried to hand it to her. “It wasn’t me. I’ve taken nothing from anyone.”
    Mindy shook her head and grabbed the wallet away from him. “And my son’s service pin was in there.”
    Helpless, Patrick looked out as the crowd rapidly descended into a mob. “It wasn’t me. I p-promise all of you,” he stammered. “Someone has done this to me!” he yelled just before he caught the eyes of the thug. “It was him! He’s a fake Santa Claus who works this street with a fake charity badge—”
    â€œCall the cops!” cried Kent.
    But there was no need. The patrol car was already being waved down by the cohort, who wasted no time in spinning his lie.
    Patrick saw the flashing lights go on as the two policemen jumped out onto the street, and he turned and hurried toward the far end of the crowd. But a couple of men stepped up to block his way. “Not a chance, buddy.”
    Patrick swerved in another direction, but again the crowd cut him off from any avenue of hope. There was only one possible way out of the crowd: in the grip of the two cops, who grabbed him and dragged him to the