A Little Book of Christmas Part 10

"Why, look who's here!" cried Dobbleigh, interrupting the doctor, as the door swung open a third time, and Seymour appeared, his raiment consisting of a blanket and a pair of carpet slippers, causing him in the dim light to give the impression of an Indian on the warpath. "By Jove, Tommy," he added, "all you need is a tomahawk in one hand, and a bunch of wooden cigars in the other, to pa.s.s for the puller-in of a tobacco shop. What are you after, sneaking in here like old Sitting Bull, at this unholy hour of the morning? After the kid's scalp?"

"Why, you see, Dobby," replied Seymour, revealing a soft, furry cap and a pair of gloves that looked as if they had just been pulled off the paws of a bear cub, "I happened to be taking these things home for my boy Jim--he's daft on skating, and it's cold as the d.i.c.kens up at Blairsport--but Jimmie can wait until New Year's for his, I guess. It came over me all of a sudden, while I was trying to get to sleep upstairs, that our honored guest might find them useful."

"Look at those chapped little fists," said the doctor. "That's your answer, Seymour!"

"They're his, all right," said Seymour, sitting on the side of the bed, and comparing the gloves with the red little hands that lay inert on the counterpane. "By Jove!" he muttered, as he took one of the diminutive hands in his own. "They're like sandpaper."

[Ill.u.s.tration: One by one the prisoners of the night dropped in surrept.i.tiously. _Page_ 155.]

"Selling papers in winter doesn't give these babies exactly the sort of paddies you'd expect to find on a mollycoddle," said the doctor.

And so, here in the House of the Seven Santas, things went for the next hour. One by one all the prisoners of the night, with the exception of Ricketts, dropped in surrept.i.tiously, to find that the ideas of each were common to them all, and the little mite under the bedclothes was destined soon to emerge from the riches of his dreams into a reality even richer and more substantial. The varied gifts were ranged about the foot of the bed, the golf stockings bulging with sweets were hung at its head, and the big-hearted donors retired, this time to that real sleep which comes to him who has had the satisfaction of some kindly deed to look back upon.

"Poor Ricketts!" sighed the doctor, as he noted the one absentee. "How much these old bachelors lose at this season of the year!"

Two hours later, just as the first rays of the dawn began to light up the guest room, its small occupant opened his eyes, and began rubbing them violently with his fists.

"Chee!" was his first utterance, and then he sat up and gazed about him. His unfamiliar surroundings naturally puzzled him, and a look of childish wonder came over his face. "Where'm I at?" he muttered. "Guess diss must be dat Heaven place de guys down to de mission talks about."

He clambered out of bed, and as he did so his eyes took in the wondrous array of gifts spread before him.

"Well, whad'd'yer know about dat?" he muttered. "What kind of a choint is diss, anyhow?"

As he attempted to walk across the room his small feet became entangled in the flowing skirt of Mallerby's bath robe, which he wore in lieu of a nightshirt.

"Dat's it," he said, as he tripped, and stumbled to the floor. "I'm dead, dat's what I am--and dese is my anchel clo'es. Chee, but dey's hard to walk in. Seems to me I'd radder have me pants."

In a moment he had regained his feet, and the marvelous variety of toys began to reveal themselves in detail to his astounded vision.

"Will yer pipe de layout!" he gasped ecstatically. "Wonder what kid's goin' to have de luck to draw dem in his socks?"

And just then the door opened again, and a sleepy-eyed old bachelor came stealing in, in the person of Ricketts. He wore his pajamas, and a yellow mackintosh thrown over his shoulders.

"Good morning, kiddie," he said, closing the door softly behind him.

"Merry Christmas to you!"

"Merry Chrissmus yerself!" smiled the youngster. "Say, mister, kin yer tell me where I'm at? Diss ain't like my reg'lar lodgin' house, and I must ha' got in wrong somehow."

"Where is your regular lodging house?" asked Ricketts, seating himself on the side of the bed.

"Oh, any old place where dere's room fer me an' me feet at de same time," replied the boy. "Packin' boxes mostly in de winter-time, and de docks in de summer."

"But your parents?" demanded Ricketts. "Where are they?"

"Me what?" asked the boy.

"Your parents--your father and mother?" explained Ricketts.

"I ain't never had no mudder," said the boy. "But me fadder--well, me an' him had a sc.r.a.p over me wages las' summer, and I ain't seen him since."

"Your wages, eh?" smiled Ricketts. The idea of this little tad earning wages struck him as being rather humorous.

"He t'ought I ought to give him de whole wad," said the boy, "and when he licked me for spendin' a nickel on meself and a fr'en' o' mine las'

Fourth o' July, I give him de skidoo."

"I see," said Ricketts, regarding the little guest with a singular light in his eye. "You've got a fine lot of stuff here from old Santa Claus, haven't you?"

"What, me?" asked the boy, gazing earnestly into Ricketts' face. "Is dese here t'ings for me?"

"Why, of course," said Ricketts. "Old Daddy Santa Claus on his rounds last night found you occupying a handsome apartment on Fifth Avenue, but the steam heat had been turned off, and, fearing you might catch cold, he picked you up and brought you to his own home. He'd been looking for you all day."

"And dese is--really--_fer me_?" cried the child.

"Every blessed stick and shred of them," said Ricketts fervently.

The boy squatted flat upon the floor, completely staggered by the sudden revelation of his wealth.

"_Chee!_" was all he could think of to say.

And then began a romp through a veritable toyland, in which two lonely wanderers through the vales of life had the first taste of joys they had never known before; the red-headed little son of the streets getting the first glimpse of kindness that his starved little soul had ever enjoyed; the confirmed old bachelor finding the only outlet that fate had ever vouchsafed him for those instincts of fatherhood which are the priceless heritage of us all.

Small wonder that the play waxed fast, furious, and noisy. The lad, up to this time confronted ever with the pressing necessities of life, developed a capacity for play that was all the more intense for the privations of his limited years; the bachelor finding the dam of his pent-up feelings loosened into an overwhelming flood of pure joyousness.

There were cries of joy, and shrieks of laughter, and when, with some difficulty, because of his lack of experience, Ricketts finally succeeded in getting the lad arrayed in his rough-rider suit, whose buckles and b.u.t.tons seemed aggravatingly small for hands that had developed nothing but thumbs, the tin trumpet, with all the stops save the one that would silence it even temporarily, was brought into play; and the battles that were fought in the ensuing hour between a n.o.ble army of warriors, led by the youngster against himself as either a Spanish army or a wild Indian tribe, have no equals in the annals of warfare.

The morning was pretty well advanced when the other sleeping Santas were roused from their dreams by shouts of victory, to be confronted upon investigation by a prostrate enemy, in the person of Ricketts, lying face downward upon the floor, with a diminutive rough-rider standing upon the small of his back, waving a nickel sword in the air, while he blew ear-splitting blasts upon his trumpet to announce the arrival of the conqueror.

"Well, well, well!" said Doctor Mallerby, with a loud laugh, as he and the others burst into the room. "What's going on? Another San Juan Hill?"

"The same," panted Ricketts, from his coign of disadvantage. "And I'm the hill. All that remains now is for some of you fellows to hurry up, and get a bath towel from somewhere, and hoist the flag of truce."

The morning pa.s.sed, and the storm showing some signs of abatement, the exiled men began to cherish hopes of getting home before night.

Communication with the railway station elicited the gratifying news that about four o'clock in the afternoon a train would be sent forth to carry the marooned suburbanites back to the scenes of their domestic desires.

Meanwhile, the honored guest received to the full all the attention of which the Seven Santas were capable; only in making up for the lost playtime of the past the guest proved to be untiring, while the Seven Santas were compelled now and then to work in relays in order to keep up with the game.

Hence it was that at various hours of the day dignified business men were to be seen squatting upon the floor, irrespective of that dignity, running iron cars over tin railway tracks, arranging the serried ranks of tin soldiers in battle array, answering strident summonses to battle sounded on that everlasting tin trumpet, and, strange to say, joining their young friend in feasts of candy and other digestion-destroying sweets which they had forever eschewed long years before.

"I suppose I'll suffer for this," said Grantham, as at the command of his superior officer he swallowed the handle of a peppermint walking stick, after fletcherizing it carefully for several minutes, "but, by ginger, it's worth it."

"You'll be all right, Gran," laughed the doctor. "If worst comes to the worst, I'll blow you to a pony of ipecac, unless you prefer squills."

But at last even the strenuous nature of the guest began to show signs of the day's inroads upon his strength, and when the hour for the departure of the suburbanites came shortly before four, and they all gathered around to bid him their adieus, they were hardly surprised to find him cuddled up on the bearskin rug before the fire, fast asleep, with his tin trumpet hugged tightly to his breast.

"We're a great lot!" said Dobbleigh suddenly. "We can't all go off, and leave him here alone. What the d.i.c.kens are we going to do?"