A Son of the City Part 29

"Look, daddy." John pointed to a locomotive with pedals and a seated cab for a youthful engineer. "I saw one, once. All red and shiny, with a black smokestack. And the bell really rings."

"But don't you think that's too much money for a toy?"

The boy nodded reluctantly. "Still, it's such lots of fun to just _wish_ for things, even though you know you can't have them."

The strong arms tightened about him tenderly for a moment. As they relaxed, John turned the leaves back rapidly.

"Let's begin at the very beginning," he explained, then rapped the first page petulantly. "Nothing but dolls and dolls and more dolls," as a procession of things dear to the feminine heart pa.s.sed by; "and doll bathtubs and dishes and other sissy things." He bent forward suddenly.

"That's better. A 'lectric railroad. Let's take your pencil." He marked an irregular cross beside the ill.u.s.tration. "And here come the sleds.

Lots of them aren't so very 'spensive. And banks," he smiled. "I guess mine's big enough, isn't it, daddy?"

Mr. Fletcher joined in the smile. Indeed until he had seen that porker safe on his son's bureau, he had no idea that so large a china animal existed. The boy broke in on his thoughts excitedly.

"Punch and Judys!" His memory swept back to the raftered hall and Professor O'Reilley's performance. "They're such fun, and they don't cost very much. If I had one, I wouldn't spend any money on those shows, either."

His father chuckled at the bit of juvenile diplomacy. "You'd better make out your Christmas list for us before that pencil gets worn out making crosses, son."

He slid from the paternal knee and was off to the library in a trice.

Mrs. Fletcher had overheard the finish of the conversation and smiled in on him before she joined her husband in reading the evening paper.

Minutes pa.s.sed.

"Most finished, son?" called Mr. Fletcher. "It's nearly bedtime, you know."

A grunt was the only response.

"Better add a few things you'll need around the flat when you and Louise are married!"

"John!" Mrs. Fletcher rattled her newspaper disapprovingly. "Do stop teasing that boy."

A few moments later, her son appeared in the doorway, yawning sleepily.

"It isn't ready yet," he said. "I'm going to bed now."

Late the following evening, Mrs. Fletcher opened her son's door to see if he slept soundly, and a sc.r.a.p of paper fluttered from an anchoring pin to the floor. She picked it up. True to his peculiar custom, John had presented his Christmas needs in a manner which seemed more delicate than to ask in person for them. With a whimsical, sympathetic smile, she rejoined her husband in the big bedroom.

"Look what your joking did last night!" She handed him the slip of paper. He, too, chuckled tenderly, for the scrawl ran: "What I want for Chrismas: Pictures, pretty ones, Picture frames, Chairs, Plates for dinner, Knives, Spoons, Anything for a flat." A little s.p.a.ce followed as if the author had hesitated before he had added in heavier writing that which told of a longing not to be denied, "Books, lots of them."

Christmas drew nearer. The delivery wagons from the down-town stores made more and more frequent stops at the Fletchers, to leave odd-shaped bundles in the hallway, bundles at which John would gaze longingly as if to pierce the outer wrappings and excelsior. Watching the packages arrive was half the fun of Christmas, anyway.

His own shopping list was small. He broached the subject of a gift for his father to Mrs. Fletcher. Would she buy it, the next time she went to town? "Then it'll be a surprise for dad." Likewise he approached Mr.

Fletcher. "Then mother won't know I'm buying her a book," he explained.

But he was uncertain what to order for Louise. He'd never made a present to a girl before.

The Friday before the great holiday, the papers upset his plans. The store of the _Toy Book_ announced that "Santa Claus leaves tomorrow for his home at the North Pole. As a farewell inducement to the children of this city to visit him, he will give a splendid present to each and every girl or boy accompanied by an adult."

The North Pole part was all bosh. John knew that well, thanks to his present sophistication. But the lure of the present set him to thinking.

Couldn't he--providing of course that maternal permission was given--go down town and do his shopping Sat.u.r.day afternoon and wander around the different toy displays to his heart's content? But there was the paper route. Blame the nuisance, anyway!

He sprinted up to see Bill after supper. Would his chum make the deliveries if he gave him a list of the customers? John would be willing to pay a dime for the service.

Silvey a.s.sented gladly, for ten-cent pieces were scarcities among the small boy population just before Christmas, when the display of penny and five-cent novelties in the school store window proved so tempting.

Thus the difficulty was solved.

Two o'clock the following day found John following the varied shopping crowd through the revolving doors of the biggest department store.

Inside, the aisles were packed with a jostling, slowly moving throng.

Fat, breathless hausfraus rubbed elbows with high-cheeked, almond-eyed Slav maidens, and tired office clerks took advantage of the half holiday to fill their shopping lists. Here, a well-dressed, clear-complexioned lady of leisure examined an expensive knickknack, there an Irish mother led her brood to the throng around the elevators that they might see Santa Claus. But they were all filled with a desire to buy, buy, buy, in the name of the Christmas Spirit, and buyers and department heads rubbed their hands gleefully as they watched the overworked clerks. John fought his way to the nearest floorman, a white-haired veteran of many such rush seasons.

"Where's the neckties?" he asked. That employee looked down at him wearily. "Next to the last aisle--to your right."

Past the silverware counter, past the women's gloves, past innumerable little booths with high-priced holiday trinkets, and past the fountain-pen display--at last the long, oval counter came in sight.

Eager purchasers stood two and three deep around the s.p.a.ces where goods were on display. Clerks hurried back and forth in response to the calls of the wrapping girls, and change carriers popped unceasingly from the pneumatic tubes. John plied his elbows vigorously and worked his way through the thickest of the crowd. Above him, hands grabbed feverishly at the tangled heap of ties on the counter top, while querulous voices requested instant attention from the sales force.

One of the four-in-hands dropped over the edge. The boy seized upon it, fingered it, and threw the bit of goods back in the heap. Poor stuff that, even at a quarter. His mother's frequent dissertations upon silk samples which she had brought home had taught him that much. He waved a frantic hand to attract attention until a tall, spectacled clerk took pity on him.

"Let's see a tie, a real one! Don't care if I have to pay a whole half-dollar for it!"

"What color?"

John's lower lip drooped. He hadn't noticed his father's taste in neckwear. "Red," he hazarded at last.

A crimson horror was thrust in front of him. Yellow cross-stripes clamored against the fiery background. The clerk twisted it deftly around his forefinger and, behold, it was made up as if in the paternal collar.

"Like it?"

John nodded and brought out a fifty-cent piece which he had forced from the pig bank that morning. A moment later, the wrapped holly box was given him, and he was off in the direction of the book department.

Still the crowds! They choked the aisles and carried him here and there at the mercy of their eddies. Now he was forced up against a wooden counter edge, now jammed against two fat women in rusty black who were buying devotional books for the edification of less pious friends. At last a sign, "Popular copyrights, fifty cents a volume," gave impetus to his. .h.i.therto haphazard course.

The poorly dressed salesgirl behind the counter smiled down at him in a manner which successive ten o'clock sessions had failed to eradicate.

"What kind?" she asked.

His gaze wandered helplessly over the bewildering array of volumes.

"Here's something everyone's reading," she suggested, holding up an inane, pretty-girl covered book. He eyed it dubiously and pointed to a t.i.tle which hinted of the West and of Indian fights.

"Give me that one," he said decisively. His own love affair had proven that heroes and heroines in every day life never have the easy sailing which a limited reading of popular novels had implied. Anyway, cowboy stories were the most exciting.

With the two packages wedged securely under his arm, he battled a way to the elevators. The family shopping was over and the real business of the day, a tour of the toy section and a present for Louise, called him.

"Fifth floor," droned the elevator man. "Toys, dolls, games, Christmas-tree ornaments."

His words became drowned in a sudden babel which made ordinary conversation impossible. A murmur of a thousand voices blended with the rattle of mechanical trains and the tooting of toy horns. Impatient salesmen called "Cash, cash, cash!" at the top of their lungs. Wails arose from hot, disgruntled infants. Now and then a large steam engine in operation at one counter corner, whistled shrilly when mischievous juvenile hands swung back the throttle.

At the far end of the floor, where the carpet and rug department had been shifted for the holiday season, a long line of people were waiting.

Heavily clad, perspiring women shifted infants from one arm to the other as they walked patiently along. Poorly clad street loafers sought to idle away their time with a visit to Santa Claus. Tall, slim young women yanked their little brothers into place or besought small sisters to "Hush up, we're nearly there!" And up and down the whole line, a baker's dozen of streets gamins skirmished on the lookout for some adult to whom they might attach themselves for the time being.

Clearly that pointed the way to the little house and the fulfillment of the gift promise.