Part 29 (1/2)
”Look, daddy.” John pointed to a locomotive with pedals and a seated cab for a youthful engineer. ”I saw one, once. All red and s.h.i.+ny, 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.