Part 32 (1/2)
”I got a railway with forty-'leven pieces of track.”
”My uncle sent me a peachy pair of boxing gloves,” Sid continued.
”Just wait till you see what my uncle sends me. Always comes in the mail, it does, but it hasn't come yet. Besides, I got a new sled.”
”And I've got a punching bag.”
”But you ought to see my 'lectric motor,” retorted John, still undaunted. ”You just wait till you see the toys I make for it to run.”
Sid had saved his last and most cherished possession until the last. ”My mother, she gave me a real gun, a Winchester. It'll shoot across the lake, it shoots so far. I'm going hunting with it on the ranch, next summer.”
”That's all right.” John was not in the least nonplussed. ”But the cops won't let you shoot it in the city, and you've got to wait until spring comes before you can use it. I can go home and have all sorts of fun with _all_ my things, _now_.”
Silvey and Perry sauntered up.
”'Lo!” came the inevitable greeting.
”'Lo!” came the inevitable reply.
”What did you get for Christmas?” asked Perry.
John allied himself instantly with Sid in the effort to outboast the new arrivals.
”Sid's got a sure enough gun,” he said impressively. ”Bigger'n I am.”
”And John's got an electric motor,” chimed in Sid as John finished.
”He's going to hitch it on his his new sled with a pair of oars, and go rowing over the snow when snow comes. My, but it's strong!”
”We've got a Christmas tree,” spoke up Silvey.
”So've we,” said John.
”So've we,” Perry added.
”But mine's bigger'n any of yours,” Bill insisted. ”It's so big, we most had to cut a hole in the ceiling to set it up. And wide? It's so wide I can hardly get in the room with it.”
”'Tain't,” exclaimed John incredulously. ”Nothing can be bigger'n ours.”
”Come and see,” was Silvey's unanswerable retort. So the quartette trooped up the street to ”come and see.”
On their way, they pa.s.sed the postman, struggling under his load of Christmas packages. Not only was his leather sack packed to overflowing with mail, but a little cart which he dragged behind him on the walk also held its quota of letters and gifts.
”Merry Christmas!” the boys called to him. He was a genial soul, not in the least like the evil-tempered crank who had held the route the year before.
He smiled back at them, for he had just been given a seventh necktie which a family had decided was too hideous to be worn by the original recipient, and was in high spirits.
”Any mail for us?” came the chorus of inquiry.
He fingered the mail in his sack. ”Here you are, young Fletcher! Catch!”