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 scrap 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 buttons 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 noble 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 passed, 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 dickens are we going to do?"
"Don't bother," said Ricketts, from the depths of the lounge, where he had been trying for some minutes to get a much-needed rest. "I—I—er—I haven't anything on hand, boys. Leave him to me. I'll take care of him."
"I move we all meet here to-morrow," said Grantham, "and see what's to be done with the kid."
Ricketts rose up from the lounge, and started to speak, but he was interrupted by the doctor.
"Did any of you think to ask the little tad his name?" he inquired.
"That's where I come in, boys," said Ricketts. "You needn't bother your heads about his name or his to-morrow—I'll take care of both. You men have provided him with the joys of to-day—pretty substantial joys, too, as those of us who have helped him to enjoy them can testify. As a hearthless old bachelor, bundleless and forlorn, I was unable to qualify on the toy end of things, but when it comes to names, I'll give him one as my contribution to his Christmas possessions."
"Good for you, Billie!" laughed Dobbleigh. "Would you mind telling us what it is to