IT was several days before Will'm lost that haunting fear of having
displeased the great power up the chimney past all forgiveness. It began
to leave him gradually as Libby grew more and more sure of her own state
of favor. She was so good in school now that even the teacher said
nobody could be better, no matter how hard he tried. She stayed every
day to help clean the blackboards and collect the pencils. She never
missed a syllable nor stepped off the line in spelling class, nor asked
for a drink in lesson time. And she and Maudie Peters had made it up
between them not to whisper a single word until after Christmas. She was
sure now that even if Santa Claus had overheard Will'm, her explanation
that he was too little to know any better had made it all right.
It is probable, too, that Will'm's state of body helped his state of
mind, for about this time his cold was well enough for him to play out
of doors, and the thought of stars and angels and silver bells began to
be agreeable again. They gave him that big, warm feeling inside again;
the Christmas feeling of good-will to everybody.
One morning he was sitting up on a post of the side yard fence, when the
passenger train Number Four came rushing in to the station, and was
switched back on a side track right across the road from him. It was
behind time and had to wait there for orders or till the Western Flyer
passed it, or for some such reason. It was a happy morning for Will'm.
There was nothing he enjoyed so much as having one of these long Pullman
trains stop where he could watch it. Night after night he and Libby had
flattened their faces against the sitting-room window to watch the seven
o'clock limited pass by. Through its brilliantly lighted windows they
loved to see the passengers at dinner. The white tables with their
gleam of glass and shine of silver and glow of shaded lights seemed
wonderful to them. More wonderful still was it to be eating as
unconcernedly as if one were at home, with the train jiggling the tables
while it leaped across the country at its highest speed. The people who
could do such things must be wonderful too.
There were times when passengers flattening _their_ faces against the
glass to see why the train had stopped, caught the gleam of a cheerful
home window across the road, and holding shielding hands at either side
of their eyes, as they peered through the darkness, smiled to discover
those two eager little watchers, who counted the stopping of the Pullman
at this Junction as the greatest event of the day.
Will'm and Libby knew nearly every engineer and conductor on the road by
sight, and had their own names for them. The engineer on this morning
train they called Mr. Smiley, because he always had a cheerful grin for
them, and sometimes a wave of his big grimy hand. This time Mr. Smiley
was too busy and too provoked by the delay to pay any attention to the
small boy perched on the fence post. Some of the passengers finding that
they might have to wait half an hour or more began to climb out and walk
up and down the road past him. Several of them attracted by the wares in
the window of the little notion shop which had once been a parlor,
sauntered in and came out again, eating some of Grandma Neal's
doughnuts. Presently Will'm noticed that everybody who passed a certain
sleeping coach, stooped down and looked under it. He felt impelled to
look under it himself and discover why. So he climbed down from the post
and trudged along the road, kicking the rocks out of his way with stubby
little shoes already scuffed from much previous kicking. At the same
moment the steward of the dining-car stepped down from the vestibuled
platform, and strolled towards him, with his hands in his trousers'
pockets.
"Hullo, son!" he remarked good-humoredly in passing, giving an amused
glance at the solemn child stuffed into a gray sweater and blue mittens,
with a toboggan cap pulled down over his soft bobbed hair. Usually
Will'm responded to such greetings. So many people came into the shop
that he was not often abashed by strangers. But this time he was so busy
looking at something that dangled from the steward's vest pocket that he
failed to say "Hullo" back at him. It was what seemed to be the smallest
gold watch he had ever seen, and it impressed him as very queer that the
man should wear it on the outside of his pocket instead of the inside.
He stopped still in the road and stared at it until the man passed him,
then he turned and followed him slowly at a distance.
A few rods further on, the steward stooped and looked under the coach,
and spoke to a man who was out of sight, but who was hammering on the
other side. A voice called back something about a hot-box and cutting
out that coach, and reminded of his original purpose, Will'm followed on
and looked, likewise. Although he squatted down and looked for a long
time he couldn't see a single box, only the legs of the man who was
hammering on the other side. But just as he straightened up again he
caught the gleam of something round and shiningly golden, something no
bigger than a quarter, lying almost between his feet. It was a tiny baby
watch like the one that swung from the steward's vest pocket.
Thrilled by the discovery, Will'm picked it up and fondled it with both
little blue mittens. It didn't tick when he held it to his ear, and he
couldn't open it, but he was sure that Uncle Neal could open it and
start it to going, and he was sure that it was the littlest watch in the
world. It never occurred to him that finding it hadn't made it his own
to have and to carry home, just like the rainbow-lined mussel shells
that he sometimes picked up on the creek bank, or the silver dime he had
once found in a wagon rut.
[Illustration: "Here!" he said]
Then he looked up to see the steward strolling back towards him again,
his hands still in his trousers' pockets. But this time no fascinating
baby watch bobbed back and forth against his vest as he walked, and
Will'm knew with a sudden stab of disappointment that was as bad as
earache, that the watch he was fondling could never be his to carry home
and show proudly to Uncle Neal. It belonged to the man.
"Here!" he said, holding it out in the blue mitten.
"Well, I vow!" exclaimed the steward, looking down at his watchfob, and
then snatching the little disk of gold from the outstretched hand. "I
wouldn't have lost that for hardly anything. It must have come loose
when I stooped to look under the car. I think more of that than almost
anything I've got. See?"
And then Will'm saw that it was not a watch, but a little locket made to
hang from a bar that was fastened to a wide black ribbon fob. The man
pulled out the fob, and there on the other end, where it had been in
his pocket all the time, was a big watch, as big as Will'm's fist. The
locket flew open when he touched a spring, and there were two pictures
inside. One of a lady and one of a jolly, fat-cheeked baby.
"Well, little man!" exclaimed the steward, with a hearty clap on the
shoulder that nearly upset him. "You don't know how big a favor you've
done me by finding that locket. You're just about the nicest boy I've
come across yet. I'll have to tell Santa Claus about you. What's your
name?"
Will'm told him and pointed across to the shop, when asked where he
lived. At the steward's high praise Will'm was ready to take the Sky
Road himself, when he heard that he was to be reported to the Master of
the Reindeer as the nicest boy the steward had come across. His
disappointment vanished so quickly that he even forgot that he had been
disappointed, and when the steward caught him under the arms and swung
him up the steps, saying something about finding an orange, he was
thrilled with a wild brave sense of adventure.
Discovering that Will'm had never been on a Pullman since he could
remember, the steward took him through the diner to the kitchen, showing
him all the sights and explaining all the mysteries. It was as good as a
show to watch the child's face. He had never dreamed that such roasting
and broiling went on in the narrow space of the car kitchen, or
that such quantities of eatables were stored away in the mammoth
refrigerators which stood almost touching the red hot ranges. Big
shining fish from far-off waters, such as the Junction had never heard
of, lay blocked in ice in one compartment. Ripe red strawberries lay in
another, although it was mid December, and in Will'm's part of the world
strawberries were not to be thought of before the first of June. There
were more eggs than all the hens at the Junction could lay in a week,
and a white-capped, white-jacketed colored-man was beating up a dozen
or so into a white mountain of meringue, which the passengers would eat
by and by in the shape of some strange, delicious dessert, sitting at
those fascinating tables he had passed on his way in.
A quarter of an hour later when Will'm found himself on the ground
again, gazing after the departing train, he was a trifle dazed with all
he had seen and heard. But three things were clear in his mind. That he
held in one hand a great yellow orange, in the other a box of prize
pop-corn, and in his heart the precious assurance that Santa Claus would
be told by one in high authority that he was a good boy.
So elated was he by this last fact, that he decided on the way home to
send a letter up the chimney on his own account, especially as he knew
now exactly what to ask for. He had been a bit hazy on the question
before. Now he knew beyond all doubt that what he wanted more than
anything in the wide world, was _a ride on a Pullman car_. He wanted to
sit at one of those tables, and eat things that had been cooked in that
mysterious kitchen, at the same time that he was flying along through
the night on the wings of a mighty dragon breathing out smoke and fire
as it flew.
He went in to the house by way of the shop so that he might make the
bell go ting-a-ling. It was so delightfully like the bells on the
camels, also like the bells on the sleigh which would be coming before
so very long to bring him what he wanted.
Miss Sally Watts was sitting behind the counter, crocheting. To his
question of "Where's Dranma?" she answered without looking up.
"She and Mr. Neal have driven over to Westfield. They have some business
at the court house. She said you're not to go off the place again till
she gets back. I was to tell you when you came in. She looked everywhere
to find you before she left, because she's going to be gone till late in
the afternoon. Where you been, anyhow?"
Will'm told her. Miss Sally was a neighbor who often helped in the shop
at times like this, and he was always glad when such times came. It was
easy to tell Miss Sally things, and presently when a few direct
questions disclosed the fact that Miss Sally "bleeved" as he did, he
asked her another question, which had been puzzling him ever since he
had decided to ask for a ride on the train.
"How can Santa put a _ride_ in a _stocking_?"
"I don't know," answered Miss Sally, still intent on her crocheting.
"But then I don't really see how he can put anything in; sleds or dolls
or anything of the sort. He's a mighty mysterious man to me. But then,
probably he wouldn't try to put the _ride_ in a stocking. He'd send the
ticket or the money to buy it with. And he _might_ give it to you
beforehand, and not wait for stocking-hanging time, knowing how much you
want it."
All this from Miss Sally because Mrs. Neal had just told her that the
children were to be sent to their father the day before Christmas, and
that they were to go on a Pullman car, because the ordinary coaches did
not go straight through. The children were too small to risk changing
cars, and he was too busy to come for them.
Will'm stayed in the shop the rest of the morning, for Miss Sally
echoing the sentiment of everybody at the Junction, felt sorry for the
poor little fellow who was soon to be sent away to a stepmother, and
felt that it was her duty to do what she could toward making his world
as pleasant as possible for him, while she had the opportunity.
Together they ate the lunch which had been left on the pantry shelves
for them. Will'm helped set it out on the table. Then he went back into
the shop with Miss Sally. But his endless questions "got on her nerves"
after awhile, she said, and she suddenly ceased to be the good company
that she had been all morning. She mended the fire in the sitting-room
and told Will'm he'd better play in there till Libby came home. It was
an endless afternoon, so long that after he had done everything that he
could think of to pass the time, he decided he'd write his own letter
and send it up the chimney himself. He couldn't possibly wait for Libby
to come home and do it. He'd write a picture letter. It was easier to
read pictures than print, anyhow. At least for him. He slipped back into
the shop long enough to get paper and a pencil from the old secretary in
the corner, and then lying on his stomach on the hearth-rug with his
heels in the air, he began drawing his favorite sketch, a train of cars.
All that can be said of the picture is that one could recognize what it
was meant for. The wheels were wobbly and no two of the same size, the
windows zigzagged in uneven lines and were of varied shapes. The
cow-catcher looked as if it could toss anything it might pick up high
enough to join the cow that jumped over the moon. But it was
unmistakably a train, and the long line of smoke pouring back over it
from the tipsy smoke-stack showed that it was going at the top of its
speed. Despite the straggling scratchy lines any art critic must
acknowledge that it had in it that intangible quality known as life and
"go."
It puzzled Will'm at first to know how to introduce himself into the
picture so as to show that he was the one wanting a ride. Finally on top
of one of the cars he drew a figure supposed to represent a boy, and
after long thought, drew one just like it, except that the second figure
wore a skirt. He didn't want to take the ride alone. He'd be almost
afraid to go without Libby, and he knew very well that she'd like to go.
She'd often played "S'posen" they were riding away off to the other side
of the world on one of those trains which they watched nightly pass the
sitting-room window.
He wished he could spell his name and hers. He knew only the letters
with which each began, and he wasn't sure of either unless he could see
the picture on the other side of the building block on which it was
printed. The box of blocks was in the sitting-room closet. He brought it
out, emptied it on the rug and searched until he found the block bearing
the picture of a lion. That was the king of beasts, and the L on the
other side which stood for Lion, stood also for Libby. Very slowly and
painstakingly he copied the letter on his drawing, placing it directly
across the girl's skirt so that there could be no mistake. Then he pawed
over the blocks till he found the one with the picture of a whale. That
was the king of fishes, and the W on the other side which stood for
Whale, stood also for William. He tried putting the W across the boy,
but as each leg was represented by one straight line only, bent at right
angles at the bottom to make a foot, the result was confusing. He rubbed
out the legs, made them anew, and put the W over the boy's head, drawing
a thin line from the end of the W to the crossed scratches representing
fingers. That plainly showed that the Boy and the W were one and the
same, although it gave to the unenlightened the idea that the picture
had something to do with flying a kite. Then he rubbed out the L on
Libby's skirt and placed it over her head, likewise connecting her
letter with her fingers.
The rubbing-out process gave a smudgy effect. Will'm was not satisfied
with the result, and like a true artist who counts all labor as naught,
which helps him towards that perfection which is his ideal, he laid
aside the drawing as unworthy and began another.
The second was better. He accomplished it with a more certain touch and
with no smudges, and filled with the joy of a creator, sat and looked at
it a few minutes before starting it on its flight up the flue towards
the Sky Road.
The great moment was over. He had just drawn back from watching it start
when Libby came in. She came primly and quietly this time. She had
waited to leave her overshoes on the porch, her lunch basket in the
kitchen, her wraps in the entry. The white ruffled apron which she had
worn all day was scarcely mussed. The bows on her narrow braids stuck
out stiffly and properly. Her shoes were tied and the laces tucked in.
She walked on tiptoe, and every movement showed that she was keeping up
the reputation she had earned of being "so good that nobody could be any
better, no matter how hard he tried." She had been that good for over a
week.
Will'm ran to get the orange which had been given him that morning. He
had been saving it for this moment of division. He had already opened
the pop-corn box and found the prize, a little china cup no larger than
a thimble, and had used it at lunch, dipping a sip at a time from his
glass of milk.
The interest with which she listened to his account of finding the
locket and being taken aboard the train made him feel like a hero. He
hastened to increase her respect.
"Nen the man said that I was about the nicest little boy he ever saw and
he would tell Santa Claus so. An' I knew everything was all right so
I've just sended a letter up to tell him to please give me a ride on the
Pullman train."
Libby smiled in an amused, big-sister sort of way, asking how Will'm
supposed anybody could read his letters. He couldn't write anything but
scratches.
"But it was a picture letter!" Will'm explained triumphantly. "Anybody
can read picture letters." Then he proceeded to tell what he had made
and how he had marked it with the initials of the Lion and the Whale.
To his intense surprise Libby looked first startled, then troubled, then
despairing. His heart seemed to drop down into his shoes when she
exclaimed in a tragic tone:
"Well, Will'm Branfield! If you haven't gone and done it! I don't know
what ever _is_ going to happen to us _now_!"
Then she explained. _She_ had already written a letter for him, with
Susie Peters's help, asking in writing what she had asked before by
word of mouth, that he be forgiven, and requesting that he might not
find his stocking empty on Christmas morning. As to what should be in
it, she had left that to Santa's generosity, because Will'm had never
said what he wanted.
"And now," she added reproachfully, "I've _told_ you that we oughtn't to
ask for more than one thing apiece, 'cause this is the first time he's
ever been to this house, and it doesn't seem polite to ask for so much
from a stranger."
Will'm defended himself, his chin tilted at an angle that should have
been a warning to one who could read such danger signals.
"I only asked for one thing for me and one for you."
"Yes, but don't you see, _I_ had already asked for something for each of
us, so that makes two things apiece," was the almost tearful answer.
"Well, _I_ aren't to blame," persisted Will'm, "you didn't tell me what
you'd done."
"But you ought to have waited and asked me before you sent it," insisted
Libby.
"I oughtn't!"
"You _ought_, I say!" This with a stamp of her foot for emphasis.
"I oughtn't, Miss Smarty!" This time a saucy little tongue thrust itself
out at her from Will'm's mouth, and his face was screwed into the
ugliest twist he could make.
Again he had the shock of a great surprise, when Libby did not answer
with a worse face. Instead she lifted her head a little, and said in a
voice almost honey-sweet, but so loud that it seemed intended for other
ears than Will'm's, "Very well, have your own way, brother, but Santa
Claus knows that _I_ didn't want to be greedy and ask for two things!"
William answered in what was fairly a shout, "An' he knows that _I_
didn't, _neether_!"
The shout was followed by a whisper: "Say, Libby, do you s'pose he heard
that?"
Libby's answer was a convincing nod.