_AN ELECTRICAL ERROR_
Jimmieboy's father and mother had occasion to go to the city for a
couple of days recently, and inasmuch as Jimmieboy is such a very movey
young person they did not deem it well to leave him at home in the care
of the nurse, who had as much as she could do taking care of his
brothers, and so they took him along with them. One evening, having to
go out to dinner, they invited a young man in Jimmieboy's father's
employ to come up to the hotel and stay about and keep the little fellow
amused until his bedtime, and to look out for him as well after that
time until their return, which Fred was very willing to do since he
received $2 reward for his trouble. He said afterward that he earned
the two dollars in the first ten minutes playing Waterloo with
Jimmieboy, in which pleasing game Jimmieboy was Wellington and Fred was
Napoleon, but once a year he didn't mind earning a dollar or two extra
in that way.
After the game of Waterloo was over and the Napoleonic Fred had managed
to collect the buttons which had been removed from his vest in the first
half of the game, the Wellingtonian Jimmieboy decided that he was tired
enough to go to bed, and inasmuch as Fred didn't oppose him very hard,
to bed he went, and a half hour later both the boys, young and old, were
snoring away as though their lives depended on it. It was quite evident
that neither of them was as yet sufficiently strong to stand the game of
Waterloo for more than an hour--and I don't really wonder at it, for my
own experience has led me to believe that even Bonaparte and Wellington
themselves would have been wearied beyond endurance by an hour's play at
that diversion, however well they may have stood up under the anxieties
of the original battle. In my first game with Jimmieboy I lost five
pounds, eight buttons, a necktie, two handfuls of hair and a portion of
my temper. So, as I say, I do not wonder that they were exhausted by
their efforts and willing to rest after them, though how either of them
could sleep with the other snoring as loud as a factory whistle I could
never understand.
Fred must have been unusually weary, for, as you will see, he slept more
than Jimmieboy did--in fact, it wasn't later than nine o'clock when the
latter waked up.
"Say, Fred," he cried.
Fred answered with a deeper snore than ever.
"Fred!" cried Jimmieboy again. "I want a drink of water."
"Puggrrh," snored Fred.
"Stop your growling and ring the telephone for some ice water," said
Jimmieboy, and again Fred answered with a snore, and in his sleep
muttered something that sounded like "It'll cost you $10 next time," the
meaning of which Jimmieboy didn't understand, but which I think had some
reference to what it would cost his father to secure Fred as a companion
for Jimmieboy on another occasion.
"Guess I'll have to ring it up myself," said Jimmieboy, and with that he
jumped out of bed and rushed to that delightful machine which is now to
be found in most of the modern hotels, by means of which you can ring up
anything you may happen to want, by turning a needle about on a dial
until it points to the printed description of the thing you desire and
pushing a red button.
"Wonder how they spell ice water," said Jimmieboy. "E-y-e spells I, and
s-e spells sss-e-y-e-s-e, ice." But he looked in vain for any such thing
on the dial.
"O, well," he said, after searching and searching, "I'll ring up
anything, and when the boy comes with it I'll order the ice water."
So he gave the needle an airy twist, pushed the button, and sat down to
wait for the boy. Meanwhile he threw a pillow at Fred, who still lay
snoring away on the sofa, only now he was puffing like a freight train
engine when its wheels slip on an icy railway track.
"Lazybones," snickered Jimmieboy, as the pillow landed on Fred's curly
head. But Fred answered never a word, which so exasperated Jimmieboy
that he got up with the intention of throwing himself at his sleeping
companion, when he heard a queer noise over by the fireplace.
"Hullo, down there, 521. Is that you?" cried somebody.
Jimmieboy stared at the chimney in blank amazement.
"Hurry up below there, 521. Is that you?" came the voice again.
"This room is 521," replied Jimmieboy, realizing all of a sudden that it
was no doubt to him that these words were addressed.
"Well, then, look sharp, will you? Turn off the fire--put it out--do
something with it. You can't expect me to come down there with the fire
burning, can you? I'm not fireproof, you know," returned the voice.
"There isn't any fire here," said Jimmieboy.
"Nonsense," cried the voice. "What's that roaring I hear?"
"Oh--that," Jimmieboy answered. "That's Fred. He's snoring."
"Ah! Then I will come down," came the voice, and in an instant there was
a small fall of soot, a rustling in the chimney, and a round-faced,
fat-stomached, white-bearded little old gentleman with a twinkling eye,
appeared, falling like a football into the grate and bounding like a
tennis ball out into the middle of the floor.
"Santa Claus, at your service," he said, bowing low to Jimmieboy.
The boy looked at him breathless with astonishment for a moment.
"Well--well----" put in the old man impatiently. "What is it you want
with me? I'm very busy, so pray don't detain me. Is it one of my new
Conversational Brownies you are after? If so, say so. Fine things, these
Conversational Brownies."
"I never heard of 'em," said Jimmieboy.
"Coz why?" laughed Santa Claus, twirling airily about on the toes of his
left foot. "Coz why? Bee-coz there ain't never been any for you to hear
about. I invented 'em all by myself. You have Brownies in books that
don't move. Good. I like 'em, you like 'em, we all like 'em. You have
Brownies out of books. Better--but they can't talk and all bee-coz
they're stuffed with cotton. It isn't their fault. It's the cotton's
fault. Take a man and stuff him with cotton and he wouldn't be able to
say a word, but stuff him with wit and anecdotes and he'll talk.
Wherefore I have invented a Conversational Brownie. He's made of calico,
but he's stuffed with remarks, and he has a little metal hole in his
mouth, and when you squeeze him remarks oozes out between his lips and
there you are. Eh? Fine?"
"Bully," said Jimmieboy.
"Was that what you rang for? Quick, hurry up, I haven't any time to
waste at this season of the year."
"Well, no," Jimmieboy answered. "Not having ever heard of 'em, of
course."
"Oh, then you wanted one of my live wood doll babies," said Santa Claus.
"Of course. They're rather better than the Conversational Brownies,
perhaps, I guess; I don't know. Still, they last longer, as long as you
water 'em. Was it one of those you wanted?"
"What is a live wood doll baby?" asked Jimmieboy.
"One o' my newest new, new things," replied Santa Claus. "'Stead o'
making wooden dolls out of dead wood, I makes 'em out o' live wood. Keep
some o' the roots alive, make your doll, plant it proper, water it, and
it'll grow just like a man. My live oak dolls that I'm making this year,
a hundred years from now will be great giants."
"Splendid idea," said Jimmieboy. "But how about the leaves. Don't they
sprout out and hide the doll?"
"Of course they do, if you don't see that they're pulled off," retorted
Santa Claus. "You don't expect me to give you toys and look after 'em
all at the same time, do you?"
"No," said Jimmieboy.
"Well, it's good you don't," said Santa Claus, turning a somersault
backward. "It's werry good you don't, for should you had have you'd have
been disappointed. But, I say, was that what you wanted, or were you
after one of my new patent typewriters that you wind up? Don't keep me
waiting all night----"
"I never heard of your new patent typewriters that you wind up,"
Jimmieboy answered.
"That isn't the question," interrupted Santa Claus nervously, "though I
suppose it's the answer, for if you had heard of my windable writer it
would have been the thing you wanted. It's a grand invention, that
machine. You take a key, wind the thing up, having first loaded it with
paper, and what do you suppose it does?"
"Writes?" asked Jimmieboy.
"Exactly," replied Santa Claus. "It writes stories and poems and jokes.
There are five keys goes with each machine--one poetry key, one joke
key, one fairy tale key, a story of adventure key, and a solemn Sunday
school story key that writes morals and makes you wonder whether you're
as good as you ought to be."
"Well," said Jimmieboy, "now that I know about that, that's what I want,
though as a matter of fact I rang you up for a glass of ice water."
"What!" cried Santa Claus, indignantly, bounding about the room like a
tennis ball again. "Me? Do you mean to say you've summoned me away from
my work at this season of the year just to bring you a glass of ice
water?"
"I--I didn't mean for you to bring it," said Jimmieboy, meekly. "I--I
must have made a mistake----"
"It's outrageous," said Santa Claus, stamping his foot, "You hadn't
oughter make mistakes. I won't bring you anything on Christmas--no, not
a thing. You----"
A knock at the door interrupted the little old man, and Jimmieboy, on
going to see who was there, discovered the hall boy with the pitcher of
water.
"What's that?" asked Santa, as Jimmieboy returned.
"It's the water," replied the little fellow. "So I couldn't have made a
mistake after all."
"Hum!" said Santa, stroking his beard slowly and thoughtfully. "I
guess--I guess the wires must be crossed--so it wasn't your fault--and I
will bring you something, but the man who ought to have looked after
those wires and didn't won't find anything in his stocking but a big
hole in the toe on Christmas."
The old fellow then shook hands good-by with the boy, and walked to the
chimney.
"Let's see--what shall I bring you?" he asked, pausing.
"The windable writer," said Jimmieboy.
"All right," returned Santa, starting up the chimney. "You can have one
if I get it finished in time, but I am afraid this annoying delay will
compel me to put off the distribution of those machines until some other
year."
And with that he was gone.
Meanwhile Jimmieboy is anxiously waiting for Christmas to see if it will
bring him the windable writer. I don't myself believe that it will, for
the last I heard Santa had not returned to his workshop, but whether he
got stuck in the hotel chimney or not nobody seems to know.