LITMIR.BIZ

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he magnanimously referred to the bill-book which had started him on his downward course.

      “That were a mistake; I grant ye ut were a mistake o’ jedgment. I’m goin’ to keep to th’ white card. But ut’s kind o’ funny about that poke—queerest thing that ever happened.”

      He drew out the book and eyed the name on the flap. Humpy tried to grab it, but The Hopper, frustrating the attempt, read his colleague a sharp lesson in good manners. He restored it to his pocket and glanced at the clock.

      “We gotta do somethin’ about Shaver’s stockin’s. Ut ain’t fair fer a kid to wake up an’ think Santy missed ’im. Ye got some candy, Mary; we kin put candy into ’em; that’s reg’ler.”

      Humpy brought in Shaver’s stockings and they were stuffed with the candy and popcorn Mary had provided to adorn their Christmas feast. Humpy inventoried his belongings, but could think of nothing but a revolver that seemed a suitable gift for Shaver. This Mary scornfully rejected as improper for one so young. Whereupon Humpy produced a Mexican silver dollar, a treasured pocket-piece preserved through many tribulations, and dropped it reverently into one of the stockings. Two brass buttons of unknown history, a mouth-organ Mary had bought for a neighbor boy who assisted at times in the poultry yard, and a silver spectacle case of uncertain antecedents were added.

      “We ought t’ ’a’ colored eggs fer ’im!” said The Hopper with sudden inspiration, after the stockings had been restored to Shaver’s bed. “Some yaller an’ pink eggs would ’a’ been the right ticket.”

      Mary scoffed at the idea. Eggs wasn’t proper fer Christmas; eggs was fer Easter. Humpy added the weight of his personal experience of Christian holidays to this statement. While a trusty in the Missouri penitentiary with the chicken yard in his keeping, he remembered distinctly that eggs were in demand for purposes of decoration by the warden’s children sometime in the spring; mebbe it was Easter, mebbe it was Decoration Day; Humpy was not sure of anything except that it wasn’t Christmas.

      The Hopper was meek under correction. It having been settled that colored eggs would not be appropriate for Christmas he yielded to their demand that he show some enthusiasm for disposing of his ill-gotten treasures before the police arrived to take the matter out of his hands.

      “I guess that Muriel’ll be glad to see me,” he remarked. “I guess me and her understands each other. They’s things wot is an’ things wot ain’t; an’ I guess Hop ain’t goin’ to spend no Chris’mas in jail. It’s the white card an’ poultry an’ eggs fer us; an’ we’re goin’ t’ put in a couple more incubators right away. I’m thinkin’ some o’ rentin’ that acre across th’ brook back yonder an’ raisin’ turkeys. They’s mints in turks, ef ye kin keep ’em from gettin’ their feet wet an’ dyin’ o’ pneumonia, which wipes out thousands o’ them birds. I reckon ye might make some coffee, Mary.”

      The Christmas dawn found them at the table, where they were renewing a pledge to play “the white card” when a cry from Shaver brought them to their feet.

      Shaver was highly pleased with his Christmas stockings, but his pleasure was nothing to that of The Hopper, Mary, and Humpy, as they stood about the bed and watched him. Mary and Humpy were so relieved by The Hopper’s promises to lead a better life that they were now disposed to treat their guest with the most distinguished consideration. Humpy, absenting himself to perform his morning tasks in the poultry-houses, returned bringing a basket containing six newly hatched chicks. These cheeped and ran over Shaver’s fat legs and performed exactly as though they knew they were a part of his Christmas entertainment. Humpy, proud of having thought of the chicks, demanded the privilege of serving Shaver’s breakfast. Shaver ate his porridge without a murmur, so happy was he over his new playthings.

      Mary bathed and dressed him with care. As the candy had stuck to the stockings in spots, it was decided after a family conference that Shaver would have to wear them wrong side out as there was no time to be wasted in washing them. By eight o’clock The Hopper announced that it was time for Shaver to go home. Shaver expressed alarm at the thought of leaving his chicks; whereupon Humpy conferred two of them upon him in the best imitation of baby talk that he could muster.

      “Me’s tate um to me’s gwanpas,” said Shaver; “chickee for me’s two gwanpas”—a remark which caused The Hopper to shake for a moment with mirth as he recalled his last view of Shaver’s “gwanpas” in a death grip upon the floor of “Gwanpa” Talbot’s house.

      IX,

      When The Hopper rolled away from Happy Hill Farm in the stolen machine, accompanied by one stolen child and forty thousand dollars’ worth of stolen pottery, Mary wept, whether because of the parting with Shaver, or because she feared that The Hopper would never return, was not clear.

      Humpy, too, showed signs of tears, but concealed his weakness by performing a grotesque dance, dancing grotesquely by the side of the car, much to Shaver’s joy—a joy enhanced just as the car reached the gate, where, as a farewell attention, Humpy fell down and rolled over and over in the snow.

      The Hopper’s wits were alert as he bore Shaver homeward. By this time it was likely that the confiding young Talbots had conferred over the telephone and knew that their offspring had disappeared. Doubtless the New Haven police had been notified, and he chose his route with discretion to avoid unpleasant encounters. Shaver, his spirits keyed to holiday pitch, babbled ceaselessly, and The Hopper, highly elated, babbled back at him.

      They arrived presently at the rear of the young Talbots’ premises, and The Hopper, with Shaver trotting at his side, advanced cautiously upon the house bearing the two baskets, one containing Shaver’s chicks, the other the precious porcelains. In his survey of the landscape he noted with trepidation the presence of two big limousines in the highway in front of the cottage and decided that if possible he must see Muriel alone and make his report to her.

      The moment he entered the kitchen he heard the clash of voices in angry dispute in the living-room. Even Shaver was startled by the violence of the conversation in progress within, and clutched tightly a fold of The Hopper’s trousers.

      “I tell you it’s John Wilton who has stolen Billie!” a man cried tempestuously. “Anybody who would enter a neighbor’s house in the dead of night and try to rob him—rob him, yes, and murder him in the most brutal fashion—would not scruple to steal his own grandchild!”

      “Me’s gwanpa,” whispered Shaver, gripping The Hopper’s hand, “an’ ’im’s mad.”

      That Mr. Talbot was very angry indeed was established beyond cavil. However, Mr. Wilton was apparently quite capable of taking care of himself in the dispute.

      “You talk about my stealing when you robbed me of my Lang-Yao—bribed my servants to plunder my safe! I want you to understand once for all, Roger Talbot, that if that jar isn’t returned within one hour—within one hour, sir—I shall turn you over to the police!”

      “Liar!” bellowed Talbot, who possessed a voice of great resonance. “You can’t mitigate your foul crime by charging me with another! I never saw your jar; I never wanted it! I wouldn’t have the thing on my place!”

      Muriel’s voice, full of tears, was lifted in expostulation.

      “How can you talk of your silly vases when Billie’s lost! Billie’s been stolen—and you two men can think of nothing but pot-ter-ree!”

      Shaver lifted a startled face to The Hopper.

      “Mamma’s cwyin’; gwanpa’s hurted mamma!”

      The strategic moment had arrived when Shaver must be thrust forward as an interruption to the exchange of disagreeable epithets by his grandfathers. “You trot right in there t’ yer ma, Shaver. Ole Hop ain’t goin’ t’ let ’em hurt ye!”

      He led the child through the dining room to the living-room door and pushed him gently on the scene of strife. Talbot, senior, was pacing the floor with angry strides, declaiming upon his wrongs—indeed, his theme might have been the misery

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