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A
REVERSIBLE
SANTA CLAUS

BY
MEREDITH NICHOLSON

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
FLORENCE H. MINARD

BOSTON and NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

The Riverside Press, Cambridge

1917

COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY MEREDITH NICHOLSON

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

_Published October 1917_


By Meredeth Nicholson

    A REVERSIBLE SANTA CLAUS. Illustrated.
    THE PROOF OF THE PUDDING. Illustrated.
    THE POET. Illustrated.
    OTHERWISE PHYLLIS. With frontispiece in color.
    THE PROVINCIAL AMERICAN AND OTHER PAPERS.
    A HOOSIER CHRONICLE. With illustrations.
    THE SIEGE OF THE SEVEN SUITORS. With illustrations.

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

BOSTON AND NEW YORK





A Reversible Santa Claus

[Illustration: "DO YOU MIND TELLING ME JUST WHY YOU READ THAT NOTE?"
_(Page 78)_]


Illustrations

"DO YOU MIND TELLING ME JUST WHY YOU READ THAT NOTE?"   _Frontispiece_

THE HOPPER GRINNED, PROUD OF HIS SUCCESS,
  WHICH MARY AND HUMPY VIEWED WITH GRUDGING ADMIRATION                  44

THE FAINT CLICK OF A LATCH MARKED THE PROWLER'S PROXIMITY TO A HEDGE   116

THE THREE MEN GATHERED ROUND THEM, STARING DULLY                       150

_From Drawings by F. Minard_

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]




A Reversible Santa Claus





I


Mr. William B. Aikins, _alias_ "Softy" Hubbard, _alias_ Billy The Hopper,
paused for breath behind a hedge that bordered a quiet lane and peered out
into the highway at a roadster whose tail light advertised its presence to
his felonious gaze. It was Christmas Eve, and after a day of unseasonable
warmth a slow, drizzling rain was whimsically changing to snow.

The Hopper was blowing from two hours' hard travel over rough country. He
had stumbled through woodlands, flattened himself in fence corners to
avoid the eyes of curious motorists speeding homeward or flying about
distributing Christmas gifts, and he was now bent upon committing himself
to an inter-urban trolley line that would afford comfortable
transportation for the remainder of his journey. Twenty miles, he
estimated, still lay between him and his domicile.

The rain had penetrated his clothing and vigorous exercise had not greatly
diminished the chill in his blood. His heart knocked violently against his
ribs and he was dismayed by his shortness of wind. The Hopper was not so
young as in the days when his agility and genius for effecting a quick
"get-away" had earned for him his sobriquet. The last time his Bertillon
measurements were checked (he was subjected to this humiliating
experience in Omaha during the Ak-Sar-Ben carnival three years earlier)
official note was taken of the fact that The Hopper's hair, long carried
in the records as black, was rapidly whitening.

At forty-eight a crook--even so resourceful and versatile a member of the
fraternity as The Hopper--begins to mistrust himself. For the greater part
of his life, when not in durance vile, The Hopper had been in hiding, and
the state or condition of being a fugitive, hunted by keen-eyed agents of
justice, is not, from all accounts, an enviable one. His latest experience
of involuntary servitude had been under the auspices of the State of
Oregon, for a trifling indiscretion in the way of safe-blowing. Having
served his sentence, he skillfully effaced himself by a year's siesta on
a pine-apple plantation in Hawaii. The island climate was not wholly
pleasing to The Hopper, and when pine-apples palled he took passage from
Honolulu as a stoker, reached San Francisco (not greatly chastened in
spirit), and by a series of characteristic hops, skips, and jumps across
the continent landed in Maine by way of the Canadian provinces. The Hopper
needed money. He was not without a certain crude philosophy, and it had
been his dream to acquire by some brilliant _coup_ a sufficient fortune
upon which to retire and live as a decent, law-abiding citizen for the
remainder of his days. This ambition, or at least the means to its
fulfillment, can hardly be defended as praiseworthy, but The Hopper was a
singular character and we must take him as we find him. Many prison
chaplains and jail visitors bearing tracts had striven with little
success to implant moral ideals in the mind and soul of The Hopper, but he
was still to be catalogued among the impenitent; and as he moved southward
through the Commonwealth of Maine he was so oppressed by his poverty, as
contrasted with the world's abundance, that he lifted forty thousand
dollars in a neat bundle from an express car which Providence had
sidetracked, apparently for his personal enrichment, on the upper waters
of the Penobscot. Whereupon he began perforce playing his old game of
artful dodging, exercising his best powers as a hopper and skipper. Forty
thousand dollars is no inconsiderable sum of money, and the success of
this master stroke of his career was not to be jeopardized by careless
moves. By craftily hiding in the big woods and making himself agreeable
to isolated lumberjacks who rarely saw newspapers, he arrived in due
course on Manhattan Island, where with shrewd judgment he avoided the
haunts of his kind while planning a future commensurate with his new
dignity as a capitalist.

He spent a year as a diligent and faithful employee of a garage which
served a fashionable quarter of the metropolis; then, animated by a worthy
desire to continue to lead an honest life, he purchased a chicken farm
fifteen miles as the crow flies from Center Church, New Haven, and boldly
opened a bank account in that academic center in his newly adopted name of
Charles S. Stevens, of Happy Hill Farm. Feeling the need of companionship,
he married a lady somewhat his junior, a shoplifter of the second class,
whom he had known before the vigilance of the metropolitan police
necessitated his removal to the Far West. Mrs. Stevens's inferior talents
as a petty larcenist had led her into many difficulties, and she
gratefully availed herself of The Hopper's offer of his heart and hand.

They had added to their establishment a retired yegg who had lost an eye
by the premature popping of the "soup" (i.e., nitro-glycerin) poured into
the crevices of a country post-office in Missouri. In offering shelter to
Mr. James Whitesides, _alias_ "Humpy" Thompson, The Hopper's motives had
not been wholly unselfish, as Humpy had been entrusted with the herding of
poultry in several penitentiaries and was familiar with the most advanced
scientific thought on chicken culture.

The roadster was headed toward his home and The Hopper contemplated it in
the deepening dusk with greedy eyes. His labors in the New York garage had
familiarized him with automobiles, and while he was not ignorant of the
pains and penalties inflicted upon lawless persons who appropriate motors
illegally, he was the victim of an irresistible temptation to jump into
the machine thus left in the highway, drive as near home as he dared, and
then abandon it. The owner of the roadster was presumably eating his
evening meal in peace in the snug little cottage behind the shrubbery, and
The Hopper was aware of no sound reason why he should not seize the
vehicle and further widen the distance between himself and a
suspicious-looking gentleman he had observed on the New Haven local.

The Hopper's conscience was not altogether at ease, as he had, that
afternoon, possessed himself of a bill-book that was protruding from the
breast-pocket of a dignified citizen whose strap he had shared in a
crowded subway train. Having foresworn crime as a means of livelihood, The
Hopper was chagrined that he had suffered himself to be beguiled into
stealing by the mere propinquity of a piece of red leather. He was angry
at the world as well as himself. People should not go about with
bill-books sticking out of their pockets; it was unfair and unjust to
those weak members of the human race who yield readily to temptation.

He had agreed with Mary when she married him and the chicken farm that
they would respect the Ten Commandments and all statutory laws, State and
Federal, and he was painfully conscious that when he confessed his sin she
would deal severely with him. Even Humpy, now enjoying a peace that he had
rarely known outside the walls of prison, even Humpy would be bitter. The
thought that he was again among the hunted would depress Mary and Humpy,
and he knew that their harshness would be intensified because of his
violation of the unwritten law of the underworld in resorting to
purse-lifting, an infringement upon a branch of felony despicable and
greatly inferior in dignity to safe-blowing.

These reflections spurred The Hopper to action, for the sooner he reached
home the more quickly he could explain his protracted stay in New York (to
which metropolis he had repaired in the hope of making a better price for
eggs with the commission merchants who handled his products), submit
himself to Mary's chastisement, and promise to sin no more. By returning
on Christmas Eve, of all times, again a fugitive, he knew that he would
merit the unsparing condemnation that Mary and Humpy would visit upon him.
It was possible, it was even quite likely, that the short, stocky
gentleman he had seen on the New Haven local was not a "bull"--not really
a detective who had observed the little transaction in the subway; but the
very uncertainty annoyed The Hopper. In his happy and profitable year at
Happy Hill Farm he had learned to prize his personal comfort, and he was
humiliated to find that he had been frightened into leaving the train at
Bansford to continue his journey afoot, and merely because a man had
looked at him a little queerly.

Any Christmas spirit that had taken root in The Hopper's soul had been
disturbed, not to say seriously threatened with extinction, by the
untoward occurrences of the afternoon.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]





II


The Hopper waited for a limousine to pass and then crawled out of his
hiding-place, jumped into the roadster, and was at once in motion. He
glanced back, fearing that the owner might have heard his departure, and
then, satisfied of his immediate security, negotiated a difficult turn in
the road and settled himself with a feeling of relief to careful but
expeditious flight. It was at this moment, when he had urged the car to
its highest speed, that a noise startled him--an amazing little chirrupy
sound which corresponded to none of the familiar forewarnings of engine
trouble. With his eyes to the front he listened for a repetition of the
sound. It rose again--it was like a perplexing cheep and chirrup, changing
to a chortle of glee.

"Goo-goo! Goo-goo-goo!"

The car was skimming a dark stretch of road and a superstitious awe fell
upon The Hopper. Murder, he gratefully remembered, had never been among
his crimes, though he had once winged a too-inquisitive policeman in
Kansas City. He glanced over his shoulder, but saw no pursuing ghost in
the snowy highway; then, looking down apprehensively, he detected on the
seat beside him what appeared to be an animate bundle, and, prompted by a
louder "goo-goo," he put out his hand. His fingers touched something warm
and soft and were promptly seized and held by Something.

The Hopper snatched his hand free of the tentacles of the unknown and
shook it violently. The nature of the Something troubled him. He renewed
his experiments, steering with his left hand and exposing the right to
what now seemed to be the grasp of two very small mittened hands.

"Goo-goo! Goody; teep wunnin'!"

"A kid!" The Hopper gasped.

That he had eloped with a child was the blackest of the day's calamities.
He experienced a strange sinking feeling in the stomach. In moments of
apprehension a crook's thoughts run naturally into periods of penal
servitude, and the punishment for kidnaping, The Hopper recalled, was
severe. He stopped the car and inspected his unwelcome fellow passenger
by the light of matches. Two big blue eyes stared at him from a hood and
two mittens were poked into his face. Two small feet, wrapped tightly in a
blanket, kicked at him energetically.

"Detup! Mate um skedaddle!"

Obedient to this command The Hopper made the car skedaddle, but
superstitious dread settled upon him more heavily. He was satisfied now
that from the moment he transferred the strap-hanger's bill-book to his
own pocket he had been hoodooed. Only a jinx of the most malevolent type
could have prompted his hurried exit from a train to dodge an imaginary
"bull." Only the blackest of evil spirits could be responsible for this
involuntary kidnaping!

"Mate um wun! Mate um 'ippity stip!"

The mittened hands reached for the wheel at this juncture and an
unlooked-for "jippity skip" precipitated the young passenger into The
Hopper's lap.

This mishap was attended with the jolliest baby laughter. Gently but with
much firmness The Hopper restored the youngster to an upright position and
supported him until sure he was able to sustain himself.

"Ye better set still, little feller," he admonished.

The little feller seemed in no wise astonished to find himself abroad with
a perfect stranger and his courage and good cheer were not lost upon The
Hopper. He wanted to be severe, to vent his rage for the day's calamities
upon the only human being within range, but in spite of himself he felt no
animosity toward the friendly little bundle of humanity beside him.
Still, he had stolen a baby and it was incumbent upon him to free himself
at once of the appalling burden; but a baby is not so easily disposed of.
He could not, without seriously imperiling his liberty, return to the
cottage. It was the rule of house-breakers, he recalled, to avoid babies.
He had heard it said by burglars of wide experience and unquestioned
wisdom that babies were the most dangerous of all burglar alarms. All
things considered, kidnaping and automobile theft were not a happy
combination with which to appear before a criminal court. The Hopper was
vexed because the child did not cry; if he had shown a bad disposition The
Hopper might have abandoned him; but the youngster was the cheeriest and
most agreeable of traveling companions. Indeed, The Hopper's spirits rose
under his continued "goo-gooing" and chirruping.

"Nice little Shaver!" he said, patting the child's knees.

Little Shaver was so pleased by this friendly demonstration that he threw
up his arms in an effort to embrace The Hopper.

"Bil-lee," he gurgled delightedly.

The Hopper was so astonished at being addressed in his own lawful name by
a strange baby that he barely averted a collision with a passing motor
truck. It was unbelievable that the baby really knew his name, but perhaps
it was a good omen that he had hit upon it. The Hopper's resentment
against the dark fate that seemed to pursue him vanished. Even though he
had stolen a baby, it was a merry, brave little baby who didn't mind at
all being run away with! He dismissed the thought of planting the little
shaver at a door, ringing the bell and running away; this was no way to
treat a friendly child that had done him no injury, and The Hopper highly
resolved to do the square thing by the youngster even at personal
inconvenience and risk.

The snow was now falling in generous Christmasy flakes, and the high speed
the car had again attained was evidently deeply gratifying to the young
person, whose reckless tumbling about made it necessary for The Hopper to
keep a hand on him.

"Steady, little un; steady!" The Hopper kept mumbling.

His wits were busy trying to devise some means of getting rid of the
youngster without exposing himself to the danger of arrest. By this time
some one was undoubtedly busily engaged in searching for both baby and
car; the police far and near would be notified, and would be on the
lookout for a smart roadster containing a stolen child.

"Merry Christmas!" a boy shouted from a farm gate.

"M'y Kwismus!" piped Shaver.

The Hopper decided to run the machine home and there ponder the
disposition of his blithe companion with the care the unusual
circumstances demanded.

"'Urry up; me's goin' 'ome to me's gwanpa's kwismus t'ee!"

"Right ye be, little un; right ye be!" affirmed The Hopper.

The youngster was evidently blessed with a sanguine and confiding nature.
His reference to his grandfather's Christmas tree impinged sharply upon
The Hopper's conscience. Christmas had never figured very prominently in
his scheme of life. About the only Christmases that he recalled with any
pleasure were those that he had spent in prison, and those were marked
only by Christmas dinners varying with the generosity of a series of
wardens.

But Shaver was entitled to all the joys of Christmas, and The Hopper had
no desire to deprive him of them.

"Keep a-larfin', Shaver, keep a-larfin'," said the Hopper. "Ole Hop ain't
a-goin' to hurt ye!"

The Hopper, feeling his way cautiously round the fringes of New Haven,
arrived presently at Happy Hill Farm, where he ran the car in among the
chicken sheds behind the cottage and carefully extinguished the lights.

"Now, Shaver, out ye come!"

Whereupon Shaver obediently jumped into his arms.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]





III


The Hopper knocked twice at the back door, waited an instant, and knocked
again. As he completed the signal the door was opened guardedly. A man and
woman surveyed him in hostile silence as he pushed past them, kicked the
door shut, and deposited the blinking child on the kitchen table. Humpy,
the one-eyed, jumped to the windows and jammed the green shades close into
the frames. The woman scowlingly waited for the head of the house to
explain himself, and this, with the perversity of one who knows the
dramatic value of suspense, he was in no haste to do.

"Well," Mary questioned sharply. "What ye got there, Bill?"

The Hopper was regarding Shaver with a grin of benevolent satisfaction.
The youngster had seized a bottle of catsup and was making heroic efforts
to raise it to his mouth, and the Hopper was intensely tickled by Shaver's
efforts to swallow the bottle. Mrs. Stevens, _alias_ Weeping Mary, was not
amused, and her husband's enjoyment of the child's antics irritated her.

"Come out with ut, Bill!" she commanded, seizing the bottle. "What ye been
doin'?"

Shaver's big blue eyes expressed surprise and displeasure at being
deprived of his plaything, but he recovered quickly and reached for a
plate with which he began thumping the table.

"Out with ut, Hop!" snapped Humpy nervously. "Nothin' wuz said about
kidnapin', an' I don't stand for ut!"

"When I heard the machine comin' in the yard I knowed somethin' was wrong
an' I guess it couldn't be no worse," added Mary, beginning to cry. "You
hadn't no right to do ut, Bill. Hookin' a buzz-buzz an' a kid an' when we
wuz playin' the white card! You ought t' 'a' told me, Bill, what ye went
to town fer, an' it bein' Christmas, an' all."

That he should have chosen for his fall the Christmas season of all times
was reprehensible, a fact which Mary and Humpy impressed upon him in the
strongest terms. The Hopper was fully aware of the inopportuneness of his
transgressions, but not to the point of encouraging his wife to abuse
him.

As he clumsily tried to unfasten Shaver's hood, Mary pushed him aside and
with shaking fingers removed the child's wraps. Shaver's cheeks were rosy
from his drive through the cold; he was a plump, healthy little shaver and
The Hopper viewed him with intense pride. Mary held the hood and coat to
the light and inspected them with a sophisticated eye. They were of
excellent quality and workmanship, and she shook her head and sighed
deeply as she placed them carefully on a chair.

"It ain't on the square, Hop," protested Humpy, whose lone eye expressed
the most poignant sorrow at The Hopper's derelictions. Humpy was tall and
lean, with a thin, many-lined face. He was an ill-favored person at best,
and his habit of turning his head constantly as though to compel his
single eye to perform double service gave one an impression of restless
watchfulness.

"Cute little Shaver, ain't 'e? Give Shaver somethin' to eat, Mary. I guess
milk'll be the right ticket considerin' th' size of 'im. How ole you make
'im? Not more'n three, I reckon?"

"Two. He ain't more'n two, that kid."

"A nice little feller; you're a cute un, ain't ye, Shaver?"

Shaver nodded his head solemnly. Having wearied of playing with the plate
he gravely inspected the trio; found something amusing in Humpy's bizarre
countenance and laughed merrily. Finding no response to his friendly
overtures he appealed to Mary.

"Me wants me's paw-widge," he announced.

"Porridge," interpreted Humpy with the air of one whose superior breeding
makes him the proper arbiter of the speech of children of high social
station. Whereupon Shaver appreciatively poked his forefinger into Humpy's
surviving optic.

"I'll see what I got," muttered Mary. "What ye used t' eatin' for supper,
honey?"

The "honey" was a concession, and The Hopper, who was giving Shaver his
watch to play with, bent a commendatory glance upon his spouse.

"Go on an' tell us what ye done," said Mary, doggedly busying herself
about the stove.

The Hopper drew a chair to the table to be within reach of Shaver and
related succinctly his day's adventures.

"A dip!" moaned Mary as he described the seizure of the purse in the
subway.

"You hadn't no right to do ut, Hop!" bleated Humpy, who had tipped his
chair against the wall and was sucking a cold pipe. And then, professional
curiosity overmastering his shocked conscience, he added: "What'd she
measure, Hop?"

The Hopper grinned.

"Flubbed! Nothin' but papers," he confessed ruefully.

Mary and Humpy expressed their indignation and contempt in unequivocal
terms, which they repeated after he told of the suspected "bull" whose
presence on the local had so alarmed him. A frank description of his
flight and of his seizure of the roadster only added to their bitterness.

Humpy rose and paced the floor with the quick, short stride of men
habituated to narrow spaces. The Hopper watched the telltale step so
disagreeably reminiscent of evil times and shrugged his shoulders
impatiently.

"Set down, Hump; ye make me nervous. I got thinkin' to do."

"Ye'd better be quick about doin' ut!" Humpy snorted with an oath.

"Cut the cussin'!" The Hopper admonished sharply. Since his retirement to
private life he had sought diligently to free his speech of profanity and
thieves' slang, as not only unbecoming in a respectable chicken farmer,
but likely to arouse suspicions as to his origin and previous condition of
servitude. "Can't ye see Shaver ain't use to ut? Shaver's a little gent;
he's a reg'ler little juke; that's wot Shaver is."

"The more 'way up he is the worse fer us," whimpered Humpy. "It's
kidnapin', that's wot ut is!"

"That's wot it _ain't_," declared The Hopper, averting a calamity to his
watch, which Shaver was swinging by its chain. "He was took by accident I
tell ye! I'm goin' to take Shaver back to his ma--ain't I, Shaver?"

"Take 'im back!" echoed Mary.

Humpy crumpled up in his chair at this new evidence of The Hopper's
insanity.

"I'm goin' to make a Chris'mas present o' Shaver to his ma," reaffirmed
The Hopper, pinching the nearer ruddy cheek of the merry, contented
guest.

Shaver kicked The Hopper in the stomach and emitted a chortle expressive
of unshakable confidence in The Hopper's ability to restore him to his
lawful owners. This confidence was not, however, manifested toward Mary,
who had prepared with care the only cereal her pantry afforded, and now
approached Shaver, bowl and spoon in hand. Shaver, taken by surprise,
inspected his supper with disdain and spurned it with a vigor that sent
the spoon rattling across the floor.

"Me wants me's paw-widge bowl! Me wants me's _own_ paw-widge bowl!" he
screamed.

Mary expostulated; Humpy offered advice as to the best manner of dealing
with the refractory Shaver, who gave further expression to his resentment
by throwing The Hopper's watch with violence against the wall. That the
table-service of The Hopper's establishment was not to Shaver's liking was
manifested in repeated rejections of the plain white bowl in which Mary
offered the porridge. He demanded his very own porridge bowl with the
increasing vehemence of one who is willing to starve rather than accept so
palpable a substitute. He threw himself back on the table and lay there
kicking and crying. Other needs now occurred to Shaver: he wanted his
papa; he wanted his mamma; he wanted to go to his gwan'pa's. He clamored
for Santa Claus and numerous Christmas trees which, it seemed, had been
promised him at the houses of his kinsfolk. It was amazing and bewildering
that the heart of one so young could desire so many things that were not
immediately attainable. He had begun to suspect that he was among
strangers who were not of his way of life, and this was fraught with the
gravest danger.

"They'll hear 'im hollerin' in China," wailed the pessimistic Humpy,
running about the room and examining the fastenings of doors and windows.
"Folks goin' along the road'll hear 'im, an' it's terms fer the whole
bunch!"

The Hopper began pacing the floor with Shaver, while Humpy and Mary
denounced the child for unreasonableness and lack of discipline, not
overlooking the stupidity and criminal carelessness of The Hopper in
projecting so lawless a youngster into their domestic circle.

"Twenty years, that's wot ut is!" mourned Humpy.

"Ye kin get the chair fer kidnapin'," Mary added dolefully. "Ye gotta get
'im out o' here, Bill."

Pleasant predictions of a long prison term with capital punishment as the
happy alternative failed to disturb The Hopper. To their surprise and
somewhat to their shame he won the Shaver to a tractable humor. There was
nothing in The Hopper's known past to justify any expectation that he
could quiet a crying baby, and yet Shaver with a child's unerring instinct
realized that The Hopper meant to be kind. He patted The Hopper's face
with one fat little paw, chokingly declaring that he was hungry.

'"Course Shaver's hungry; an' Shaver's goin' to eat nice porridge Aunt
Mary made fer 'im. Shaver's goin' to have 'is own porridge bowl
to-morry--yes, sir-ee, oo is, little Shaver!"

Restored to the table, Shaver opened his mouth in obedience to The
Hopper's patient pleading and swallowed a spoonful of the mush, Humpy
holding the bowl out of sight in tactful deference to the child's delicate
aesthetic sensibilities. A tumbler of milk was sipped with grateful gasps.

[Illustration: THE HOPPER GRINNED, PROUD OF HIS SUCCESS, WHICH MARY AND
HUMPY VIEWED WITH GRUDGING ADMIRATION]

The Hopper grinned, proud of his success, while Mary and Humpy viewed his
efforts with somewhat grudging admiration, and waited patiently until The
Hopper took the wholly surfeited Shaver in his arms and began pacing the
floor, humming softly. In normal circumstances The Hopper was not musical,
and Humpy and Mary exchanged looks which, when interpreted, pointed to
nothing less than a belief that the owner of Happy Hill Farm was bereft of
his senses. There was some question as to whether Shaver should be
undressed. Mary discouraged the idea and Humpy took a like view.

"Ye gotta chuck 'im quick; that's what ye gotta do," said Mary hoarsely.
"We don't want 'im sleepin' here."

Whereupon The Hopper demonstrated his entire independence by carrying the
Shaver to Humpy's bed and partially undressing him. While this was in
progress, Shaver suddenly opened his eyes wide and raising one foot until
it approximated the perpendicular, reached for it with his chubby hands.

"Sant' Claus comin'; m'y Kwismus!"

"Jes' listen to Shaver!" chuckled The Hopper. "'Course Santy is comin,'
an' we're goin' to hang up Shaver's stockin', ain't we, Shaver?"

He pinned both stockings to the foot-board of Humpy's bed. By the time
this was accomplished under the hostile eyes of Mary and Humpy, Shaver
slept the sleep of the innocent.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




IV


They watched the child in silence for a few minutes and then Mary detached
a gold locket from his neck and bore it to the kitchen for examination.

"Ye gotta move quick, Hop," Humpy urged. "The white card's what we wuz all
goin' to play. We wuz fixed nice here, an' things goin' easy; an' the yard
full o' br'ilers. I don't want to do no more time. I'm an ole man, Hop."

"Cut ut!" ordered The Hopper, taking the locket from Mary and weighing it
critically in his hand. They bent over him as he scrutinized the face on
which was inscribed:--

    _Roger Livingston Talbot_
    _June 13, 1913_

"Lemme see; he's two an' a harf. Ye purty nigh guessed 'im right, Mary."

The sight of the gold trinket, the probability that the Shaver belonged to
a family of wealth, proved disturbing to Humpy's late protestations of
virtue.

"They'd be a heap o' kale in ut, Hop. His folks is rich, I reckon. Ef we
wuzn't playin' the white card--"

Ignoring this shocking evidence of Humpy's moral instability, The Hopper
became lost in reverie, meditatively drawing at his pipe.

"We ain't never goin' to quit playin' ut square," he announced, to Mary's
manifest relief. "I hadn't ought t' 'a' done th' dippin'. It were a
mistake. My ole head wuzn't workin' right er I wouldn't 'a' slipped. But
ye needn't jump on me no more."

"Wot ye goin' to do with that kid? Ye tell me that!" demanded Mary,
unwilling too readily to accept The Hopper's repentance at face value.

"I'm goin' to take 'im to 'is folks, that's wot I'm goin' to do with 'im,"
announced The Hopper.

"Yer crazy--yer plum' crazy!" cried Humpy, slapping his knees excitedly.
"Ye kin take 'im to an orphant asylum an' tell um ye found 'im in that
machine ye lifted. And mebbe ye'll git by with ut an' mebbe ye won't, but
ye gotta keep me out of ut!"

"I found the machine in th' road, right here by th' house; an' th' kid
was in ut all by hisself. An' bein' humin an' respectible I brought 'im in
to keep 'im from freezin' t' death," said The Hopper, as though repeating
lines he was committing to memory. "They ain't nobody can say as I didn't.
Ef I git pinched, that's my spiel to th' cops. It ain't kidnapin'; it's
life-savin', that's wot ut is! I'm a-goin' back an' have a look at that
place where I got 'im. Kind o' queer they left the kid out there in the
buzz-wagon; _mighty_ queer, now's I think of ut. Little house back from
the road; lots o' trees an' bushes in front. Didn't seem to be no lights.
He keeps talkin' about Chris'mas at his grandpa's. Folks must 'a' been
goin' to take th' kid somewheres fer Chris'mas. I guess it'll throw a
skeer into 'em to find him up an' gone."

"They's rich, an' all the big bulls'll be lookin' fer 'im; ye'd better
'phone the New Haven cops ye've picked 'im up. Then they'll come out, an'
yer spiel about findin' 'im'll sound easy an' sensible like."

The Hopper, puffing his pipe philosophically, paid no heed to Humpy's
suggestion even when supported warmly by Mary.

"I gotta find some way o' puttin' th' kid back without seein' no cops.
I'll jes' take a sneak back an' have a look at th' place," said The
Hopper. "I ain't goin' to turn Shaver over to no cops. Ye can't take no
chances with 'em. They don't know nothin' about us bein' here, but they
ain't fools, an' I ain't goin' to give none o' 'em a squint at me!"

He defended his plan against a joint attack by Mary and Humpy, who saw in
it only further proof of his tottering reason. He was obliged to tell
them in harsh terms to be quiet, and he added to their rage by the
deliberation with which he made his preparations to leave.

He opened the door of a clock and drew out a revolver which he examined
carefully and thrust into his pocket. Mary groaned; Humpy beat the air in
impotent despair. The Hopper possessed himself also of a jimmy and an
electric lamp. The latter he flashed upon the face of the sleeping Shaver,
who turned restlessly for a moment and then lay still again. He smoothed
the coverlet over the tiny form, while Mary and Humpy huddled in the
doorway. Mary wept; Humpy was awed into silence by his old friend's
perversity. For years he had admired The Hopper's cleverness, his genius
for extricating himself from difficulties; he was deeply shaken to think
that one who had stood so high in one of the most exacting of professions
should have fallen so low. As The Hopper imperturbably buttoned his coat
and walked toward the door, Humpy set his back against it in a last
attempt to save his friend from his own foolhardiness.

"Ef anybody turns up here an' asks for th' kid, ye kin tell 'em wot I
said. We finds 'im in th' road right here by the farm when we're doin' th'
night chores an' takes 'im in t' keep 'im from freezin'. Ye'll have th'
machine an' kid here to show 'em. An' as fer me, I'm off lookin' fer his
folks."

Mary buried her face in her apron and wept despairingly. The Hopper,
noting for the first time that Humpy was guarding the door, roughly pushed
him aside and stood for a moment with his hand on the knob.

"They's things wot is," he remarked with a last attempt to justify his
course, "an' things wot ain't. I reckon I'll take a peek at that place an'
see wot's th' best way t' shake th' kid. Ye can't jes' run up to a house
in a machine with his folks all settin' round cryin' an' cops askin'
questions. Ye got to do some plannin' an' thinkin'. I'm goin' t' clean ut
all up before daylight, an' ye needn't worry none about ut. Hop ain't
worryin'; jes' leave ut t' Hop!"

There was no alternative but to leave it to Hop, and they stood mute as he
went out and softly closed the door.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




V


The snow had ceased and the stars shone brightly on a white world as The
Hopper made his way by various trolley lines to the house from which he
had snatched Shaver. On a New Haven car he debated the prospects of more
snow with a policeman who seemed oblivious to the fact that a child had
been stolen--shamelessly carried off by a man with a long police record.
Merry Christmas passed from lip to lip as if all creation were attuned to
the note of love and peace, and crime were an undreamed of thing.

For two years The Hopper had led an exemplary life and he was keenly alive
now to the joy of adventure. His lapses of the day were unfortunate; he
thought of them with regret and misgivings, but he was zestful for
whatever the unknown held in store for him. Abroad again with a pistol in
his pocket, he was a lawless being, but with the difference that he was
intent now upon making restitution, though in such manner as would give
him something akin to the old thrill that he experienced when he enjoyed
the reputation of being one of the most skillful yeggs in the country. The
successful thief is of necessity an imaginative person; he must be able to
visualize the unseen and to deal with a thousand hidden contingencies. At
best the chances are against him; with all his ingenuity the broad, heavy
hand of the law is likely at any moment to close upon him from some
unexpected quarter. The Hopper knew this, and knew, too, that in yielding
to the exhilaration of the hour he was likely to come to grief. Justice
has a long memory, and if he again made himself the object of police
scrutiny that little forty-thousand dollar affair in Maine might still be
fixed upon him.

When he reached the house from whose gate he had removed the roadster with
Shaver attached, he studied it with the eye of an experienced strategist.
No gleam anywhere published the presence of frantic parents bewailing the
loss of a baby. The cottage lay snugly behind its barrier of elms and
shrubbery as though its young heir had not vanished into the void. The
Hopper was a deliberating being and he gave careful weight to these
circumstances as he crept round the walk, in which the snow lay
undisturbed, and investigated the rear of the premises. The lattice door
of the summer kitchen opened readily, and, after satisfying himself that
no one was stirring in the lower part of the house, he pried up the sash
of a window and stepped in. The larder was well stocked, as though in
preparation for a Christmas feast, and he passed on to the dining-room,
whose appointments spoke for good taste and a degree of prosperity in the
householder.

Cautious flashes of his lamp disclosed on the table a hamper, in which
were packed a silver cup, plate, and bowl which at once awoke the Hopper's
interest. Here indubitably was proof that this was the home of Shaver, now
sleeping sweetly in Humpy's bed, and this was the porridge bowl for which
Shaver's soul had yearned. If Shaver did not belong to the house, he had
at least been a visitor there, and it struck The Hopper as a reasonable
assumption that Shaver had been deposited in the roadster while his lawful
guardians returned to the cottage for the hamper preparatory to an
excursion of some sort. But The Hopper groped in the dark for an
explanation of the calmness with which the householders accepted the loss
of the child. It was not in human nature for the parents of a youngster so
handsome and in every way so delightful as Shaver to permit him to be
stolen from under their very noses without making an outcry. The Hopper
examined the silver pieces and found them engraved with the name borne by
the locket. He crept through a living-room and came to a Christmas
tree--the smallest of Christmas trees. Beside it lay a number of packages
designed clearly for none other than young Roger Livingston Talbot.

Housebreaking is a very different business from the forcible entry of
country post-offices, and The Hopper was nervous. This particular house
seemed utterly deserted. He stole upstairs and found doors open and a
disorder indicative of the occupants' hasty departure. His attention was
arrested by a small room finished in white, with a white enameled bed, and
other furniture to match. A generous litter of toys was the last proof
needed to establish the house as Shaver's true domicile. Indeed, there was
every indication that Shaver was the central figure of this home of whose
charm and atmosphere The Hopper was vaguely sensible. A frieze of dancing
children and watercolor sketches of Shaver's head, dabbed here and there
in the most unlooked-for places, hinted at an artistic household. This
impression was strengthened when The Hopper, bewildered and baffled,
returned to the lower floor and found a studio opening off the living
room. The Hopper had never visited a studio before, and satisfied now that
he was the sole occupant of the house, he passed passed about shooting his
light upon unfinished canvases, pausing finally before an easel supporting
a portrait of Shaver--newly finished, he discovered, by poking his finger
into the wet paint. Something fell to the floor and he picked up a large
sheet of drawing paper on which this message was written in charcoal:--

                                        _Six-thirty._
    _Dear Sweetheart:_--


    This is a fine trick you have played on me, you dear girl! I've
    been expecting you back all afternoon. At six I decided that you
    were going to spend the night with your infuriated parent and
    thought I'd try my luck with mine! I put Billie into the
    roadster and, leaving him there, ran over to the Flemings's to
    say Merry Christmas and tell 'em we were off for the night. They
    kept me just a minute to look at those new <DW61> prints Jim's so
    crazy about, and while I was gone you came along and skipped
    with Billie and the car! I suppose this means that you've been
    making headway with your dad and want to try the effect of
    Billie's blandishments. Good luck! But you might have stopped
    long enough to tell me about it! How fine it would be if
    everything could be straightened out for Christmas! Do you
    remember the first time I kissed you--it was on Christmas Eve
    four years ago at the Billings's dance! I'm just trolleying out
    to father's to see what an evening session will do. I'll be back
    early in the morning.


    Love always,
                     ROGER.

Billie was undoubtedly Shaver's nickname. This delighted The Hopper. That
they should possess the same name appeared to create a strong bond of
comradeship. The writer of the note was presumably the child's father and
the "Dear Sweetheart" the youngster's mother. The Hopper was not reassured
by these disclosures. The return of Shaver to his parents was far from
being the pleasant little Christmas Eve adventure he had imagined. He had
only the lowest opinion of a father who would, on a winter evening,
carelessly leave his baby in a motor-car while he looked at pictures, and
who, finding both motor and baby gone, would take it for granted that the
baby's mother had run off with them. But these people were artists, and
artists, The Hopper had heard, were a queer breed, sadly lacking in
common sense. He tore the note into strips which he stuffed into his
pocket.

Depressed by the impenetrable wall of mystery along which he was groping,
he returned to the living-room, raised one of the windows and unbolted the
front door to make sure of an exit in case these strange, foolish Talbots
should unexpectedly return. The shades were up and he shielded his light
carefully with his cap as he passed rapidly about the room. It began to
look very much as though Shaver would spend Christmas at Happy Hill
Farm--a possibility that had not figured in The Hopper's calculations.

Flashing his lamp for a last survey a letter propped against a lamp on the
table arrested his eye. He dropped to the floor and crawled into a corner
where he turned his light upon the note and read, not without difficulty,
the following:--

                                  _Seven o'clock._
    _Dear Roger:--_


    I've just got back from father's where I spent the last three
    hours talking over our troubles. I didn't tell you I was going,
    knowing you would think it foolish, but it seemed best, dear,
    and I hope you'll forgive me. And now I find that you've gone
    off with Billie, and I'm guessing that you've gone to _your_
    father's to see what you can do. I'm taking the trolley into New
    Haven to ask Mamie Palmer about that cook she thought we might
    get, and if possible I'll bring the girl home with me. Don't
    trouble about me, as I'll be perfectly safe, and, as you know, I
    rather enjoy prowling around at night. You'll certainly get back
    before I do, but if I'm not here don't be alarmed.

    We are so happy in each other, dear, and if only we could get
    our foolish fathers to stop hating each other, how beautiful
    everything would be! And we could all have such a merry, merry
    Christmas!

    MURIEL.

The Hopper's acquaintance with the epistolary art was the slightest, but
even to a mind unfamiliar with this branch of literature it was plain that
Shaver's parents were involved in some difficulty that was attributable,
not to any lessening of affection between them, but to a row of some sort
between their respective fathers. Muriel, running into the house to write
her note, had failed to see Roger's letter in the studio, and this was
very fortunate for The Hopper; but Muriel might return at any moment, and
it would add nothing to the plausibility of the story he meant to tell if
he were found in the house.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




VI


Anxious and dejected at the increasing difficulties that confronted him,
he was moving toward the door when a light, buoyant step sounded on the
veranda. In a moment the living-room lights were switched on from the
entry and a woman called out sharply:--

"Stop right where you are or I'll shoot!"

The authoritative voice of the speaker, the quickness with which she had
grasped the situation and leveled her revolver, brought The Hopper to an
abrupt halt in the middle of the room, where he fell with a discordant
crash across the keyboard of a grand piano. He turned, cowering, to
confront a tall, young woman in a long ulster who advanced toward him
slowly, but with every mark of determination upon her face. The Hopper
stared beyond the gun, held in a very steady hand, into a pair of fearless
dark eyes. In all his experiences he had never been cornered by a woman,
and he stood gaping at his captor in astonishment. She was a very pretty
young woman, with cheeks that still had the curve of youth, but with a
chin that spoke for much firmness of character. A fur toque perched a
little to one side gave her a boyish air.

This undoubtedly was Shaver's mother who had caught him prowling in her
house, and all The Hopper's plans for explaining her son's disappearance
and returning him in a manner to win praise and gratitude went glimmering.
There was nothing in the appearance of this Muriel to encourage a hope
that she was either embarrassed or alarmed by his presence. He had been
captured many times, but the trick had never been turned by any one so
cool as this young woman. She seemed to be pondering with the greatest
calmness what disposition she should make of him. In the intentness of her
thought the revolver wavered for an instant, and The Hopper, without
taking his eyes from her, made a cat-like spring that brought him to the
window he had raised against just such an emergency.

"None of that!" she cried, walking slowly toward him without lowering the
pistol. "If you attempt to jump from that window I'll shoot! But it's
cold in here and you may lower it."

The Hopper, weighing the chances, decided that the odds were heavily
against escape, and lowered the window.

"Now," said Muriel, "step into that corner and keep your hands up where I
can watch them."

The Hopper obeyed her instructions strictly. There was a telephone on the
table near her and he expected her to summon help; but to his surprise she
calmly seated herself, resting her right elbow on the arm of the chair,
her head slightly tilted to one side, as she inspected him with greater
attention along the blueblack barrel of her automatic. Unless he made a
dash for liberty this extraordinary woman would, at her leisure, turn him
over to the police as a housebreaker and his peaceful life as a chicken
farmer would be at an end. Her prolonged silence troubled The Hopper. He
had not been more nervous when waiting for the report of the juries which
at times had passed upon his conduct, or for judges to fix his term of
imprisonment.

"Yes'm," he muttered, with a view to ending a silence that had become
intolerable.

Her eyes danced to the accompaniment of her thoughts, but in no way did
she betray the slightest perturbation.

"I ain't done nothin'; hones' to God, I ain't!" he protested brokenly.

"I saw you through the window when you entered this room and I was
watching while you read that note," said his captor. "I thought it funny
that you should do that instead of packing up the silver. Do you mind
telling me just why you read that note?"

"Well, miss, I jes' thought it kind o' funny there wuzn't nobody round an'
the letter was layin' there all open, an' I didn't see no harm in
lookin'."

"It was awfully clever of you to crawl into the corner so nobody could see
your light from the windows," she said with a tinge of admiration. "I
suppose you thought you might find out how long the people of the house
were likely to be gone and how much time you could spend here. Was that
it?"

"I reckon ut wuz some thin' like that," he agreed.

This was received with the noncommittal "Um" of a person whose thoughts
are elsewhere. Then, as though she were eliciting from an artist or man of
letters a frank opinion as to his own ideas of his attainments and
professional standing, she asked, with a meditative air that puzzled him
as much as her question:--

"Just how good a burglar are you? Can you do a job neatly and safely?"

The Hopper, staggered by her inquiry and overcome by modesty, shrugged his
shoulders and twisted about uncomfortably.

"I reckon as how you've pinched me I ain't much good," he replied, and was
rewarded with a smile followed by a light little laugh. He was beginning
to feel pleased that she manifested no fear of him. In fact, he had
decided that Shaver's mother was the most remarkable woman he had ever
encountered, and by all odds the handsomest. He began to take heart.
Perhaps after all he might hit upon some way of restoring Shaver to his
proper place in the house of Talbot without making himself liable to a
long term for kidnaping.

"If you're really a successful burglar--one who doesn't just poke abound
in empty houses as you were doing here, but clever and brave enough to
break into houses where people are living and steal things without making
a mess of it; and if you can play fair about it--then I think--I
think--maybe--we can come to terms!"

"Yes'm!" faltered The Hopper, beginning to wonder if Mary and Humpy had
been right in saying that he had lost his mind. He was so astonished that
his arms wavered, but she was instantly on her feet and the little
automatic was again on a level with his eyes.

"Excuse me, miss, I didn't mean to drop 'em. I weren't goin' to do
nothin'. Hones' I wuzn't!" he pleaded with real contrition. "It jes'
seemed kind o' funny what ye said."

He grinned sheepishly. If she knew that her Billie, _alias_ Shaver, was
not with her husband at his father's house, she would not be dallying in
this fashion. And if the young father, who painted pictures, and left
notes in his studio in a blind faith that his wife would find them,--if
that trusting soul knew that Billie was asleep in a house all of whose
inmates had done penance behind prison bars, he would very quickly become
a man of action. The Hopper had never heard of such careless parenthood!
These people were children! His heart warmed to them in pity and
admiration, as it had to little Billie.

"I forgot to ask you whether you are armed," she remarked, with just as
much composure as though she were asking him whether he took two lumps of
sugar in his tea; and then she added, "I suppose I ought to have asked you
that in the first place."

"I gotta gun in my coat--right side," he confessed. "An' that's all I
got," he added, batting his eyes under the spell of her bewildering smile.

With her left hand she cautiously extracted his revolver and backed away
with it to the table.

"If you'd lied to me I should have killed you; do you understand?"

"Yes'm," murmured The Hopper meekly.

She had spoken as though homicide were a common incident of her life, but
a gleam of humor in the eyes she was watching vigilantly abated her
severity.

"You may sit down--there, please!"

She pointed to a much bepillowed davenport and The Hopper sank down on it,
still with his hands up. To his deepening mystification she backed to the
windows and lowered the shades, and this done she sat down with the table
between them, remarking,--

"You may put your hands down now, Mr. ----?"

He hesitated, decided that it was unwise to give any of his names; and
respecting his scruples she said with great magnanimity:--

"Of course you wouldn't want to tell me your name, so don't trouble about
that."

She sat, wholly tranquil, her arms upon the table, both hands caressing
the small automatic, while his own revolver, of different pattern and
larger caliber, lay close by. His status was now established as that of a
gentleman making a social call upon a lady who, in the pleasantest manner
imaginable and yet with undeniable resoluteness, kept a deadly weapon
pointed in the general direction of his person.

A clock on the mantel struck eleven with a low, silvery note. Muriel
waited for the last stroke and then spoke crisply and directly.

"We were speaking of that letter I left lying here on the table. You
didn't understand it, of course; you couldn't--not really. So I will
explain it to you. My husband and I married against our fathers' wishes;
both of them were opposed to it."

She waited for this to sink into his perturbed consciousness. The Hopper
frowned and leaned forward to express his sympathetic interest in this
confidential disclosure.

"My father," she resumed, "is just as stupid as my father-in-law and they
have both continued to make us just as uncomfortable as possible. The
cause of the trouble is ridiculous. There's nothing against my husband or
me, you understand; it's simply a bitter jealousy between the two men due
to the fact that they are rival collectors."

The Hopper stared blankly. The only collectors with whom he had enjoyed
any acquaintance were persons who presented bills for payment.

"They are collectors," Muriel hastened to explain, "of ceramics--precious
porcelains and that sort of thing."

"Yes'm," assented The Hopper, who hadn't the faintest notion of what she
meant.

"For years, whenever there have been important sales of these things,
which men fight for and are willing to die for--whenever there has been
something specially fine in the market, my father-in-law--he's Mr.
Talbot--and Mr. Wilton--he's my father--have bid for them. There are
auctions, you know, and people come from all over the world looking for a
chance to buy the rarest pieces. They've explored China and Japan hunting
for prizes and they are experts--men of rare taste and judgment--what you
call connoisseurs."

The Hopper nodded gravely at the unfamiliar word, convinced that not only
were Muriel and her husband quite insane, but that they had inherited the
infirmity.

"The trouble has been," Muriel continued, "that Mr. Talbot and my father
both like the same kind of thing; and when one has got something the other
wanted, of course it has added to the ill-feeling. This has been going on
for years and recently they have grown more bitter. When Roger and I ran
off and got married, that didn't help matters any; but just within a few
days something has happened to make things much worse than ever."

The Hopper's complete absorption in this novel recital was so manifest
that she put down the revolver with which she had been idling and folded
her hands.

"Thank ye, miss," mumbled The Hopper.

"Only last week," Muriel continued, "my father-in-law bought one of those
pottery treasures--a plum-blossom vase made in China hundreds of years ago
and very, very valuable. It belonged to a Philadelphia collector who died
not long ago and Mr. Talbot bought it from the executor of the estate, who
happened to be an old friend of his. Father was very angry, for he had
been led to believe that this vase was going to be offered at auction and
he'd have a chance to bid on it. And just before that father had got hold
of a jar--a perfectly wonderful piece of red Lang-Yao--that collectors
everywhere have coveted for years. This made Mr. Talbot furious at father.
My husband is at his father's now trying to make him see the folly of all
this, and I visited _my_ father to-day to try to persuade him to stop
being so foolish. You see I wanted us all to be happy for Christmas! Of
course, Christmas ought to be a time of gladness for everybody. Even
people in your--er--profession must feel that Christmas is one day in the
year when all hard feelings should be forgotten and everybody should try
to make others happy."

"I guess yer right, miss. Ut sure seems foolish fer folks t' git mad about
jugs like you says. Wuz they empty, miss?"

"Empty!" repeated Muriel wonderingly, not understanding at once that her
visitor was unaware that the "jugs" men fought over were valued as art
treasures and not for their possible contents. Then she laughed merrily,
as only the mother of Shaver could laugh.

"Oh! Of course they're _empty!_ That does seem to make it sillier,
doesn't it? But they're like famous pictures, you know, or any beautiful
work of art that only happens occasionally. Perhaps it seems odd to you
that men can be so crazy about such things, but I suppose sometimes you
have wanted things very, very much, and--oh!"

She paused, plainly confused by her tactlessness in suggesting to a member
of his profession the extremities to which one may be led by covetousness.

"Yes, miss," he remarked hastily; and he rubbed his nose with the back of
his hand, and grinned indulgently as he realized the cause of her
embarrassment. It crossed his mind that she might be playing a trick of
some kind; that her story, which seemed to him wholly fantastic and not at
all like a chronicle of the acts of veritable human beings, was merely a
device for detaining him until help arrived. But he dismissed this
immediately as unworthy of one so pleasing, so beautiful, so perfectly
qualified to be the mother of Shaver!

"Well, just before luncheon, without telling my husband where I was going,
I ran away to papa's, hoping to persuade him to end this silly feud. I
spent the afternoon there and he was very unreasonable. He feels that Mr.
Talbot wasn't fair about that Philadelphia purchase, and I gave it up and
came home. I got here a little after dark and found my husband had taken
Billie--that's our little boy--and gone. I knew, of course, that he had
gone to _his_ father's hoping to bring him round, for both our fathers are
simply crazy about Billie. But you see I never go to Mr. Talbot's and my
husband never goes--Dear me!" she broke off suddenly. "I suppose I ought
to telephone and see if Billie is all right."

The Hopper, greatly alarmed, thrust his head forward as she pondered this.
If she telephoned to her father-in-law's to ask about Billie, the jig
would be up! He drew his hand across his face and fell back with relief as
she went on, a little absently:--

"Mr. Talbot hates telephoning, and it might be that my husband is just
getting him to the point of making concessions, and I shouldn't want to
interrupt. It's so late now that of course Roger and Billie will spend the
night there. And Billie and Christmas ought to be a combination that would
soften the hardest heart! You ought to see--you just ought to see Billie!
He's the cunningest, dearest baby in the world!"

The Hopper sat pigeon-toed, beset by countless conflicting emotions. His
ingenuity was taxed to its utmost by the demands of this complex
situation. But for his returning suspicion that Muriel was leading up to
something; that she was detaining him for some purpose not yet apparent,
he would have told her of her husband's note and confessed that the adored
Billie was at that moment enjoying the reluctant hospitality of Happy Hill
Farm. He resolved to continue his policy of silence as to the young heir's
whereabouts until Muriel had shown her hand. She had not wholly abandoned
the thought of telephoning to her father-in-law's, he found, from her next
remark.

"You think it's all right, don't you? It's strange Roger didn't leave me
a note of some kind. Our cook left a week ago and there was no one here
when he left."

"I reckon as how yer kid's all right, miss," he answered consolingly.

Her voluble confidences had enthralled him, and her reference of this
matter to his judgment was enormously flattering. On the rough edges of
society where he had spent most of his life, fellow craftsmen had
frequently solicited his advice, chiefly as to the disposition of their
ill-gotten gains or regarding safe harbors of refuge, but to be taken into
counsel by the only gentlewoman he had ever met roused his self-respect,
touched a chivalry that never before had been wakened in The Hopper's
soul. She was so like a child in her guilelessness, and so brave amid her
perplexities!

"Oh, I know Roger will take beautiful care of Billie. And now," she smiled
radiantly, "you're probably wondering what I've been driving at all this
time. Maybe"--she added softly--"maybe it's providential, your turning up
here in this way!"

She uttered this happily, with a little note of triumph and another of her
smiles that seemed to illuminate the universe. The Hopper had been called
many names in his varied career, but never before had he been invested
with the attributes of an agent of Providence.

"They's things wot is an' they's things wot ain't, miss; I reckon I ain't
as bad as some. I mean to be on the square, miss."

"I believe that," she said. "I've always heard there's honor among
thieves, and"--she lowered her voice to a whisper--"it's possible I might
become one myself!"

The Hopper's eyes opened wide and he crossed and uncrossed his legs
nervously in his agitation.

"If--if"--she began slowly, bending forward with a grave, earnest look in
her eyes and clasping her fingers tightly--"if we could only get hold of
father's Lang-Yao jar and that plum-blossom vase Mr. Talbot has--if we
could only do that!"

The Hopper swallowed hard. This fearless, pretty young woman was calmly
suggesting that he commit two felonies, little knowing that his score for
the day already aggregated three--purse-snatching, the theft of an
automobile from her own door, and what might very readily be construed as
the kidnaping of her own child!

"I don't know, miss," he said feebly, calculating that the sum total of
even minimum penalties for the five crimes would outrun his natural life
and consume an eternity of reincarnations.

"Of course it wouldn't be stealing in the ordinary sense," she explained.
"What I want you to do is to play the part of what we will call a
reversible Santa Claus, who takes things away from stupid people who don't
enjoy them anyhow. And maybe if they lost these things they'd behave
themselves. I could explain afterward that it was all my fault, and of
course I wouldn't let any harm come to _you_. I'd be responsible, and of
course I'd see you safely out of it; you would have to rely on me for
that. I'm trusting _you_ and you'd have to trust _me!_"

"Oh, I'd trust ye, miss! An' ef I was to get pinched I wouldn't never
squeal on ye. We don't never blab on a pal, miss!"

He was afraid she might resent being called a "pal," but his use of the
term apparently pleased her.

"We understand each other, then. It really won't be very difficult, for
papa's place is over on the Sound and Mr. Talbot's is right next to it, so
you wouldn't have far to go."

Her utter failure to comprehend the enormity of the thing she was
proposing affected him queerly. Even among hardened criminals in the
underworld such undertakings are suggested cautiously; but Muriel was
ordering a burglary as though it were a pound of butter or a dozen eggs!

"Father keeps his most valuable glazes in a safe in the pantry," she
resumed after a moment's reflection, "but I can give you the combination.
That will make it a lot easier."

The Hopper assented, with a pontifical nod, to this sanguine view of the
matter.

"Mr. Talbot keeps his finest pieces in a cabinet built into the
bookshelves in his library. It's on the left side as you stand in the
drawing-room door, and you look for the works of Thomas Carlyle. There's a
dozen or so volumes of Carlyle, only they're not books,--not really,--but
just the backs of books painted on the steel of a safe. And if you press a
spring in the upper right-hand corner of the shelf just over these books
the whole section swings out. I suppose you've seen that sort of
hiding-place for valuables?"

"Well, not exactly, miss. But havin' a tip helps, an' ef there ain't no
soup to pour--"

"Soup?" inquired Muriel, wrinkling her pretty brows.

"That's the juice we pour into the cracks of a safe to blow out the lid
with," The Hopper elucidated. "Ut's a lot handier ef you've got the
combination. Ut usually ain't jes' layin' around."

"I should hope not!" exclaimed Muriel.

She took a sheet of paper from the leathern stationery rack and fell to
scribbling, while he furtively eyed the window and again put from him the
thought of flight.

"There! That's the combination of papa's safe." She turned her wrist and
glanced at her watch. "It's half-past eleven and you can catch a trolley
in ten minutes that will take you right past papa's house. The butler's an
old man who forgets to lock the windows half the time, and there's one in
the conservatory with a broken catch. I noticed it to-day when I was
thinking about stealing the jar myself!"

They were established on so firm a basis of mutual confidence that when he
rose and walked to the table she didn't lift her eyes from the paper on
which she was drawing a diagram of her father's house. He stood watching
her nimble fingers, fascinated by the boldness of her plan for restoring
amity between Shaver's grandfathers, and filled with admiration for her
resourcefulness.

He asked a few questions as to exits and entrances and fixed in his mind a
very accurate picture of the home of her father. She then proceeded to
enlighten him as to the ways and means of entering the home of her
father-in-law, which she sketched with equal facility.

"There's a French window--a narrow glass door--on the veranda. I think you
might get in _there!_" She made a jab with the pencil. "Of course I should
hate awfully to have you get caught! But you must have had a lot of
experience, and with all the help I'm giving you--!"

A sudden lifting of her head gave him the full benefit of her eyes and he
averted his gaze reverently.

"There's always a chance o' bein' nabbed, miss," he suggested with
feeling.

Shaver's mother wielded the same hypnotic power, highly intensified, that
he had felt in Shaver. He knew that he was going to attempt what she
asked; that he was committed to the project of robbing two houses merely
to please a pretty young woman who invited his cooeperation at the point of
a revolver!

"Papa's always a sound sleeper," she was saying. "When I was a little girl
a burglar went all through our house and carried off his clothes and he
never knew it until the next morning. But you'll have to be careful at Mr.
Talbot's, for he suffers horribly from insomnia."

"They got any o' them fancy burglar alarms?" asked The Hopper as he
concluded his examination of her sketches.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you about that!" she cried contritely. "There's
nothing of the kind at Mr. Talbot's, but at papa's there's a switch in
the living-room, right back of a bust--a white marble thing on a pedestal.
You turn it off _there_. Half the time papa forgets to switch it on before
he goes to bed. And another thing--be careful about stumbling over that
bearskin rug in the hall. People are always sticking their feet into its
jaws."

"I'll look out for ut, miss."

Burglar alarms and the jaws of wild beasts were not inviting hazards. The
programme she outlined so light-heartedly was full of complexities. It was
almost pathetic that any one could so cheerfully and irresponsibly suggest
the perpetration of a crime. The terms she used in describing the loot he
was to filch were much stranger to him than Chinese, but it was fairly
clear that at the Talbot house he was to steal a blue-and-white thing and
at the Wilton's a red one. The form and size of these articles she
illustrated with graceful gestures.

"If I thought you were likely to make a mistake I'd--I'd go with you!" she
declared.

"Oh, no, miss; ye couldn't do that! I guess I can do ut fer ye. Ut's jes'
a _leetle_ ticklish. I reckon ef yer pa wuz to nab me ut'd go hard with
me."

"I wouldn't let him be hard on you," she replied earnestly. "And now I
haven't said anything about a--a--about what we will call a _reward_ for
bringing me these porcelains. I shall expect to pay you; I couldn't think
of taking up your time, you know, for nothing!"

"Lor', miss, I couldn't take nothin' at all fer doin' ut! Ye see ut wuz
sort of accidental our meetin', and besides, I ain't no
housebreaker--not, as ye may say, reg'ler. I'll be glad to do ut fer ye,
miss, an' ye can rely on me doin' my best fer ye. Ye've treated me right,
miss, an' I ain't a-goin' t' fergit ut!"

The Hopper spoke with feeling. Shaver's mother had, albeit at the pistol
point, confided her most intimate domestic affairs to him. He realized,
without finding just these words for it, that she had in effect decorated
him with the symbol of her order of knighthood and he had every
honorable--or dishonorable!--intention of proving himself worthy of her
confidence.

"If ye please, miss," he said, pointing toward his confiscated revolver.

"Certainly; you may take it. But of course you won't kill anybody?"

"No, miss; only I'm sort o' lonesome without ut when I'm on a job."

"And you do understand," she said, following him to the door and noting in
the distance the headlight of an approaching trolley, "that I'm only doing
this in the hope that good may come of it. It isn't really criminal, you
know; if you succeed, it may mean the happiest Christmas of my life!"

"Yes, miss. I won't come back till mornin', but don't you worry none. We
gotta play safe, miss, an' ef I land th' jugs I'll find cover till I kin
deliver 'em safe."

"Thank you; oh, thank you ever so much! And good luck!"

She put out her hand; he held it gingerly for a moment in his rough
fingers and ran for the car.




VII


The Hopper, in his role of the Reversible Santa Claus, dropped off the car
at the crossing Muriel had carefully described, waited for the car to
vanish, and warily entered the Wilton estate through a gate set in the
stone wall. The clouds of the early evening had passed and the stars
marched through the heavens resplendently, proclaiming peace on earth and
good-will toward men. They were almost oppressively brilliant, seen
through the clear, cold atmosphere, and as The Hopper slipped from one big
tree to another on his tangential course to the house, he fortified his
courage by muttering, "They's things wot is an' things wot
ain't!"--finding much comfort and stimulus in the phrase.

Arriving at the conservatory in due course, he found that Muriel's
averments as to the vulnerability of that corner of her father's house
were correct in every particular. He entered with ease, sniffed the warm,
moist air, and, leaving the door slightly ajar, sought the pantry, lowered
the shades, and, helping himself to a candle from a silver candelabrum,
readily found the safe hidden away in one of the cupboards. He was
surprised to find himself more nervous with the combination in his hand
than on memorable occasions in the old days when he had broken into
country postoffices and assaulted safes by force. In his haste he twice
failed to give the proper turns, but the third time the knob caught, and
in a moment the door swung open disclosing shelves filled with vases,
bottles, bowls, and plates in bewildering variety. A chest of silver
appealed to him distractingly as a much more tangible asset than the
pottery, and he dizzily contemplated a jewel-case containing a diamond
necklace with a pearl pendant. The moment was a critical one in The
Hopper's eventful career. This dazzling prize was his for the taking, and
he knew the operator of a fence in Chicago who would dispose of the
necklace and make him a fair return. But visions of Muriel, the beautiful,
the confiding, and of her little Shaver asleep on Humpy's bed, rose before
him. He steeled his heart against temptation, drew his candle along the
shelf and scrutinized the glazes. There could be no mistaking the red
Lang-Yao whose brilliant tints kindled in the candle-glow. He lifted it
tenderly, verifying the various points of Muriel's description, set it
down on the floor and locked the safe.

He was retracing his steps toward the conservatory and had reached the
main hall when the creaking of the stairsteps brought him up with a start.
Some one was descending, slowly and cautiously. For a second time and with
grateful appreciation of Muriel's forethought, he carefully avoided the
ferocious jaws of the bear, noiselessly continued on to the conservatory,
crept through the door, closed it, and then, crouching on the steps,
awaited developments. The caution exercised by the person descending the
stairway was not that of a householder who has been roused from slumber
by a disquieting noise. The Hopper was keenly interested in this fact.

With his face against the glass he watched the actions of a tall, elderly
man with a short, grayish beard, who wore a golf-cap pulled low on his
head--points noted by The Hopper in the flashes of an electric lamp with
which the gentleman was guiding himself. His face was clearly the original
of a photograph The Hopper had seen on the table at Muriel's cottage--Mr.
Wilton, Muriel's father, The Hopper surmised; but just why the owner of
the establishment should be prowling about in this fashion taxed his
speculative powers to the utmost. Warned by steps on the cement floor of
the conservatory, he left the door in haste and flattened himself against
the wall of the house some distance away and again awaited developments.

Wilton's figure was a blur in the star-light as he stepped out into the
walk and started furtively across the grounds. His conduct greatly
displeased The Hopper, as likely to interfere with the further carrying
out of Muriel's instructions. The Lang-Yao jar was much too large to go
into his pocket and not big enough to fit snugly under his arm, and as the
walk was slippery he was beset by the fear that he might fall and smash
this absurd thing that had caused so bitter an enmity between Shaver's
grandfathers. The soft snow on the lawn gave him a surer footing and he
crept after Wilton, who was carefully pursuing his way toward a house
whose gables were faintly limned against the sky. This, according to
Muriel's diagram, was the Talbot place. The Hopper greatly mistrusted
conditions he didn't understand, and he was at a loss to account for
Wilton's strange actions.

[Illustration: THE FAINT CLICK OF A LATCH MARKED THE PROWLER'S PROXIMITY
TO A HEDGE]

He lost sight of him for several minutes, then the faint click of a latch
marked the prowler's proximity to a hedge that separated the two estates.
The Hopper crept forward, found a gate through which Wilton had entered
his neighbor's property, and stole after him. Wilton had been swallowed up
by the deep shadow of the house, but The Hopper was aware, from an
occasional scraping of feet, that he was still moving forward. He crawled
over the snow until he reached a large tree whose boughs, sharply limned
against the stars, brushed the eaves of the house.

The Hopper was aroused, tremendously aroused, by the unaccountable
actions of Muriel's father. It flashed upon him that Wilton, in his deep
hatred of his rival collector, was about to set fire to Talbot's house,
and incendiarism was a crime which The Hopper, with all his moral
obliquity, greatly abhorred.

Several minutes passed, a period of anxious waiting, and then a sound
reached him which, to his keen professional sense, seemed singularly like
the forcing of a window. The Hopper knew just how much pressure is
necessary to the successful snapping back of a window catch, and Wilton
had done the trick neatly and with a minimum amount of noise. The window
thus assaulted was not, he now determined, the French window suggested by
Muriel, but one opening on a terrace which ran along the front of the
house. The Hopper heard the sash moving slowly in the frame. He reached
the steps, deposited the jar in a pile of snow, and was soon peering into
a room where Wilton's presence was advertised by the fitful flashing of
his lamp in a far corner.

"He's beat me to ut!" muttered The Hopper, realizing that Muriel's father
was indeed on burglary bent, his obvious purpose being to purloin,
extract, and remove from its secret hiding-place the coveted plum-blossom
vase. Muriel, in her longing for a Christmas of peace and happiness, had
not reckoned with her father's passionate desire to possess the porcelain
treasure--a desire which could hardly fail to cause scandal, if it did not
land him behind prison bars.

This had not been in the programme, and The Hopper weighed judicially his
further duty in the matter. Often as he had been the chief actor in
daring robberies, he had never before enjoyed the high privilege of
watching a rival's labors with complete detachment. Wilton must have known
of the concealed cupboard whose panel fraudulently represented the works
of Thomas Carlyle, the intent spectator reflected, just as Muriel had
known, for though he used his lamp sparingly Wilton had found his way to
it without difficulty.

The Hopper had no intention of permitting this monstrous larceny to be
committed in contravention of his own rights in the premises, and he was
considering the best method of wresting the vase from the hands of the
insolent Wilton when events began to multiply with startling rapidity. The
panel swung open and the thief's lamp flashed upon shelves of pottery.

At that moment a shout rose from somewhere in the house, and the library
lights were thrown on, revealing Wilton before the shelves and their
precious contents. A short, stout gentleman with a gleaming bald pate,
clad in pajamas, dashed across the room, and with a yell of rage flung
himself upon the intruder with a violence that bore them both to the
floor.

"Roger! Roger!" bawled the smaller man, as he struggled with his
adversary, who wriggled from under and rolled over upon Talbot, whose arms
were clasped tightly about his neck. This embrace seemed likely to
continue for some time, so tenaciously had the little man gripped his
neighbor. The fat legs of the infuriated householder pawed the air as he
hugged Wilton, who was now trying to free his head and gain a position of
greater dignity. Occasionally, as opportunity offered, the little man
yelled vociferously, and from remote recesses of the house came answering
cries demanding information as to the nature and whereabouts of the
disturbance.

The contestants addressed themselves vigorously to a spirited
rough-and-tumble fight. Talbot, who was the more easily observed by reason
of his shining pate and the pink stripes of his pajamas, appeared to be
revolving about the person of his neighbor. Wilton, though taller, lacked
the rotund Talbot's liveliness of attack.

An authoritative voice, which The Hopper attributed to Shaver's father,
anxiously demanding what was the matter, terminated The Hopper's
enjoyment of the struggle. Enough was the matter to satisfy The Hopper
that a prolonged stay in the neighborhood might be highly detrimental to
his future liberty. The combatants had rolled a considerable distance away
from the shelves and were near a door leading into a room beyond. A young
man in a bath-wrapper dashed upon the scene, and in his precipitate
arrival upon the battle-field fell sprawling across the prone figures. The
Hopper, suddenly inspired to deeds of prowess, crawled through the window,
sprang past the three men, seized the blue-and-white vase which Wilton had
separated from the rest of Talbot's treasures, and then with one hop
gained the window. As he turned for a last look, a pistol cracked and he
landed upon the terrace amid a shower of glass from a shattered pane.

A woman of unmistakable Celtic origin screamed murder from a third-story
window. The thought of murder was disagreeable to The Hopper. Shaver's
father had missed him by only the matter of a foot or two, and as he had
no intention of offering himself again as a target he stood not upon the
order of his going.

He effected a running pick-up of the Lang-Yao, and with this art treasure
under one arm and the plum-blossom vase under the other, he sprinted for
the highway, stumbling over shrubbery, bumping into a stone bench that all
but caused disaster, and finally reached the road on which he continued
his flight toward New Haven, followed by cries in many keys and a
fusillade of pistol shots.

Arriving presently at a hamlet, where he paused for breath in the rear of
a country store, he found a basket and a quantity of paper in which he
carefully packed his loot. Over the top he spread some faded lettuce
leaves and discarded carnations which communicated something of a blithe
holiday air to his encumbrance. Elsewhere he found a bicycle under a shed,
and while cycling over a snowy road in the dark, hampered by a basket
containing pottery representative of the highest genius of the Orient, was
not without its difficulties and dangers, The Hopper made rapid progress.

Halfway through New Haven he approached two policemen and slowed down to
allay suspicion.

"Merry Chris'mas!" he called as he passed them and increased his weight
upon the pedals.

The officers of the law, cheered as by a greeting from Santa Claus
himself, responded with an equally hearty Merry Christmas.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




VIII


At three o'clock The Hopper reached Happy Hill Farm, knocked as before at
the kitchen door, and was admitted by Humpy.

"Wot ye got now?" snarled the reformed yeggman.

"He's gone and done ut ag'in!" wailed Mary, as she spied the basket.

"I sure done ut, all right," admitted The Hopper good-naturedly, as he set
the basket on the table where a few hours earlier he had deposited Shaver.
"How's the kid?"

Grudging assurances that Shaver was asleep and hostile glances directed at
the mysterious basket did not disturb his equanimity.

Humpy was thwarted in an attempt to pry into the contents of the basket by
a tart reprimand from The Hopper, who with maddening deliberation drew
forth the two glazes, found that they had come through the night's
vicissitudes unscathed, and held them at arm's length, turning them about
in leisurely fashion as though lost in admiration of their loveliness.
Then he lighted his pipe, seated himself in Mary's rocker, and told his
story.

It was no easy matter to communicate to his irritable and contumelious
auditors the sense of Muriel's charm, or the reasonableness of her request
that he commit burglary merely to assist her in settling a family row.
Mary could not understand it; Humpy paced the room nervously, shaking his
head and muttering. It was their judgment, stated with much frankness,
that if he had been a fool in the first place to steal the child, his
character was now blackened beyond any hope by his later crimes. Mary wept
copiously; Humpy most annoyingly kept counting upon his fingers as he
reckoned the "time" that was in store for all of them.

"I guess I got into ut an' I guess I'll git out," remarked The Hopper
serenely. He was disposed to treat them with high condescension, as
incapable of appreciating the lofty philosophy of life by which he was
sustained. Meanwhile, he gloated over the loot of the night.

"Them things is wurt' mints; they's more valible than di'mon's, them
things is! Only eddicated folks knows about 'em. They's fer emp'rors and
kings t' set up in their palaces, an' men goes nutty jes' hankerin' fer
'em. The pigtails made 'em thousand o' years back, an' th' secret died
with 'em. They ain't never goin' to be no more jugs like them settin'
right there. An' them two ole sports give up their business jes' t' chase
things like them. They's some folks goes <DW38> about chickens, an' hosses,
an' fancy dogs, but this here kind o' collectin' 's only fer millionaires.
They's more difficult t' pick than a lucky race-hoss. They's barrels o'
that stuff in them houses, that looked jes' as good as them there, but
nowheres as valible."

An informal lecture on Chinese ceramics before daylight on Christmas
morning was not to the liking of the anxious and nerve-torn Mary and
Humpy. They brought The Hopper down from his lofty heights to practical
questions touching his plans, for the disposal of Shaver in the first
instance, and the ceramics in the second. The Hopper was singularly
unmoved by their forebodings.

"I guess th' lady got me to do ut!" he retorted finally. "Ef I do time fer
ut I reckon's how she's in fer ut, too! An' I seen her pap breakin' into a
house an' I guess I'd be a state's witness fer that! I reckon they ain't
goin' t' put nothin' over on Hop! I guess they won't peep much about
kidnapin' with th' kid safe an' us pickin' 'im up out o' th' road an'
shelterin' 'im. Them folks is goin' to be awful nice to Hop fer all he
done fer 'em." And then, finding that they were impressed by his defense,
thus elaborated, 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'  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 
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.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




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 of the whole human race from the vigor of his
lamentations. His son was keeping step with him, vainly attempting to
persuade him to sit down. Wilton, with a patch over his right eye, was
trying to disengage himself from his daughter's arms with the obvious
intention of doing violence to his neighbor.

"I'm sure papa never meant to hurt you; it was all a dreadful mistake,"
she moaned.

"He had an accomplice," Talbot thundered, "and while he was trying to kill
me there in my own house the plum-blossom vase was carried off; and if
Roger hadn't pushed him out of the window after his hireling--I'd--I'd--"

A shriek from Muriel happily prevented the completion of a sentence that
gave every promise of intensifying the prevailing hard feeling.

"Look!" Muriel cried. "It's Billie come back! Oh, Billie!"

She sprang toward the door and clasped the frightened child to her heart.
The three men gathered round them, staring dully. The Hopper from behind
the door waited for Muriel's joy over Billie's return to communicate
itself to his father and the two grandfathers.

"Me's dot two chick-ees for Kwismus," announced Billie, wriggling in his
mother's arms.

Muriel, having satisfied herself that Billie was intact,--that he even
bore the marks of maternal care,--was in the act of transferring him to
his bewildered father, when, turning a tear-stained face toward the door,
she saw The Hopper awkwardly twisting the derby which he had donned as
proper for a morning call of ceremony. She walked toward him with quick,
eager step.

"You--you came back!" she faltered, stifling a sob.

"Yes'm," responded The Hopper, rubbing his hand across his nose. His
appearance roused Billie's father to a sense of his parental
responsibility.

"You brought the boy back! You are the kidnaper!"

"Roger," cried Muriel protestingly, "don't speak like that! I'm sure this
gentleman can explain how he came to bring Billie."

The quickness with which she regained her composure, the ease with which
she adjusted herself to the unforeseen situation, pleased The Hopper
greatly. He had not misjudged Muriel; she was an admirable ally, an ideal
confederate. She gave him a quick little nod, as much as to say, "Go on,
sir; we understand each other perfectly,"--though, of course, she did not
understand, nor was she enlightened until some time later, as to just how
The Hopper became possessed of Billie.

[Illustration: THE THREE MEN GATHERED ROUND THEM, STARING DULLY]

Billie's father declared his purpose to invoke the law upon his son's
kidnapers no matter where they might be found.

"I reckon as mebbe ut wuz a kidnapin' an' I reckon as mebbe ut wuzn't,"
The Hopper began unhurriedly. "I live over Shell Road way; poultry and
eggs is my line; Happy Hill Farm. Stevens's the name--Charles S. Stevens.
An' I found Shaver--'scuse me, but ut seemed sort o' nat'ral name fer
'im?--I found 'im a settin' up in th' machine over there by my place,
chipper's ye please. I takes 'im into my house an' Mary'--that's th'
missus--she gives 'im supper and puts 'im t' sleep. An' we thinks mebbe
somebody'd come along askin' fer 'im. An' then this mornin' I calls th'
New Haven police, an' they tole me about you folks, an' me and Shaver
comes right over."

This was entirely plausible and his hearers, The Hopper noted with relief,
accepted it at face value.

"How dear of you!" cried Muriel. "Won't you have this chair, Mr. Stevens!"

"Most remarkable!" exclaimed Wilton. "Some scoundrelly tramp picked up the
car and finding there was a baby inside left it at the roadside like the
brute he was!"

Billie had addressed himself promptly to the Christmas tree, to his very
own Christmas tree that was laden with gifts that had been assembled by
the family for his delectation. Efforts of Grandfather Wilton to extract
from the child some account of the man who had run away with him were
unavailing. Billie was busy, very busy, indeed. After much patient effort
he stopped sorting the animals in a bright new Noah's Ark to point his
finger at The Hopper and remark:--

"'Ims nice mans; 'ims let Bil-lee play wif 'ims watch!"

As Billie had broken the watch his acknowledgment of The Hopper's courtesy
in letting him play with it brought a grin to The Hopper's face.

Now that Billie had been returned and his absence satisfactorily accounted
for, the two connoisseurs showed signs of renewing their quarrel.
Responsive to a demand from Billie, The Hopper got down on the floor to
assist in the proper mating of Noah's animals. Billie's father was
scrutinizing him fixedly and The Hopper wondered whether Muriel's handsome
young husband had recognized him as the person who had vanished through
the window of the Talbot home bearing the plum-blossom vase. The thought
was disquieting; but feigning deep interest in the Ark he listened
attentively to a violent tirade upon which the senior Talbot was launched.

"My God!" he cried bitterly, planting himself before Wilton in a
belligerent attitude, "every infernal thing that can happen to a man
happened to me yesterday. It wasn't enough that you robbed me and tried to
murder me--yes, you did, sir!--but when I was in the city I was robbed in
the subway by a pickpocket. A thief took my bill-book containing
invaluable data I had just received from my agent in China giving me a
clue to porcelains, sir, such as you never dreamed of! Some more of your
work--Don't you contradict me! You don't contradict me! Roger, he doesn't
contradict me!"

Wilton, choking with indignation at this new onslaught, was unable to
contradict him.

Pained by the situation, The Hopper rose from the floor and coughed
timidly.

"Shaver, go fetch yer chickies. Bring yer chickies in an' put 'em on th'
boat."

Billie obediently trotted off toward the kitchen and The Hopper turned his
back upon the Christmas tree, drew out the pocket-book and faced the
company.

"I beg yer pardon, gents, but mebbe this is th' book yer fightin' about.
Kind o' funny like! I picked ut up on th' local yistiddy afternoon. I wuz
goin' t' turn ut int' th' agint, but I clean fergot ut. I guess them
papers may be valible. I never touched none of 'em."

Talbot snatched the bill-book and hastily examined the contents. His brow
relaxed and he was grumbling something about a reward when Billie
reappeared, laboriously dragging two baskets.

"Bil-lee's dot chick-_ees_! Bil-lee's dot pitty dishes. Bil-lee make
dishes go 'ippity!"

Before he could make the two jars go 'ippity, The Hopper leaped across
the room and seized the basket. He tore off the towel with which he had
carefully covered the stolen pottery and disclosed the contents for
inspection.

"'Scuse me, gents; no crowdin'," he warned as the connoisseurs sprang
toward him. He placed the porcelains carefully on the floor under the
Christmas tree. "Now ye kin listen t' me, gents. I reckon I'm goin' t'
have somethin' t' say about this here crockery. I stole 'em--I stole 'em
fer th' lady there, she thinkin' ef ye didn't have 'em no more ye'd stop
rowin' about 'em. Ye kin call th' bulls an' turn me over ef ye likes; but
I ain't goin' t' have ye fussin' an' causin' th' lady trouble no more. I
ain't goin' to stand fer ut!"

"Robber!" shouted Talbot. "You entered my house at the instance of this
man; it was you--"

"I never saw the gent before," declared The Hopper hotly. "I ain't never
had no thin' to do with neither o' ye."

"He's telling the truth!" protested Muriel, laughing hysterically. "I did
it--I got him to take them!"

The two collectors were not interested in explanations; they were hungrily
eyeing their property. Wilton attempted to pass The Hopper and reach the
Christmas tree under whose protecting boughs the two vases were looking
their loveliest.

"Stand back," commanded The Hopper, "an' stop callin' names! I guess ef
I'm yanked fer this I ain't th' only one that's goin' t' do time fer house
breakin'."

This statement, made with considerable vigor, had a sobering effect upon
Wilton, but Talbot began dancing round the tree looking for a chance to
pounce upon the porcelains.

"Ef ye don't set down--the whole caboodle o' ye--I'll smash 'em--I'll
smash 'em both! I'll bust 'em--sure as shootin'!" shouted The Hopper.

They cowered before him; Muriel wept softly; Billie played with his
chickies, disdainful of the world's woe. The Hopper, holding the two angry
men at bay, was enjoying his command of the situation.

"You gents ain't got no business to be fussin' an' causin' yer childern
trouble. An' ye ain't goin' to have these pretty jugs to fuss about no
more. I'm goin' t' give 'em away; I'm goin' to make a Chris'mas present of
'em to Shaver. They're goin' to be little Shaver's right here, all orderly
an' peace'ble, or I'll tromp on 'em! Looky here, Shaver, wot Santy Claus
brought ye!"

"Nice dood Sant' Claus!" cried Billie, diving under the davenport in quest
of the wandering chicks.

Silence held the grown-ups. The Hopper stood patiently by the Christmas
tree, awaiting the result of his diplomacy.

Then suddenly Wilton laughed--a loud laugh expressive of relief. He turned
to Talbot and put out his hand.

"It looks as though Muriel and her friend here had cornered us! The idea
of pooling our trophies and giving them as a Christmas present to Billie
appeals to me strongly. And, besides we've got to prepare somebody to love
these things after we're gone. We can work together and train Billie to be
the greatest collector in America!"

"Please, father," urged Roger as Talbot frowned and shook his head
impatiently.

Billie, struck with the happy thought of hanging one of his chickies on
the Christmas tree, caused them all to laugh at this moment. It was
difficult to refuse to be generous on Christmas morning in the presence of
the happy child!

"Well," said Talbot, a reluctant smile crossing his face, "I guess it's
all in the family anyway."

The Hopper, feeling that his work as the Reversible Santa Claus was
finished, was rapidly retreating through the dining-room when Muriel and
Roger ran after him.

"We're going to take you home," cried Muriel, beaming.

"Yer car's at the back gate, all right-side-up," said The Hopper, "but I
kin go on the trolley."

"Indeed you won't! Roger will take you home. Oh, don't be alarmed! My
husband knows everything about our conspiracy. And we want you to come
back this afternoon. You know I owe you an apology for thinking--for
thinking you were--you were--a--"

"They's things wot is an' things wot ain't, miss. Circumstantial evidence
sends lots o' men to th' chair. Ut's a heap more happy like," The Hopper
continued in his best philosophical vein, "t' play th' white card, helpin'
widders an' orfants an' settlin' fusses. When ye ast me t' steal them jugs
I hadn't th' heart t' refuse ye, miss. I wuz scared to tell ye I had yer
baby an' ye seemed so sort o' trustin' like. An' ut bein' Chris'mus an'
all."

When he steadfastly refused to promise to return, Muriel announced that
they would visit The Hopper late in the afternoon and bring Billie along
to express their thanks more formally.

"I'll be glad to see ye," replied The Hopper, though a little doubtfully
and shame-facedly. "But ye mustn't git me into no more house-breakin'
scrapes," he added with a grin. "It's mighty dangerous, miss, fer
amachures, like me an' yer pa!"

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




X


Mary was not wholly pleased at the prospect of visitors, but she fell to
work with Humpy to put the house in order. At five o'clock not one, but
three automobiles drove into the yard, filling Humpy with alarm lest at
last The Hopper's sins had overtaken him, and they were all about to be
hauled away to spend the rest of their lives in prison. It was not the
police, but the young Talbots, with Billie and his grandfathers, on their
way to a family celebration at the house of an aunt of Muriel's.

The grandfathers were restored to perfect amity, and were deeply curious
now about The Hopper, whom the peace-loving Muriel had cajoled into
robbing their houses.

"And you're only an honest chicken farmer, after all!" exclaimed Talbot,
senior, when they were all sitting in a semicircle about the fireplace in
Mary's parlor. "I hoped you were really a burglar; I always wanted to know
a burglar."

Humpy had chopped down a small fir that had adorned the front yard and had
set it up as a Christmas tree--an attention that was not lost upon Billie.
The Hopper had brought some mechanical toys from town, and Humpy essayed
the agreeable task of teaching the youngster how to operate them. Mary
produced coffee and pound cake for the guests; The Hopper assumed the
role of lord of the manor with a benevolent air that was intended as much
to impress Mary and Humpy as the guests.

"Of course," said Mr. Wilton, whose appearance was the least bit comical
by reason of his bandaged head,--"of course it was very foolish for a man
of your sterling character to allow a young woman like my daughter to
bully you into robbing houses for her. Why, when Roger fired at you as you
were jumping out of the window, he didn't miss you more than a foot! It
would have been ghastly for all of us if he had killed you!"

"Well, o' course it all begun from my goin' into th' little house lookin'
fer Shaver's folks," replied The Hopper.

"But you haven't told us how you came to find our house," said Roger,
suggesting a perfectly natural line of inquiries that caused Humpy to
become deeply preoccupied with a pump he was operating in a basin of water
for Billie's benefit.

"Well, ut jes' looked like a house that Shaver would belong to, cute an'
comfortable like," said The Hopper; "I jes' suspicioned it wuz th' place
as I wuz passin' along."

"I don't think we'd better begin trying to establish alibis," remarked
Muriel, very gently, "for we might get into terrible scrapes. Why, if Mr.
Stevens hadn't been so splendid about _everything_ and wasn't just the
kindest man in the world, he could make it very ugly for me."

"I shudder to think of what he might do to me," said Wilton, glancing
guardedly at his neighbor.

"The main thing," said Talbot,--"the main thing is that Mr. Stevens has
done for us all what nobody else could ever have done. He's made us see
how foolish it is to quarrel about mere baubles. He's settled all our
troubles for us, and for my part I'll say his solution is entirely
satisfactory."

"Quite right," ejaculated Wilton. "If I ever have any delicate business
negotiations that are beyond my powers I'm going to engage Mr. Stevens to
handle them."

"My business's hens an' eggs," said The Hopper modestly; "an' we're doin'
purty well."

When they rose to go (a move that evoked strident protests from Billie,
who was enjoying himself hugely with Humpy) they were all in the jolliest
humor.

"We must be neighborly," said Muriel, shaking hands with Mary, who was at
the point of tears so great was her emotion at the success of The Hopper's
party. "And we're going to buy all our chickens and eggs from you. We
never have any luck raising our own."

Whereupon The Hopper imperturbably pressed upon each of the visitors a
neat card stating his name (his latest and let us hope his last!) with the
proper rural route designation of Happy Hill Farm.

The Hopper carried Billie out to his Grandfather Wilton's car, while Humpy
walked beside him bearing the gifts from the Happy Hill Farm Christmas
tree. From the door Mary watched them depart amid a chorus of merry
Christmases, out of which Billie's little pipe rang cheerily.

When The Hopper and Humpy returned to the house, they abandoned the
parlor for the greater coziness of the kitchen and there took account of
the events of the momentous twenty-four hours.

"Them's what I call nice folks," said Humpy. "They jes' put us on an' wore
us like we wuz a pair o' ole slippers."

"They wuzn't uppish--not to speak of," Mary agreed. "I guess that girl's
got more gumption than any of 'em. She's got 'em straightened up now and I
guess she'll take care they don't cut up no more monkey-shines about that
Chinese stuff. Her husban' seemed sort o' gentle like."

"Artists is that way," volunteered The Hopper, as though from deep
experience of art and life. "I jes' been thinkin' that knowin' folks like
that an' findin' 'em humin, makin' mistakes like th' rest of us, kind o'
makes ut seem easier fer us all t' play th' game straight. Ut's goin' to
be th' white card fer me--jes' chickens an' eggs, an' here's hopin' the
bulls don't ever find out we're settled here."

Humpy, having gone into the parlor to tend the fire, returned with two
envelopes he had found on the mantel. There was a check for a thousand
dollars in each, one from Wilton, the other from Talbot, with "Merry
Christmas" written across the visiting-cards of those gentlemen. The
Hopper permitted Mary and Humpy to examine them and then laid them on the
kitchen table, while he deliberated. His meditations were so prolonged
that they grew nervous.

"I reckon they could spare ut, after all ye done fer 'em, Hop," remarked
Humpy.

"They's millionaires, an' money ain't nothin' to 'em," said The Hopper.

"We can buy a motor-truck," suggested Mary, "to haul our stuff to town;
an' mebbe we can build a new shed to keep ut in."

The Hopper set the catsup bottle on the checks and rubbed his cheek,
squinting at the ceiling in the manner of one who means to be careful of
his speech.

"They's things wot is an' things wot ain't," he began. "We ain't none o'
us ever got nowheres bein' crooked. I been figurin' that I still got about
twenty thousan' o' that bunch o' green I pulled out o' that express car,
planted in places where 'taint doin' nobody no good. I guess ef I do ut
careful I kin send ut back to the company, a little at a time, an' they'd
never know where ut come from."

Mary wept; Humpy stared, his mouth open, his one eye rolling queerly.

"I guess we kin put a little chunk away every year," The Hopper went on.
"We'd be comfortabler doin' ut. We could square up ef we lived long
enough, which we don't need t' worry about, that bein' the Lord's
business. You an' me's cracked a good many safes, Hump, but we never made
no money at ut, takin' out th' time we done."

"He's got religion; that's wot he's got!" moaned Humpy, as though this
marked the ultimate tragedy of The Hopper's life.

"Mebbe ut's religion an' mebbe ut's jes' sense," pursued The Hopper,
unshaken by Humpy's charge. "They wuz a chaplin in th' Minnesoty pen as
used t' say ef we're all square with our own selves ut's goin' to be all
right with God. I guess I got a good deal o' squarin' t' do, but I'm goin'
t' begin ut. An' all these things happenin' along o' Chris'mus, an' little
Shaver an' his ma bein' so friendly like, an' her gittin' me t' help
straighten out them ole gents, an' doin' all I done an' not gettin'
pinched seems more 'n jes' luck; it's providential's wot ut is!"

This, uttered in a challenging tone, evoked a sob from Humpy, who
announced that he "felt like" he was going to die.

"It's th' Chris'mus time, I reckon," said Mary, watching The Hopper
deposit the two checks in the clock. "It's the only decent Chris'mus I
ever knowed!"


THE END





End of Project Gutenberg's A Reversible Santa Claus, by Meredith Nicholson

*** 