Kittyboy's Christmas

CHAPTER IV

"I must look after that family," mused the doctor. "Bless the young things! a frolicsome kitten and a little earnest child, full of faith and love of human kind, can be wonderful factors in the matter of happiness. Strange how I have gone along missing both and not knowing what I missed. Let me see. I'll send Hooper to look after grandfather's 'bronicles;' he smiled broadly at the remembrance of the garbled word. I'd rather not have the little one know that I've a hand in it, and 'twill be good for Hooper to try his hand at that sort of thing. Let me see if that youngster's letter reached its proper destination." He stopped and pulled out the packet he carried.

Yes, there it was, signed "Bill." The doctor stood and read the poor smudgy, mis-spelled little missive over, put it back in his pocket, and walked thoughtfully on, not knowing that at that very moment he was passing the writer, who, with his meagre supply of wan-looking violets, was offering them for sale.

Bill as little knew that the letter over which he had spent much thought and hard labor was resting in the doctor's pocket, for he imagined it to be in the hands of a red-nosed, white-haired individual, with a jolly countenance and a twinkling eye—such a one as could be seen, more or less realistically represented in shop windows. A very different looking person, indeed, from this portly, prosperous-appearing man with the keen eyes, who wore "swagger clothes, and didn't care nothin' fer poor cusses, or he'd 'a bought somethin' from a feller." Bill's ire was roused by this kind of person, so indifferent and absent-minded, as never even to glance at the violets, nor give a regretful negative, as some nice ladies did.

"Talk about old Santa Claus," muttered Bill, "if he is anybody at all, he ain't friends to nobody but rich folks; that's what I say. I ain't never heard from him, an' I guess I ain't never goin' to, what's more."

But, as if to chide his lack of faith, Elinor herself appeared like a reproving angel at his side. "Bill," she said, standing on tip-toe that she might see the box-cover in which the violets lay, "Bill, have you sold lots to-day?"

"No, I ain't," he answered, rather crossly.

"Oh, then, I can spend all these five centses. The doctor picked them all out of his pocket for me, and told me to buy vi'lets for mamma. So, I have to. Ten five centses, see. I told mamma I would come right back. She is watching out of the window for me."

Bill's face took on a little sunshine. Ten bunches! Why, it would nearly clean out his stock. What luck!

"Say," he said, in a low voice, "'bout that Santa Claus, you know. Time's gittin' clost."

"Yes," said Elinor, eagerly holding out her hands to receive the violets.

"I don't believe he comes to poor folks," continued Bill; "mind, I don't say there ain't no Santa Claus; but I say he ain't no friend o' folks what lives in Hitchen's court."

"Oh, but he is. Dr. Brewster says so, and he knows everyfing—he does truly—and he told me to tell you that there was a Santa Claus, really, really." Bill stared at the ground. "And he said if you put your letter in the box, Santa Claus will surely get it there, and you will get an answer. So, now," and she walked off with a little switch of her skirts, and a decided sort of air, as she would say there was no further doubt possible.

Bill looked after her. Ten bunches of violets meant a corresponding amount of faith, and an hour later an empty box lid went home with him. But the very fact of the emptiness of the box cover meant a fullness of belief. And Gerty; poor little, rickety Gerty, also received a prop to her faltering hopes in Bill's words. "They are a Sandy Claus, Gert, sure as shootin'! A big bug what I knows about says so. Ain't you glad?"

"Are you goin' to believe in him?" asked Gerty, in an excited whisper.

"Yes, I am," sturdily returned Bill.

"So'm I, then," answered Gerty. "I'm goin' to believe he'll bring me a doll, and a—a orange, and a—a new frock, and a—a picture book and candy, and—" her whisper rose shrilly as she became more ambitious, "and a—a turkey!" The climax was reached.

"Sho!" said Bill, doubtfully, "I don't believe he'll do all that."

"What's the use of believing at all if you don't believe he can do every bit?" returned Gerty, who did not regard half measures with favor. "I'm goin' to believe I'll git it all—and more," she added, with an extra touch of defiance of fate.

Bill looked at her half-admiringly. Such temerity was beyond his mental stature, although, given a proper field for physical valor, and he'd show no white feather, as various urchins in the neighborhood could testify.

"How long is it before Christmas?" asked Gerty. "Three days, ain't it?"

"'Bout that. Say, Gert, we ain't ast fur nothin' fur grandpop in that letter."

"Why, yes, we did. We ast fur a doctor to cure his bronicles. Don't you know?"

"So we did. How is he?"

"I don't know, he's kinder yaller yit, an' he can't eat much."

A sharp rap at the door interrupted them, and a smiling young man entered to to their "Come in."

"Is this—Bill?" he asked.

The boy nodded.

"Your grandfather, he's ill?"

"Hm-hm," returned Bill, looking suspiciously at the visitor's careful attire.

"Ah, yes." The young man put up an eye-glass and peered around the dingy rooms, Bill meantime eying him, as much as to say, what business is it of yours how we look?

"Could I see him?" queried the young man.

"I dunno. See here. What d'yer want? I'll pay yer rent. Yer needn't go badgerin' gran'pop about it."

The young man stared. "Bless me, my son. I don't want any rent. I'm," he smiled, and whimsically took out his card case. "Pardon me for not properly introducing myself. I am Dr. Hooper, and I have been asked to call professionally on your grandfather by a friend of his."

"Whew!" Bill gave voice to a low whistle, and glanced at Gerty, who had taken the card with a funny little air of polite acceptance, and, at a word from her brother, led the way into a hole of a room, hardly more than a closet, where an old man lay.

The doctor remained about fifteen or twenty minutes, and when he again came into the presence of the boy and his sister, he said:

"I think your grandfather will be better under my immediate care, and I will see that he is removed—if—if you don't object—to a pleasant room in a pleasant place."

"An 'orspital?" queried Gerty.

The young man nodded.

"Say, look here, he ain't goin' to no 'orspital," objected Bill.

"He is, too," retorted Gerty; then turning to the doctor, "You can take him." She gave the permission grandly. "I know all about it and Bill don't. I've seen one."

"My son," said the doctor, addressing Bill, "your sister is a person of unusual acumen. She—she knows a good thing when she sees it. I give you my word that the friend of whom I spoke thoroughly approves of your grandfather's removal."

"And can't we see him?" asked Bill, looking very dubious.

"Bless you, yes, every day, if you want to."

"And will you bring him back for Christmas?" asked Bill again.

The doctor considered. "If it is possible. At least, I can promise you shall eat your Christmas dinner together."

The two children exchanged glances. The answer implied that there was to be a Christmas dinner.

"I will come to-morrow morning in my carriage for him," added the doctor. "That is, if I may."

"Yer hear that, Gert? A kerridge. Ain't we swagger?" and Bill laughed.

He followed the young doctor to the door, and shut it after him as he went outside. Plucking him by the sleeve, he asked in a low tone, "Mister doctor, that there friend what sent you. Say, honest now, tell a fellow square. Was it old Sandy Claus?"

The doctor hesitated, looked down at the earnest, ugly little face, lighted up by a strong hope, its dirt and unhealthy color but dimly descried in the flaring light of the dingy court, and he felt a new concern for this "gutter-snipe" with whom he had suddenly come in contact. He laughed softly and said, "Yes; you're about right. Call him Santa Claus."

Bill went in and shut the door very solemnly. Things were happening mysteriously, and he felt somewhat awed at what his experiences implied.

CHAPTER V

Dr. Brewster received a call from his young assistant that same evening. He entered with a bored, blase air into the doctor's study, and stood staring, and, slapping his gloves together as if he had not one single idea in his noddle. Then he spoke.

"The old fellow—in Hitchen's Court, you know—beastly dirty hole, by the way—he needs looking after, wants a sunny room and good nourishment, and all that sort of thing. He'll get worse if he stays there. I'm going to take him to our hospital, if you don't mind."

"Take him?" the doctor chuckled.

The young man flushed, "Yes. Bah Jove! I can't see an old fellow like that, don't you know, dying for want of a little attention. Now, doctor, I'm no charity fiend, but—I say, what are you chuckling about?"

"At your past record in the matter of pet charities, and your open expressions regarding those who have them. Go on, Sig, my dear fellow. You said you'd take him."

The young man flung off his overcoat, displaying his evening dress and the flower in his button-hole. "Yes, I said take him—in my carriage to-morrow morning." He looked up, as if expecting protest.

"Bless you, man, I don't object if you don't," returned the older man. "He's an old fraud, doubtless, has no 'bronicles' to speak of, and wouldn't know 'yaller janders' from scarlet fever. Where do you purpose placing him?"

"In the pay ward," said the young doctor, defiantly.

Dr. Brewster threw back his head and laughed.

"But, I say, doctor," continued the other, "you ought to see him, such a pitiful-looking, white-haired, old chap, with those kids on his hands for years. I say, he's been handicapped, you know. And—Bah Jove! doctor, what did you send me there for?"

"To see how you liked Hitchen's Court."

The young man passed over the reply. "I say it's a beastly shame," he went on. "That old chap is a better fellow than I am any day, I say, there's something wrong."

"Desperately so, I grant you—with us."

The young man looked up quickly. "It's beastly," he repeated.

"Sig, you're a huge joke," laughed the doctor. "Go 'long with you and your paupers. By the way, what about the children?"

The young man smiled broadly. "They are a pair. I believe that poor little wretch of a red-headed snipe supports the family. Ah, doctor, I say we're nowhere with my Lord William. Such airs; bluffed me off at first."

He sat on the arm of the chair, swinging one foot thoughtfully. Dr. Brewster looked at him. Young, good-looking, rich; what the public called "a howling swell;" a dilettante in his profession, yet possessing ability, if but the proper motive stirred his impulses. He had been wont to maintain that half the world's poor were whining impostors, and the other half incorrigible reprobates.

The elder man watched him with a half smile. "You'll take the old man, then, and I'll see to the young ones," he remarked after a time.

Sigourney Hooper slipped on his overcoat again. "By the way," he said, "they think Santa Claus sent me," and he gave a grin of amusement.

Dr. Brewster looked grave. "Who is Santa Claus, anyhow?" he returned. "The embodiment of goodness, charity and kindly feeling."

"They were right, then," replied Sigourney, holding out his hand. "We'll have to give them a Christmas, doctor, for I promised not to keep grandfather from the bosom of his family on that festal day. Holy Moses! Festivities in that hole! Ugh!"

Dr. Brewster sat smiling to himself long after his visitor had departed. A wheel within a wheel, the ripples caused by the dropping of the smallest of pebbles; the movings toward a broad humanity set astir by the prattle of a child; by the instinctive appeal for warmth and protection made by a little hunted animal; the breath of the spirit on the face of the waters! He pondered over these mysterious forces, while Kittyboy purred contentedly at his elbow.

Kittyboy fared well these days. He never failed to station himself by the doctor's chair at meal time, and was so indulged in the matter of tid-bits that his coat grew as sleek as satin; and if he had not been of such a very volatile temperament, it is quite likely that he would have become fat and lazy.

The housekeeper confided to Maggie that something had made the doctor grow ten years younger, and the housemaid immediately attributed the fact to the presence of Kittyboy. Certain it is that the doctor busied himself with many things to which he had heretofore seemed indifferent, and his sober establishment underwent all sorts of changes. "All on account of the cat," said Maggie.

A well-to-do physician who has retained just enough practice to keep him contented is rather an enviable individual, and Dr. Brewster looked the picture of genial content as he stepped into his carriage on Christmas Eve. Just where he went was best known to his coachman, who had long ago learned the value of keeping his own counsel. But the faith in Santa Claus which that evening justified was felt in more than one wretched dwelling. Especially did two anxious little souls, who had staked their last hope on the letter they had sent, feel that their mustard seed of belief had indeed grown to gigantic size when hampers and bundles from Santa Claus were displayed to their glad and astonished eyes.

"Oh, Bill, I said I believed he'd bring all I wanted, and more," cried Gerty, laughing and crying at the same time. "And he did, he did. And grandpop's gone to stay in that grand room and get well, and I'm goin' to get well, and we've a whole turkey and fixins, Bill, fixins. I never said nothin' about them. And gran'pop 'll be here an' help us eat it. An', oh, Bill. They are a Sandy Claus, they are, ain't they?"

"Well, I should smile," replied Bill, surveying the bountiful supplies before him.

"An' you'll tell that little gal first thing, won't you?" said Gerty.

"Won't I!" returned Bill, too happy for more speech.

The doctor paced the floor a long time that night. He thought of many things; of the dreary dwellings he had that day seen; of the sorrowing poor; of the little it had taken to make a few hearts glad, and most of all he thought of little Elinor Temple and her mother. He remembered a Christmas Eve which had promised him a great joy, but which had brought him a great sorrow—the sorrow which he had kept locked in his heart for fifteen long years. Not once had he faltered in his faith in the girl who had turned from the young physician, just starting on his career, and had married rollicking Captain Temple. Dr. Brewster smiled sadly as he remembered how Mrs. Temple had said but the day before: "We sometimes make errors of judgment, but if we err from a mistaken motive of unselfishness, we suffer just the same." And that had told the whole story. It was the only justification she had ever attempted, the only reference to what he knew she must have endured; but he had inadvertently heard many things during these past weeks. He had re-read, with fresh delight, an old chapter in his life. He had opened his heart to the love of an innocent child, and the door being open, what else fair and beautiful might not find admittance.

There was a rare exultation in the doctor's smile, as the bells rang in the midnight hour, and declared the promise of peace and good will.

On Christmas morning around Kittyboy's neck was fastened, by the doctor's own hand, a bright red ribbon. Then he was placed in a basket and deposited upon the cushions of the doctor's carriage.

With the basket in his hand, Dr. Brewster entered Mrs. Temple's cozy sitting-room, where a hearty welcome awaited him.

"Elinor has such a host of pretty things," said the child's mother, "and yet she seems a little disappointed. She tells me there are two gifts she specially wanted, which Santa Claus did not bring her, but she will not tell me what they are."

"I think I know," returned the doctor, smiling. "Come here, Dot, Santa Claus asked me to bring your gifts to you, because he could not trust any one else, and he knew I'd take better care of them than some others."

Elinor looked at him gravely from under her long lashes, and watched eagerly while he uncovered the basket, from out of which jumped a sleek black little kitten, which stretched himself comfortably, looking up with friendly eyes at the doctor.

"Oh, mine own Jollity!" cried Elinor. "Oh, mamma, see! Oh, isn't Santa Claus good?" and she clasped Kittyboy rapturously in her arms. "And the other present," she said, laughing, "you couldn't bring that in a basket."

"It is here, if mamma will let you keep it," and the doctor took the child on his knee, hiding his face in her curly locks. "Tell mamma what it is," he whispered.

"Oh, mamma," cried the child, "I wrote to Santa Claus and asked him for a new kitty and a new papa. That was the secret Lily and I had." For a moment she looked puzzled, and then a light broke over her face, while she let the kitten go, and clasped the doctor's neck closer, closer. "And, oh mamma," she continued, "when Santa Claus has sent me such a beautiful, 'spensive papa, you will let me keep him, won't you?" And the mother, amid laughter and blushes, could not say her nay.