The Philanthropist's Christmas by James Weberlyn. Did you see this committee yesterday, mister Matthews asked the philanthropist. His secretary looked up. Yes, sir, you recommend them then, yes, sir, for fifty thousand, for fifty thousand, yes, sir, Their corresponding subscriptions are guaranteed. I went over the list carefully, mister Carter. The money is promised and by responsible people. Very well, said the philanthropist. You may notify them, mister Matthews, that my fifty thousand will be available as the bills come in, Yes, sir. Old mister Carter laid down the letter he had been reading and took up another. As he perused it, his white eyebrows rose in irritation. Mister Matthews, he snapped, yes, sir, you are careless, sir. I beg your pardon, mister Carter questioned the secretary, his face flushing, the old gentleman tapped impatiently the letter he held in his hand. Do you pay no attention, mister Matthews to my rule that no personal letter is containing appeals for aid are to reach me? How do you account for this? May? I ask? I beg your pardon, said the secretary. Again. You will see, mister Carter, that the letter is dated three weeks ago. I have had the woman's case carefully investigated. She is undoubtedly of good reputation and undoubtedly in need. And as she speaks of her father as having associated with you, I thought perhaps you would care to see her letter. A thousand worthless fellows associated with me, said the old man harshly. In a great factory, mister Matthews, a boy works alongside of the man he is put with. He does not pick and choose. I dare say this woman is telling the truth. What of it? You know that I regard my money as a public trust. Were my energy, my concentration to be wasted by innumerable individual assaults, what would become of them? My fortune would slip through my fingers as unprofitably as sand. You understand, mister Matthews. Let me see no more individual letters. You know that mister Whittemore has full authority to deal with them. May I trouble you to ring? I am going out. A man appeared very promptly in answer to the bell sniffin my overcoat, said the philanthropist. It is here, sir, answered Sniffin helping the thin old man into the great fur folds. There is no word of the dog, I suppose, Sniffin none, sir. The police was here again yesterday, sir, but they said as ow the police. The words were fierce with a scorn eight thousand incompetents. He turned abruptly and went toward the door, where he halted a moment. Mister mass h Hughes, since that woman's letter did reach me, I suppose I must pay for my carelessness or yours. Send her what does she say? For children? Send her a hundred dollars, but for my sake, send it anonymously. Write her that I pay no attention to such claims. He went out, and Sniffin closed the door behind him. Takes loosing the little dog art, don't, he remarked Sniffin sadly to the secretary. I'm afraid they're ain't a chance of finding him now. He ain't been stolen, or he ain't been founder. They'd have brung him back for the reward he's been knockin on the head like as not. He wasn't much of a dog to look at, ye see, just a pub I'd call him. And after he learned that trick of slip in his collar off. Well, I fancy mister Carter seen the last of him, I do indeed. Mister Carter meanwhile, was making his way slowly down the snowy avenue upon his accustomed walk. The walk, however, was dull to day for Skittles, his little terrier, was not with him. To add interest and excitement, mister Carr had found Skittles in the country a year and a half before. Skittles, then a puppy, was at the time in a most undignified and undesirable position, stuck in a drained tile and unable either to advance or to retreat. Mister Carter had shoved him forward after a heroic struggle, whereupon Skittles had licked his hand. Something in the little dog's eye or his action had induced the rich philanthropist to bargain for him and buy him at a cost of half a dollar. Thereafter, Skittles became his daily companion, his chief distraction, and finally the apple of his eye. Skittles was of no known parentage, hardly of any known breed, but he suited mister Carter. What the millionaire reflected with a prosymicism were his own antecedents, if it came to that. But now Skittles had disappeared. As Sniffin said, he had learned the trick of slipping free from his collar. One morning, the great front doors had been left open for two minutes while the hallway was aired, Skittles must have slipped down the marble steps unseen and dodged round the corner. At all events, he had vanished, And although the whole police force of the city had been roused to secure his return, it was aroused in vain, and for three weeks therefore a small, straight, white bearded man in a fur overcoat had walked in mournful irritation alone. He stood upon a corner uncertainly. One way led to the park, and this he usually took. But to day he did not want to go to the park. It was too reminiscent of Skittles. He looked the other way. Down there, if one went far enough, lay slums, and mister Carter hated the sight of slums. They always made him miserable and discontented. With all his money and his philanthropy, was there still necessity for such misery in the world. Worse still came the intrusive question at times, had all his money anything to do with the creation of this misery. He owed no tenements, He paid good wages in every factory. He had given sums such as few men have given in the history of philanthropy. Still there were the slums. However, the worst slums lay some distance off, and he finally turned his back on the park and walked on. It was the day before Christmas. You saw it in people's faces. You saw it in the holly wreaths that hung in windows. You saw it even as you passed the splendid forbidding houses on the avenue, in the green that here and there banked massive doors. But most of all you saw it in the shops up here. The shops were smallish and chiefly of the provisioned variety, so there was no bewildering display of gifts. But there were Christmas trees everywhere, of all sizes. It was astonishing how many people in that neighborhood seemed to favor the old fashioned idea of a tree. Mister Carter looked at them, with his irritation softening. If they made him feel a trifle more lonely, they allowed him to feel also a trifle as responsible for. After all, it was a fairly happy world at this moment, he perceived a curious phenomenon a short distance before him, another Christmas tree, but one which moved, apparently of its own volition, along the sidewalk. As mister Carter overtook it, he saw that it was borne or dragged rather by a small boy who wore a bright red flannel cap and mittens of the same peculiar material. As mister Carter looked down at him, he looked up at mister Carter and spoke, cheerfully, go in my way. Mister why, said the philanthropist, somewhat taken back, I was mind dragging this a little way, asked the boy. Confidently, My hands is cold. Won't you joy it more if you managed to take it home by yourself? Oh, it ain't for me, said the boy. Your employer, said the philanthropist severely, is certainly careless if he allows these trees to be delivered in this fashion. I ain't delivering it either, said the boy. This is Bill's tree. Who is Bill? He's a feller with a bag. That's no good, is he your brother? No? Take the tree a little way, will you? While I wore myself. The philanthropist accepted the burden. He did not know why. The boy released, ran forward, jumped up and down, slapped his red flannel mittens on his legs, and then ran back again. After repeating these maneuvers two or three times, he returned to where the old gentleman stood holding the tree. Thanks, he said, say, mister, you look like Santa Claus yourself standing by the tree with your fur cap and your coat. I bet you don't have to run to keep warm. Hay. There was high admiration in his look. Suddenly his eyes sparkled with an inspiration. Say mister, he cried, will you do something for me? Come into Bill's. He lives only a block from here, and just let him see you. He's only a kid, and he'll think he's in Santa Claus. Sure we can tell him you're so busy tomorrow you have to go to lots of places to day. You won't have to give him anything. We're looking out for all that Bill got hurt in the summer and he's been in bed ever since. So we are giving him a Christmas tree and all. He gets a bunch of things, an air gun and a tray that goes round when you wind her up. They're great, you boys are doing this. Well. It's our club at the settlement. And of course miss Gray thought of it, and she's given Bill the train. Come along, mister, But mister Carter declined. All right, said the boy, I guess what with Pete? And all Bill will have Christmas enough? Who is Pete? Bill's dog? He had him three weeks now past? Little Papa ever saw a dog which Bill had had three weeks, and in a neighborhood not a quarter of a mile from the avenue. It was three weeks and Skittles had disappeared. That this dog was Skittles was, of course most improbable, And yet the philanthropist was ready to grasp at any clue which might lead to the lost terrier. How did Bill get this dog? He demanded. I found him myself. Some kids had tin canned him, and he came into our entry. He licked my hand and then sat up on his hind legs. Somebody'd taught him that, you know. I thought right away, here's a dog for Bill. And I took him over there and fed him, and they kept him in Bill's room two or three days. So he shouldn't get scared again and run off, And now he wouldn't leave Bill for anybody. Of course, he ain't much of a dog, pete ain't, he added, He's just a pup. But he's mighty friendly boy, said mister Carter. I guess I'll just go round. And he was about to add have a look at that dog, but fearful of raising suspicion, he ended, and see Bill. The tenements to which the boy led him were of brick and reasonably clean. Nearly every window showed some sign of Christmas. The tree bearer led the way into a dark hall, up one flight, mister Carter assisting with the tree, and down another dark hall to a door on which he knocked. A woman opened it. Here's a tree, said the boy in a loud whisper. Is Pale's door shut? Mister Carter stepped forward out of the darkness. I beg your pardon, madame, he said. I met this young man in the street, and he asked me to come here and see a playmate of his. Who is I understand an invalid. But if I am intruding, come in, said the woman, heartily, throwing the door open. Bill will be glad to see you, sir, the philanthropist stepped inside. The room was decently furnished and clean. There was a sewing machine in the corner, and in both the windows hung wreaths of holly. Between the windows was a cleared space where evidently the tree, when decorated, was to stand. Are all the things here, eagerly demanded the tree bearer. They're all here, Jimmy, answered missus Bailey. The candy just came, say, cried the boy, pulling off his red flannel mittens to blow on his fingers. Won't it be great? But now Bill's got to seek Sena Claus. I'll just go in and tell him. Then, then when I holler, mister, you come on and pretend your Santa Claus. And with incredible celerity, the boy opened the door at the opposite end of the room and disappeared. Madame said mister Carter in considerable embarrassment. I must say one word. I am mister Carter. Mister Allan Carter, you may have heard my name. She shook her head. No, sir, I leave not far from here in the avenue. Three weeks ago I lost a little dog that I valued very much. I have had all the cities searched since then. In Vain to day I met the boy who has just left us. He informed me that three weeks ago he found a dog which is at present in the possession of your son. I wonder, is it not just possible that this dog may be mine? Missus Bailey smiled. I guess not, mister Carter. The dog Jimmy found hadn't come off the avenue, not from the look of him. You know, there's hundreds and hundreds of dogs without home, sir, But I will say for this one, he has a kind of a way with him. Hark, said mister Carter. There was a rustling and a snuffing at the door at the far end of the room, a quick scratching of feet. Then woof, woof, woof, sharp and clear came happy, impatient little barks. The philanthropist's eyes brightened. Yes, he said, that is a dog. I doubt if it can be, sir, said Missus Bailey, deprecatingly. Open the door, please, commanded the philanthropist, and let us see. Missus Bailey complied. There was a quick jump at tumbling rush Ann Skittles. The lost Skittles was in the philanthropist's arms. Missus Bailey shut the door with a troubled face. I see it's your dog, sir, she said, but I hope you won't be thinking that, Jimmy or I, Madam, interrupted mister Carter, I could not be so foolish. On the contrary, I owe you a thousand thanks. Missus Bailey looked more cheerful. Poor little Billy, she said, it'll come hard on him, losing Pete just at Christmas time, but the boys are so good to him. I dare say he'll forget it. Who are these boys, inquired the philanthropist. Isn't their action somewhat unusual? It's Miss Gray's club at the Settlement, Sir, exclaimed Missus Bailey. Every Christmas they do this for somebody. It's not charity, Billy and I don't need charity or take it. It's just friendliness. They're good boys, I see, said the philanthropist. He was still wandering about it, though, when the door opened again and Jimmy thrust out, a face shining with anticipation. All Ready, mister, he said, Bille's waitin for you, Jimmy began. Missus Bailey about to explain the gentleman. But the philanthropist held up his hand, interrupting her. You'll let me see your son, Missus Bailey, he asked gently, Why, certainly, sir mister Carter put skittles down and walked slowly into the inner room. The bed stood with its side toward him. On it lay a small boy of seven, rigid of body, but with his arms free and his face lighted with joy. Hello Santa Claus, he piped, in a voice shrill with excitement. Hello, Bill, answered the philanthropist sedily. The boy turned his eyes on Jimmy. He knows my name, he said, with glee. He knows everybody's name, said Jimmy. Now you tell him what you want, Bill, and he'll bring it tomorrow. How would you like, said the philanthropist reflectively, and and he hesitated. It seemed so incongruous with that stiff figure on the bed an air gun. I guess yes, said Bill happily. And a train of cars broke in the impatient Jimmy, that goes like sixty when you wind her, ay, said Bill. The philanthropist solemnly made notes of this. How about, he remarked, inquiringly. A tree, honest, said Bill, I think it can be managed, said Santa Claus. He advanced to the bedside. I'm glad to have seen you, Bill. You know how busy I am. But I hope, I hope to see you again. Not till next year, of course, warned Jimmy. Not till then, of course, assented Santa Claus. And now good bye. You forgot to ask him if he had been a good boy, suggested Jimmy. I have said, Bill, I've been fine. You ask mother. She gives you. She gives you both a high character, said Santa Claus. Good bye again, and so saying, he withdrew skittles followed him out. The philanthropist closed the door of the bedroom and then turned to Missus Bailey. She was regarding him with awe struck eyes. Oh sir, she said, I know now who you are, the mister Carter that gives so much away to people. The philanthropist nodded deprecatingly. Just so, Missus Bailey, he said, And there's one gift or loan rather which I should like to make to you. I should like to leave the little dog with you till after the holidays. I'm afraid I'll have to claim him then, but if you'll keep him till after Christmas and let me find perhaps another dog for Billy, I shall be much obliged. Again. The door of the bedroom opened and Jimmy emerged quietly. Bill wants the pup, he explained. Pete Pete came the piping but happy voice from the inner room. Skittles hesitated. Mister Carter made no sign. Pete Pete shrilled a voice again, slowly, very slowly. Skittles turned and went back into the bedroom. You see, said mister Carter, smiling. He won't be too unhappy away from me, Missus Bailey. On his way home, the philanthropist saw even more evidences of Christmas gayety along the streets than before. He stepped out briskly, in spite of his sixty eight years. He even hummed a little tune. When he reached the house on the avenue, he found his secretary still at work. Oh, by the way, mister Matthews, he said, did you send that letter to the woman saying I never paid attention to personal appeals? No, then write her please in closing my check for two hundred dollars and wish her a very merry Christmas. In my name, will you, and hereafter will you always let me see such letters as that one. Of course, after careful investigation. I fancy perhaps I may have been too rigid in the past. Certainly, sir, answered the bewildered secretary. He began fumbling excitedly for his note book. I've found the little dog, continued the philanthropist. You will be glad to know that you have found him, cried the secretary. Have you got him back, mister Carter? Where was he? He was detained on Oak Street, I believe, said the philanthropist. No, I have not got him back yet. I have left him with a young boy till after the holidays. He settled himself to his papers, for phillanthropists must toil, even on the twenty fourth of December. But the Secretary shook his head in a daze. I wonder what's happened, he said to himself. And of the Philanthropist's Christmas by James Weberlin