Speaker 1: 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 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