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.
