"Yes, no doubt you will stick tight—in the chimney, my little man."
"I mean to your back," said Rob, with a quiver in his voice.
Santa Claus can't bear to see little folks in trouble, so he took the boy into his arms, and asked him where he wanted to go.
"To Tommy Turner's, and oh, you know that boy in the awful old jacket that likes popguns," was the breathless reply.
Of course he knew him, for he knows every boy and girl in Christendom; so a popgun was added to the medley of toys. Santa Claus then strapped Rob and the basket on his back. He next crept through an open window to a ladder he had placed there, down which he ran as nimbly as a squirrel. The reindeer before the sledge were in a hurry to be off, and tinkled their silver bells right merrily. An instant more, and they were snugly tucked up in the white robes—an instant more, and they were flying like the wind over the snow.
Ah! Tommy's home. Santa Claus sprang out, placed the light ladder against the house, and before Rob could wink—a good fair wink—they were on the roof making for the chimney. Whether it swallowed him, or he swallowed it, is still a puzzle to Robby.
Tommy lay sleeping in his little bed and dreaming of a merry Christmas. His rosy mouth was puckered into something between a whistle and a smile. Rob longed to give him a friendly punch, but Santa Claus shook his head. They filled his stocking and hurried away, for empty little stockings the world over were waiting for that generous hand.
On they sped again, never stopping until they came to a wretched little hovel. A black pipe instead of a chimney was sticking through the roof.
Rob thought, "Now I guess he'll have to give it up." But no, he softly pushed the door open and stepped in.
On a ragged cot lay the urchin to whom Robby had given the biscuits. One of them, half-eaten, was still clutched in his hand. Santa Claus gently opened the other little fist and put the popgun into it.