"Punch and Judys!" His memory swept back to the raftered hall and Professor O'Reilley's performance. "They're such fun, and they don't cost very much. If I had one, I wouldn't spend any money on those shows, either."
His father chuckled at the bit of juvenile diplomacy. "You'd better make out your Christmas list for us before that pencil gets worn out making crosses, son."
He slid from the paternal knee and was off to the library in a trice. Mrs. Fletcher had overheard the finish of the conversation and smiled in on him before she joined her husband in reading the evening paper. Minutes passed.
"Most finished, son?" called Mr. Fletcher. "It's nearly bedtime, you know."
A grunt was the only response.
"Better add a few things you'll need around the flat when you and Louise are married!"
"John!" Mrs. Fletcher rattled her newspaper disapprovingly. "Do stop teasing that boy."
A few moments later, her son appeared in the doorway, yawning sleepily.
"It isn't ready yet," he said. "I'm going to bed now."
Late the following evening, Mrs. Fletcher opened her son's door to see if he slept soundly, and a scrap of paper fluttered from an anchoring pin to the floor. She picked it up. True to his peculiar custom, John had presented his Christmas needs in a manner which seemed more delicate than to ask in person for them. With a whimsical, sympathetic smile, she rejoined her husband in the big bedroom.