"Joe Bellus he tol' me Santa Claus was only somebody rigged up t' fool folks, an' hadn't no reindeers at all."
The mother turned away, her wits groping for an answer.
"Hadn't ought 'a' told mother, Tom," said Paul, with a little quiver of reproach and pity. "'Tain't so, anyway—we know 'tain't so."
He was looking into his mother's face.
"Tain't so," Paul repeated with unshaken confidence.
"Mus'n't believe all ye hear," said the widow, who now turned to the doubting Thomas.
And that very moment Tom was come to the last gate of childhood, whereon are the black and necessary words, "Mus'n't believe all ye hear."
The boys in their new boots were on the track of a painter. They treed him, presently, at the foot of the stairs.
"How'll we kill him?" one of them inquired.
"Just walk around the tree once," said the mother, "an' you'll scare him to death. Why don't ye grease your boots?"