"That isn't always so. I think it depends on what a fellow wants; and I've made a strike this year. I'm not going to say thank you for what I don't want; only I don't exactly know what I do want. It must be either—either—a—bicycle—or a printing press—or Indian clubs; and if it is a bicycle, it must be the real kind—wooden ones are not allowed in processions; and if it is clubs, I shall knock my head off; so it better be a printing press. It doesn't make any difference to you this year, does it, as we have not got to buy a new carpet? I have decided; it shall be a printing press, and I shall get orders enough to pay for new curtains."
"Not quite so fast, I don't know about the orders, and I do know printing presses cost, and that Indian clubs are cheap."
"Oh! you can't put me off till another Christmas; it is like Alice in Wonderland having jam to-morrow. And when to-morrow comes, it isn't to-morrow. I am going to have it, and you can all club together and buy it instead of giving me separately, sleeve buttons and scarf pins and cologne and paper and pocket scissors. A fellow wants real things that he can do something with. Printing press, now, you remember." And off rushed Pete as Dick gave a low war-whoop, the signal for an incursion of boys into the shed.
This shed was filled with relics of former joys, with the débris of unsuccessful inventions, with tool-boxes whose tools were missing, with oil cans without oil, with boards full of nails, with the wheels of broken carts, and with strings, ropes and clothes lines of various lengths; yet to a new-comer it was always an El Dorado of enjoyment. Into this now sprang, tumbled, the cronies, Dick, Jack, Phil and Shel, which latter name was a contraction for General Sheridan.
"I say," exclaimed Phil, "I am getting tired of your shed; haven't had an idea in it for months—same old contrivances—get up something new."
"You just wait," said Pete, the proprietor.
"O come along, boys, if it is 'wait,' don't let us wait here," said Shel, and off they started on a raid for fun. Pete returned from the excursion to dream all night of what might and of what might not be. His wishes became so thoroughly mixed that he fancied he had told his mother he wanted nothing, not even Christmas itself; but the horror of such a mistake effectually roused him.
The next morning there was no indication of forthcoming glories, except that they had less than usual for breakfast; a kind of atonement to which Mrs. Downs sometimes treated her family. Pete sighed. The greetings for a merry Christmas were of doubtful value to him. He was of a foreboding nature and experience had taught him to be prepared for disappointment in the matter of presents. He went to church and noticed carefully the style of type in the hymn books; he came home and took down all his books from their shelves for the same purpose of investigation. Even dinner itself failed to bring forgetfulness; for he thought, if he could print bills-of-fare for such lengthy repasts he might make money; though he felt he could never spell the queer French names of dishes. At last the meal was ended, and the big parlor doors were thrown open, displaying horizontal rows of evergreen, with various knick-knacks fastened to these mysterious lines, which on inspection proved to be the bars of an old-fashioned clotheshorse. It made one think of sums in addition put down in agreeable shapes; one green line of gifts and then another and another, which suddenly changed into a sum in long division. Brown-looking packages lay about the feet of the clotheshorse, and on them Pete fastened his eyes, for printing presses cannot hang.
His name was called several times and he received the very things he did not want; sleeve buttons, scarfpins, cologne, and paper. He says, "thank you," each time more faintly, whilst his mother's eyes twinkle. At last Santa Claus tried to lift a big bundle; he puffed and panted and called Pete to help him. Pete comes slowly forward, bends down to help, felt something cold and hard beneath the wrapper, fumbled over it, clasped it round, excitedly tried to lift it, whispered awestruck, "It is, it is a self-inker;" bends further down, lifted it up awkwardly, and dropped it on his little slippered foot, with a big bang and a painful, "oh!" The scene was too funny for sympathy and the general laugh increased the ache in the right-hand corner of the big toe on the left foot. Pete limped out of the room and was soon forgotten in the universal excitement; but when all were busy with their ice cream, he crept back to his beloved bundle, unwrapped it, and lying flat down on his stomach hugged himself to it, and gazed at it again. It was growing late. He knew that as soon as the guests were gone he must do his share in putting things to rights, restoring furniture to its place, and worse than all, in smoothing out the wrapping paper and tying it up in little bundles, and in unravelling all the knotted strings; for his mother was accustomed to take off the edge of too great Christmas enjoyment, by enforcement of this economical rule. That night he dreamed of Franklin, of editors, of type setting, and of sensible mothers, who knew what fellows want.
The next morning he woke with a sense of much to do, and soon began his future career by sorting the type. This was a long job, for he had several kinds; capitals and small letters, heavy face and light face type, besides commas, hyphens and periods, and somehow everything was mixed up. Now and then he stopped to admire his new gift and his own energy, or to call some one to help him.