One by one the prisoners of the night dropped in surreptitiously. [Page 155.]
"Selling papers in winter doesn't give these babies exactly the sort of paddies you'd expect to find on a mollycoddle," said the doctor.
And so, here in the House of the Seven Santas, things went for the next hour. One by one all the prisoners of the night, with the exception of Ricketts, dropped in surreptitiously, to find that the ideas of each were common to them all, and the little mite under the bedclothes was destined soon to emerge from the riches of his dreams into a reality even richer and more substantial. The varied gifts were ranged about the foot of the bed, the golf stockings bulging with sweets were hung at its head, and the big-hearted donors retired, this time to that real sleep which comes to him who has had the satisfaction of some kindly deed to look back upon.
"Poor Ricketts!" sighed the doctor, as he noted the one absentee. "How much these old bachelors lose at this season of the year!"
Two hours later, just as the first rays of the dawn began to light up the guest room, its small occupant opened his eyes, and began rubbing them violently with his fists.
"Chee!" was his first utterance, and then he sat up and gazed about him. His unfamiliar surroundings naturally puzzled him, and a look of childish wonder came over his face. "Where'm I at?" he muttered. "Guess diss must be dat Heaven place de guys down to de mission talks about."
He clambered out of bed, and as he did so his eyes took in the wondrous array of gifts spread before him.