"Well, whad'd'yer know about dat?" he muttered. "What kind of a choint is diss, anyhow?"
As he attempted to walk across the room his small feet became entangled in the flowing skirt of Mallerby's bath robe, which he wore in lieu of a nightshirt.
"Dat's it," he said, as he tripped, and stumbled to the floor. "I'm dead, dat's what I am—and dese is my anchel clo'es. Chee, but dey's hard to walk in. Seems to me I'd radder have me pants."
In a moment he had regained his feet, and the marvelous variety of toys began to reveal themselves in detail to his astounded vision.
"Will yer pipe de layout!" he gasped ecstatically. "Wonder what kid's goin' to have de luck to draw dem in his socks?"
And just then the door opened again, and a sleepy-eyed old bachelor came stealing in, in the person of Ricketts. He wore his pajamas, and a yellow mackintosh thrown over his shoulders.
"Good morning, kiddie," he said, closing the door softly behind him. "Merry Christmas to you!"
"Merry Chrissmus yerself!" smiled the youngster. "Say, mister, kin yer tell me where I'm at? Diss ain't like my reg'lar lodgin' house, and I must ha' got in wrong somehow."
"Where is your regular lodging house?" asked Ricketts, seating himself on the side of the bed.
"Oh, any old place where dere's room fer me an' me feet at de same time," replied the boy. "Packin' boxes mostly in de winter-time, and de docks in de summer."