“No, sir.” Then, as Santa Claus sat staring blankly with open mouth and fingers plucking nervously at what seemed to be the only button on his coat, he added, “Please, sir, did you bring the air-gun?”
“Hey?”
“Did you bring the air-gun I wanted? They said you probably wouldn't, but I do want it like everything. I won't shoot the hens, honest I won't.”
Santa Claus picked at the button.
“Say, boy,” he asked, slowly. “Who am I?”
Georgie was surprised.
“Why, Santa Claus,” he replied. “You are Santa Claus, ain't you?”
“Eh? San . . . Oh, yes, yes! I'm Santa Claus, that's who I be.” He seemed relieved, but still anxious. After fidgeting a moment he added, “Well, I cal'late I'll have to be goin' now.”
Georgie turned pale.
“But—but where are the presents?” he wailed. “I—I thought you wasn't goin' to be cross with me. I'm awfully sorry I stayed up to watch for you. I won't ever do it again. PLEASE don't go away and not leave me any presents. Please, Mr. Santa Claus!”