'I have some good news for you!' It read more easily this time. 'What would make you happier than anything else you can think of? To have me tell you that you can have a pony of your own?' The characteristic, slow flush came into his cheeks. 'Well, that is just what I am going to tell you! Because on the twentieth of August we are going to give away to some boy or girl, one of the prettiest little Indian ponies you ever saw. Her name is "Lightfoot," and you can have her if you get started right away. The thing is to start right out—'
Oh, he understood the rest perfectly! He was simply to get subscriptions for the most delicious breakfast food that had ever been boxed for the public market! Its name? Buttercup Crisps! He was simply to get the names of people who were willing to put their names down for one order or more of Buttercup Crisps!
'Buttercup Crisps!' he whispered, and caught another deep breath at the mere sound of it, as he opened up the big folder. 'A Prize for Every Contestant!' It stared at him in huge letters, and his eyes traveled swiftly from the shining bicycle to the little mahogany writing-desk, to the violin, to the beautiful gold watch—then rested again gently, lingeringly, on THE PONY. Just once again his glance shifted to the sentence which seemed to shine out from all the others. 'Her name is "Lightfoot," and you can have her if you get started right away.'
He gathered up all his papers and went in.
'Mother—' he began; but he found that he needed a steadying pause at the very beginning. 'Mother—can I go out—for a little while? I want to—do something.'
She looked at the folded sheets in his hand.
'O Crosby, that’s so foolish!' she protested. 'You know you couldn’t get that pony, no matter how hard you tried.'
'Well, can I go?' he repeated, sticking characteristically to the original question.
'Oh, yes, I suppose so. But I wouldn’t waste my time over that, if I were you. It’s too warm a day.'
He was already storing all the papers and pictures inside his waist for safe keeping, and as he marched steadily down town toward 'the centre,' he kept one hand of protection upon them and made out a careful plan of campaign. He must go to every house in town, beginning with the one right there, next the post-office. But it wasn’t a house. It was a store. Never mind, he would begin with the store. He felt very strange, though, as he stood before the counter, while the man behind it waited, flirting some string which hung down from a suspended ball, and evidently quite ready for business.