CHAPTER VII
AS Christmas drew near Tommy was full of expectancy. In the windows of the village shops pictures of Santa Claus were now displayed. Santa Claus was a tall old gentleman with flowing beard and long, white hair; he wore a bright red cloak, and on his back was a sack almost bursting with the pressure of the toys it held.
Like the other children of Draeth, Tommy flattened his turned-up nose against the shop windows and looked at the treasures within; looked until he could see no longer because of his breath upon the glass. A vigorous rubbing with his coat sleeve set matters right once more, and again his roving fancy pitched first on one then on another of the toys beyond his reach.
It was about a week before Christmas, and Mrs. Tregennis was preparing Tommy for his nightly wash in the zinc bath in front of the kitchen fire.
“Mammy,” he said, thoughtfully surveying his toes when the home-knitted stockings had been pulled off inside out. “I be growin’ so that they stockin’s be rather small for I, same as my vestises.”
“Your vestises, Tommy Tregennis, do be run up in the wash, but I see nothin’ at all wrong with they stockin’s; they’m good stockin’s, ’n ’ll do you my son for a month o’ Sundays.”
Tommy’s diplomacy had failed. His lip trembled slightly. “Mammy, when Santy Claus do come down the bedroom chimbley ’n finds this tiddely stockin’ hangin’ on the rail, he’ll not be able to slip in even ’n orange, let ’lone a drum.”