7
IT was hard to keep still while we were drinking our pop from Santa’s icebox; in fact, I couldn’t, so I said, “You been doing some painting around here, Santa? I smell fresh paint outdoors.”
Santa set his bottle of orange pop down on the table and swallowed, and said, “The boathouse? Yes, I gave it a new coat yesterday—I’ve been doing a little work inside, too—doing it up in green and white. I plan to use it for a den for my fishing tackle and guns, and a place to write, and when I have company, it’ll do for a guest house—or a sleeping room, anyway—”
Say, right that second, Santa got a queer look on his face, straightened up and said, “What do you know? I just remembered I forgot to lock the boathouse door.”
Tom Till spoke up and asked, “Do the Indians steal things up here when you leave the doors unlocked?” and Santa answered and said something everybody ought to know, which was: “There are white people up here who do. We have very little trouble with the Indians themselves. They like to be trusted, and if they think you’ve locked the door especially because of them, they resent it. Of course, there are Indians and Indians, as there are white men and white men. A man isn’t a thief because he’s an Indian or of any other race, but because he has a sinful nature, which all men do have. You know a man decides for himself whether he is going to steal or not. It doesn’t matter what the color of his face is, if he has a black heart.”
Santa stretched himself and started toward the door.
I was wondering about Little Snow-in-the-face, and when we’d get to see him, and said so, and Santa said, “He’s still in the hospital. He’ll be thrilled to death to see you boys. He’s a great little boy.”
Santa opened his cabin door to go out and lock the boathouse door.
I looked at Poetry, and he looked at me, and we stared at each other. “Let’s all go,” Santa said.
In a jiffy, we were all outside, following Santa, walking in and along beside the white path his flashlight made.