Near the center is a very large and magnificently trimmed Christmas tree; a tree so splendid that you gasp when you see it. It is surrounded by a small ocean of gifts; enough to stock a fair-sized store. A gorgeous bicycle has a place of honor; it is hemmed in by a whole library of books, a pair of boxing gloves, two sleds, a regiment of the very latest mechanical wonders, enough musical instruments to equip a miniature band, and any number of games. There is everything you can think of—and more.
The toys are most expensive, and you wonder how many children are to be made happy by them—and then we tell you that they are all for the exclusive use of David Millman, Jr., who is seven years old, and who would greatly prefer permission to put on rompers, and play on some not too clean floor. But being an only child of a widowed father, and being heir to a string of banks, and at least one railroad, and half a dozen mansions in town and country, he is not permitted to do such things.
As our play begins the room is empty—but not for long. A face peers in through the window at the back, the sash is raised slowly and noiselessly, and a fourteen-year-old boy hoists himself across the sill. He is roughly dressed. His eyes are covered by a black mask with slits in it. Under his arm, with exaggerated care, he carries a gayly decorated box of candy.
He looks about stealthily, tiptoeing about the room. Then he turns to the window to hiss to an accomplice:
Slim
Coast’s clear!
[Bill, another boy, masked, and wearing a badly fitting beard and whiskers, climbs into the room. His appearance is one-half villainous, one-half pathetic. He is thin, and he is suffering from a cold.]
Shh!
Bill