Here the shirt-sleeve man appeared at the window.
“That’s right,” he said kindly. “Take all day about it. Don’t hurry! We all enjoy hanging about and waiting for you.”
Father Christmas offered to retire from his post in favour of the shirt-sleeve man, and the shirt-sleeve man hastily retreated.
Then came the task of fitting William into the skin. It was not an easy task.
“You’re bigger,” said Father Christmas, “than what you look in the distance. Considerable.”
William could not stand quite upright in the skin, but by stooping slightly he could see and speak through the open mouth of the head. In an ecstasy of joy he pummelled the big bear, the little bear gladly joined in the fray and a furry ball of three struggling bears rolled out of the door of the hut.
The shirt-sleeve man rang a bell.
“After this somewhat lengthy interlude,” he said. “By the way, may I inquire the name of our new friend?”
William proudly shouted his name through the aperture in the bear’s head.
“Well, Billiam,” he said jocularly, “do just what I tell you and you’ll be all right. Now all clear off a minute, please. We’ve only a few scenes to do here.”