“Location,” he read from a paper in his hand, “hut in wood. Enter fairies with Fairy Queen. Dance.”
“How I am expected to dance,” said the Fairy Queen bitterly, “tortured by toothache, I can’t think.”
“You don’t dance with your teeth,” said the shirt-sleeve man unsympathetically. “Let’s go through it once before we turn on the machine. You’ve rehearsed it often enough. Now, come on.”
They danced a dance that made William gape in surprise and admiration, so dainty and airy was it.
“Enter Father Christmas,” went on the shirt-sleeve man.
“What I can’t think,” said Father Christmas, fastening on his beard, “is what a Father Christmas’s doing in this effect.”
“Nor a giant,” said the giant sadly.
“It’s for a Christmas show,” said the shirt-sleeve man. “You’ve gotter have a Father Christmas in a Christmas show, or else how’d people know it’s a Christmas show? And you’ve gotter have a giant in a fairy tale whether there is one in it or not.”
Father Christmas joined the dance—gave presents to all the fairies, then retired behind the hut to his private store of refreshment.
“Enter Goldilocks,” said the shirt-sleeve man. “Now where the dickens is that kid?”