“You’ve got the stocking, wife?” said John, after a pause.
“Ay,” said his wife: “it’s easy to find something to fill it.”
“Fetch it out, then, and let’s see how much ’twill take to fill it.”
Mrs. Krinken arose, and going to one of the two little cupboards she brought thence a large iron key; and then having placed the patches and thread upon the floor, she opened the chest, and rummaged out a long grey woollen stocking, with white toe and heel and various darns in red. Then she locked the chest again and sat down as before.
“The same old thing,” said John Krinken with a glance at the stocking.
“Well,” said his wife, “it’s the only stocking in the house that’s long enough.”
“I know one thing he shall have in it,” said John; and he got up and went to the other cupboard, and fetched from it a large piece of cork.
“He shall have a boat that will float like one of Mother Carey’s chickens.” And he began to cut and shape with his large clasp-knife, while the little heap of chips on the floor between his feet grew larger, and the cork grew more and more like a boat.
His wife laid down her hand which was in the sleeve of the red jacket, and watched him.