III
Tommy was just thinking how he would love to carry his mother a polar bearskin for his father, and his father a sealskin coat for his mother, when Santa Claus came up behind him and tweaked his ear.
“Ah!” he said, “so you want something—something you can’t get?”
“Not for myself,” said Tommy, shamefacedly.
“So,” said Santa Claus, with a look much like Tommy’s father when he was pleased. “I know that. They don’t have them exactly about here. The teddy-bears drove them out. You have to go away off to find them.” He waved his hand to show how far off it was.
“I should like to hunt them, if I only had a gun!” said Tommy;—“and one for Johnny, too,” he added quickly.
Santa Claus winked again. “Well,” he said slowly, just as Tommy’s father always did when Tommy asked for something and he was considering—“well, I’ll think about it.” He walked up and touched a spring, and the glass door flew open. “Try these guns,” he said; and Tommy tipped up and took one out. It, however, seemed a little light to shoot polar bears with and he put it back and took another. That, however, was rather heavy.
“Try this,” said Santa Claus, handing him one, and it was the very thing. “Load right; aim right; and shoot right,” said he, “and you’ll get your prize every time. And, above all, stand your ground.”
“Now, if I only had some dogs!” thought Tommy, looking around at a case full of all sorts of animals; ponies and cows; and dogs and cats; some big, some little, and some middle-sized. “I wish those were real dogs.”