“Yes,” answered Toymaker Number Eleven, still in the same musing voice. “It’s in the deep woods down between green banks. Even in winter the banks are green; the snow melts when it touches them. A hawthorn tree almost hides the spring from view, but at night when the moon is shining you can see the water quite plainly; it’s silver and black and it sings a little song.”
“Well,” boomed Santa Claus in a big voice, “that solves the whole thing. To-night we’ll get some of that wonderful water, and sprinkle it on the Plot Tree and then it will burst forth with plots and Bookfellow can write his books.”
Which is just what happened. When the moon came up that night Benjamin Bookfellow, led by Toymaker Number Eleven, went in the deep woods down to the green banks behind the hawthorn, scooped up a pailful of the wonderful water and took it back to the Plot Tree. At the first sprinkle the buds began to flower; at the next sprinkle the flowers bloomed into green fruit; at the last sprinkle the green fruit turned yellow like oranges and seemed ready to burst. Three sprinkles, and the buds were full-grown plots, ready to be nipped off by Benjamin Bookfellow and used for children’s books. A wonderful thing, imagination. Nobody ever need scoff at it again.
But still Jerry Juddikins’ book was not forthcoming, for even the new plots all had girls in them. Jerry didn’t know he wouldn’t get his book of course. He didn’t dream that in all the store of Santa’s treasures there wouldn’t be a book without a girl in it. So he was very happy.
It was in the evening of two days before Christmas, and already the air of Christmas was abroad. The air crackled with Christmas, the windows of people’s houses flaunted Christmas, the snow crunched with Christmas in every crunch, and everywhere there was that tingling feel of Christmas. Even Mutt had Christmas in his bones and had gone off on an adventure, tail up, nose up, barking with Christmas joy. And then to cap the climax, Mr. Juddikins came home with a job in his pocket! Oh, such joy in the Juddikins’ house! They were all quite delirious with it.
They wished Mutt would come back though. They knew how happy he would be when they told him. Mr. Juddikins hurried out and bought a fat bone for him, such a bone as Mutt had dreamed of all his life but had never yet set teeth upon. They unbolted the door, the more quickly to open it when Mutt came back. Then they sat down and waited, the bone on a plate, the door unlatched.
But Mutt did not come back. Six o’clock came, and half-past six and seven. Eight o’clock came, and half-past eight and nine. The Juddikins went out into the snow-covered garden calling, “Mutt, Mutt, Mutt.” They went up and down Whippoorwill Road hunting and calling and searching. But he was gone and they sat around the fire, Mr. Juddikins and Mrs. Juddikins and Jerry, with terror and ache in their hearts. Even the baby looked sad as she slept in her high chair.
Then, all at once, as they sat there, they heard steps up the walk; not dog steps but human steps, a big, long stride like a man’s and a little short hippety-hop like a girl’s. A knock came at the door, a big rap from a man’s hand, a little tattoo from a girl’s hand. Mr. Juddikins looked fearfully at Mrs. Juddikins, and Jerry looked at them both. Here was somebody to tell them Mutt was dead. They couldn’t move.
The knock came again.
“Go,” said Mrs. Juddikins to Mr. Juddikins.