"All ready, mister!" he said. "Bill's waitin' for you!"
"Jimmy," began Mrs. Bailey, about to explain, "the gentleman—"
But the philanthropist held up his hand, interrupting her. "You'll let me see your son, Mrs. Bailey?" he asked, gently.
"Why, certainly, sir."
Mr. Carter put Skiddles down and walked slowly into the inner room. The bed stood with its side toward him. On it lay a small boy of seven, rigid of body, but with his arms free and his face lighted with joy. "Hello, Santa Claus!" he piped, in a voice shrill with excitement.
"Hello, Bill!" answered the philanthropist, sedately.
The boy turned his eyes on Jimmy.
"He knows my name," he said, with glee.
"He knows everybody's name," said Jimmy. "Now you tell him what you want, Bill, and he'll bring it to-morrow.
"How would you like," said the philanthropist, reflectively, "an—an—" he hesitated, it seemed so incongruous with that stiff figure on the bed—"an airgun?"