On they sped again, never stopping until they came to a wretched little hovel. A black pipe instead of a chimney was sticking through the roof.
Rob thought, “Now I guess he’ll have to give it up.” But no, he softly pushed the door open and stepped in.
On a ragged cot lay the urchin to whom Robby had given the cookies. One of them, half eaten, was still clutched in his hand. Santa Claus gently opened the other little fist and put the popgun into it.
“Give him my drum,” whispered Rob, and Santa Claus, without a word, placed it near the rumpled head.
How swiftly they flew under the bright stars! How sweetly rang the bells!
When Santa Claus reined up at Robby’s door he found his little comrade fast asleep. He laid him tenderly in his crib, and drew off a stocking, which he filled with the smaller toys. The rocking-horse he placed close to the crib, that Rob might mount him on Christmas morning.
A kiss, and he was gone.
P.S.—Rob’s mother says it was all a dream, but he declares that “It’s true as Fourth of July!” I prefer to take his word for it.