"
"I ain't deliverin' it, either," said the boy. "This is Bill's tree."
"Who is Bill?"
"He's a feller with a back that's no good."
"Is he your brother?"
"No. Take the tree a little way, will you, while I warm myself?"
The philanthropist accepted the burden--he did not know why. The boy,
released, ran forward, jumped up and down, slapped his red flannel
mittens on his legs, and then ran back again. After repeating these
manoeuvres two or three times, he returned to where the old gentleman
stood holding the tree.
"Thanks," he said. "Say, mister, you look like Santa Claus yourself,
standin' by the tree, with your fur cap and your coat. I bet you don't
have to run to keep warm, hey?" There was high admiration in his look.
Suddenly his eyes sparkled with an inspiration.
"Say, mister," he cried, "will you do something for me? Come in to
Bill's--he lives only a block from here--and just let him see you. He's
only a kid, and he'll think he's seen Santa Claus, sure. We can tell
him you're so busy to-morrow you have to go to lots of places to-day.
You won't have to give him anything. We're looking out for all that.
Bill got hurt in the summer, and he's been in bed ever since. So we are
giving him a Christmas--tree and all. He gets a bunch of things--an air
gun, and a train that goes around when you wind her up.
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