The Second Christmas Megapack: 29 Modern and Classic Yuletide Stories

by Robert Reginald

  Mary bathed and dressed him with care. As the candy had stuck to the stockings in spots, it was decided after a family conference that Shaver would have to wear them wrong side out as there was no time to be wasted in washing them. By eight o’clock The Hopper announced that it was time for Shaver to go home. Shaver expressed alarm at the thought of leaving his chicks; whereupon Humpy conferred two of them upon him in the best imitation of baby talk that he could muster.

  “Me’s tate um to me’s gwanpas,” said Shaver; “chickee for me’s two gwanpas”—a remark which caused The Hopper to shake for a moment with mirth as he recalled his last view of Shaver’s “gwanpas” in a death grip upon the floor of “Gwanpa” Talbot’s house.

  IX,

  When The Hopper rolled away from Happy Hill Farm in the stolen machine, accompanied by one stolen child and forty thousand dollars’ worth of stolen pottery, Mary wept, whether because of the parting with Shaver, or because she feared that The Hopper would never return, was not clear.

  Humpy, too, showed signs of tears, but concealed his weakness by performing a grotesque dance, dancing grotesquely by the side of the car, much to Shaver’s joy—a joy enhanced just as the car reached the gate, where, as a farewell attention, Humpy fell down and rolled over and over in the snow.

  The Hopper’s wits were alert as he bore Shaver homeward. By this time it was likely that the confiding young Talbots had conferred over the telephone and knew that their offspring had disappeared. Doubtless the New Haven police had been notified, and he chose his route with discretion to avoid unpleasant encounters. Shaver, his spirits keyed to holiday pitch, babbled ceaselessly, and The Hopper, highly elated, babbled back at him.

  They arrived presently at the rear of the young Talbots’ premises, and The Hopper, with Shaver trotting at his side, advanced cautiously upon the house bearing the two baskets, one containing Shaver’s chicks, the other the precious porcelains. In his survey of the landscape he noted with trepidation the presence of two big limousines in the highway in front of the cottage and decided that if possible he must see Muriel alone and make his report to her.

  The moment he entered the kitchen he heard the clash of voices in angry dispute in the living-room. Even Shaver was startled by the violence of the conversation in progress within, and clutched tightly a fold of The Hopper’s trousers.

  “I tell you it’s John Wilton who has stolen Billie!” a man cried tempestuously. “Anybody who would enter a neighbor’s house in the dead of night and try to rob him—rob him, yes, and murder him in the most brutal fashion—would not scruple to steal his own grandchild!”

  “Me’s gwanpa,” whispered Shaver, gripping The Hopper’s hand, “an’ ’im’s mad.”

  That Mr. Talbot was very angry indeed was established beyond cavil. However, Mr. Wilton was apparently quite capable of taking care of himself in the dispute.

  “You talk about my stealing when you robbed me of my Lang-Yao—bribed my servants to plunder my safe! I want you to understand once for all, Roger Talbot, that if that jar isn’t returned within one hour—within one hour, sir—I shall turn you over to the police!”

  “Liar!” bellowed Talbot, who possessed a voice of great resonance. “You can’t mitigate your foul crime by charging me with another! I never saw your jar; I never wanted it! I wouldn’t have the thing on my place!”

  Muriel’s voice, full of tears, was lifted in expostulation.

  “How can you talk of your silly vases when Billie’s lost! Billie’s been stolen—and you two men can think of nothing but pot-ter-ree!”

  Shaver lifted a startled face to The Hopper.

  “Mamma’s cwyin’; gwanpa’s hurted mamma!”

  The strategic moment had arrived when Shaver must be thrust forward as an interruption to the exchange of disagreeable epithets by his grandfathers. “You trot right in there t’ yer ma, Shaver. Ole Hop ain’t goin’ t’ let ’em hurt ye!”

  He led the child through the dining room to the living-room door and pushed him gently on the scene of strife. Talbot, senior, was pacing the floor with angry strides, declaiming upon his wrongs—indeed, his theme might have been the misery of the whole human race from the vigor of his lamentations. His son was keeping step with him, vainly attempting to persuade him to sit down. Wilton, with a patch over his right eye, was trying to disengage himself from his daughter’s arms with the obvious intention of doing violence to his neighbor.

  “I’m sure papa never meant to hurt you; it was all a dreadful mistake,” she moaned.

  “He had an accomplice,” Talbot thundered, “and while he was trying to kill me there in my own house the plum-blossom vase was carried off; and if Roger hadn’t pushed him out of the window after his hireling—I’d—I’d—”

  A shriek from Muriel happily prevented the completion of a sentence that gave every promise of intensifying the prevailing hard feeling.

  “Look!” Muriel cried. “It’s Billie come back! Oh, Billie!”

  She sprang toward the door and clasped the frightened child to her heart. The three men gathered round them, staring dully. The Hopper from behind the door waited for Muriel’s joy over Billie’s return to communicate itself to his father and the two grandfathers.

  “Me’s dot two chick-ees for Kwismus,” announced Billie, wriggling in his mother’s arms.

  Muriel, having satisfied herself that Billie was intact—that he even bore the marks of maternal care—was in the act of transferring him to his bewildered father, when, turning a tear-stained face toward the door, she saw The Hopper awkwardly twisting the derby which he had donned as proper for a morning call of ceremony. She walked toward him with quick, eager step.

  “You—you came back!” she faltered, stifling a sob.

  “Yes’m,” responded The Hopper, rubbing his hand across his nose. His appearance roused Billie’s father to a sense of his parental responsibility.

  “You brought the boy back! You are the kidnapper!”

  “Roger,” cried Muriel protestingly, “don’t speak like that! I’m sure this gentleman can explain how he came to bring Billie.”

  The quickness with which she regained her composure, the ease with which she adjusted herself to the unforeseen situation, pleased The Hopper greatly. He had not misjudged Muriel; she was an admirable ally, an ideal confederate. She gave him a quick little nod, as much as to say, “Go on, sir; we understand each other perfectly”—though, of course, she did not understand, nor was she enlightened until some time later, as to just how The Hopper became possessed of Billie.

  Billie’s father declared his purpose to invoke the law upon his son’s kidnappers no matter where they might be found.

  “I reckon as mebbe ut wuz a kidnappin’ an’ I reckon as mebbe ut wuzn’t,” The Hopper began unhurriedly. “I live over Shell Road way; poultry and eggs is my line; Happy Hill Farm. Stevens’s the name—Charles S. Stevens. An’ I found Shaver—’scuse me, but ut seemed sort o’ nat’ral name fer ’im?—I found ’im a settin’ up in th’ machine over there by my place, chipper’s ye please. I takes ’im into my house an’ Mary’—that’s th’ missus—she gives ’im supper and puts ’im t’ sleep. An’ we thinks mebbe somebody’d come along askin’ fer ’im. An’ then this mornin’ I calls th’ New Haven police, an’ they tole me about you folks, an’ me and Shaver comes right over.”

  This was entirely plausible and his hearers, The Hopper noted with relief, accepted it at face value.

  “How dear of you!” cried Muriel. “Won’t you have this chair, Mr. Stevens!”

  “Most remarkable!” exclaimed Wilton. “Some scoundrelly tramp picked up the car and finding there was a baby inside left it at the roadside like the brute he was!”

  Billie had addressed himself promptly to the Christmas tree, to his very own Christmas tree that was laden with gifts that had been assembled by the family for his delectation. Efforts of Grandfather Wilton to extract from the child some account of the man who had run away with him were unavailing. Billie was busy
, very busy, indeed. After much patient effort he stopped sorting the animals in a bright new Noah’s Ark to point his finger at The Hopper and remark:

  “’Ims nice mans; ’ims let Bil-lee play wif ’ims watch!”

  As Billie had broken the watch his acknowledgment of The Hopper’s courtesy in letting him play with it brought a grin to The Hopper’s face.

  Now that Billie had been returned and his absence satisfactorily accounted for, the two connoisseurs showed signs of renewing their quarrel. Responsive to a demand from Billie, The Hopper got down on the floor to assist in the proper mating of Noah’s animals. Billie’s father was scrutinizing him fixedly and The Hopper wondered whether Muriel’s handsome young husband had recognized him as the person who had vanished through the window of the Talbot home bearing the plum-blossom vase. The thought was disquieting; but feigning deep interest in the Ark he listened attentively to a violent tirade upon which the senior Talbot was launched.

  “My God!” he cried bitterly, planting himself before Wilton in a belligerent attitude, “every infernal thing that can happen to a man happened to me yesterday. It wasn’t enough that you robbed me and tried to murder me—yes, you did, sir!—but when I was in the city I was robbed in the subway by a pickpocket. A thief took my bill-book containing invaluable data I had just received from my agent in China giving me a clue to porcelains, sir, such as you never dreamed of! Some more of your work—Don’t you contradict me! You don’t contradict me! Roger, he doesn’t contradict me!”

  Wilton, choking with indignation at this new onslaught, was unable to contradict him.

  Pained by the situation, The Hopper rose from the floor and coughed timidly.

  “Shaver, go fetch yer chickies. Bring yer chickies in an’ put ’em on th’ boat.”

  Billie obediently trotted off toward the kitchen and The Hopper turned his back upon the Christmas tree, drew out the pocket-book and faced the company.

  “I beg yer pardon, gents, but mebbe this is th’ book yer fightin’ about. Kind o’ funny like! I picked ut up on th’ local yistiddy afternoon. I wuz goin’ t’ turn ut int’ th’ agint, but I clean fergot ut. I guess them papers may be valible. I never touched none of ’em.”

  Talbot snatched the bill-book and hastily examined the contents. His brow relaxed and he was grumbling something about a reward when Billie reappeared, laboriously dragging two baskets.

  “Bil-lee’s dot chick-ees! Bil-lee’s dot pitty dishes. Bil-lee make dishes go ’ippity!”

  Before he could make the two jars go ’ippity, The Hopper leaped across the room and seized the basket. He tore off the towel with which he had carefully covered the stolen pottery and disclosed the contents for inspection.

  “’Scuse me, gents; no crowdin’,” he warned as the connoisseurs sprang toward him. He placed the porcelains carefully on the floor under the Christmas tree. “Now ye kin listen t’ me, gents. I reckon I’m goin’ t’ have somethin’ t’ say about this here crockery. I stole ’em—I stole ’em fer th’ lady there, she thinkin’ ef ye didn’t have ’em no more ye’d stop rowin’ about ’em. Ye kin call th’ bulls an’ turn me over ef ye likes; but I ain’t goin’ t’ have ye fussin’ an’ causin’ th’ lady trouble no more. I ain’t goin’ to stand fer ut!”

  “Robber!” shouted Talbot. “You entered my house at the instance of this man; it was you—”

  “I never saw the gent before,” declared The Hopper hotly. “I ain’t never had no thin’ to do with neither o’ ye.”

  “He’s telling the truth!” protested Muriel, laughing hysterically. “I did it—I got him to take them!”

  The two collectors were not interested in explanations; they were hungrily eyeing their property. Wilton attempted to pass The Hopper and reach the Christmas tree under whose protecting boughs the two vases were looking their loveliest.

  “Stand back,” commanded The Hopper, “an’ stop callin’ names! I guess ef I’m yanked fer this I ain’t th’ only one that’s goin’ t’ do time fer house breakin’.”

  This statement, made with considerable vigor, had a sobering effect upon Wilton, but Talbot began dancing round the tree looking for a chance to pounce upon the porcelains.

  “Ef ye don’t set down—the whole caboodle o’ ye—I’ll smash ’em—I’ll smash ’em both! I’ll bust ’em—sure as shootin’!” shouted The Hopper.

  They cowered before him; Muriel wept softly; Billie played with his chickies, disdainful of the world’s woe. The Hopper, holding the two angry men at bay, was enjoying his command of the situation.

  “You gents ain’t got no business to be fussin’ an’ causin’ yer childern trouble. An’ ye ain’t goin’ to have these pretty jugs to fuss about no more. I’m goin’ t’ give ’em away; I’m goin’ to make a Chris’mas present of ’em to Shaver. They’re goin’ to be little Shaver’s right here, all orderly an’ peace’ble, or I’ll tromp on ’em! Looky here, Shaver, wot Santy Claus brought ye!”

  “Nice dood Sant’ Claus!” cried Billie, diving under the davenport in quest of the wandering chicks.

  Silence held the grown-ups. The Hopper stood patiently by the Christmas tree, awaiting the result of his diplomacy.

  Then suddenly Wilton laughed—a loud laugh expressive of relief. He turned to Talbot and put out his hand.

  “It looks as though Muriel and her friend here had cornered us! The idea of pooling our trophies and giving them as a Christmas present to Billie appeals to me strongly. And, besides we’ve got to prepare somebody to love these things after we’re gone. We can work together and train Billie to be the greatest collector in America!”

  “Please, father,” urged Roger as Talbot frowned and shook his head impatiently.

  Billie, struck with the happy thought of hanging one of his chickies on the Christmas tree, caused them all to laugh at this moment. It was difficult to refuse to be generous on Christmas morning in the presence of the happy child!

  “Well,” said Talbot, a reluctant smile crossing his face, “I guess it’s all in the family anyway.”

  The Hopper, feeling that his work as the Reversible Santa Claus was finished, was rapidly retreating through the dining-room when Muriel and Roger ran after him.

  “We’re going to take you home,” cried Muriel, beaming.

  “Yer car’s at the back gate, all right-side-up,” said The Hopper, “but I kin go on the trolley.”

  “Indeed you won’t! Roger will take you home. Oh, don’t be alarmed! My husband knows everything about our conspiracy. And we want you to come back this afternoon. You know I owe you an apology for thinking—for thinking you were—you were—a—”

  “They’s things wot is an’ things wot ain’t, miss. Circumstantial evidence sends lots o’ men to th’ chair. Ut’s a heap more happy like,” The Hopper continued in his best philosophical vein, “t’ play th’ white card, helpin’ widders an’ orfants an’ settlin’ fusses. When ye ast me t’ steal them jugs I hadn’t th’ heart t’ refuse ye, miss. I wuz scared to tell ye I had yer baby an’ ye seemed so sort o’ trustin’ like. An’ ut bein’ Chris’mus an’ all.”

  When he steadfastly refused to promise to return, Muriel announced that they would visit The Hopper late in the afternoon and bring Billie along to express their thanks more formally.

  “I’ll be glad to see ye,” replied The Hopper, though a little doubtfully and shame-facedly. “But ye mustn’t git me into no more house-breakin’ scrapes,” he added with a grin. “It’s mighty dangerous, miss, fer amachures, like me an’ yer pa!”

  X.

  Mary was not wholly pleased at the prospect of visitors, but she fell to work with Humpy to put the house in order. At five o’clock not one, but three automobiles drove into the yard, filling Humpy with alarm lest at last The Hopper’s sins had overtaken him, and they were all about to be hauled away to spend the rest of their lives in prison. It was not the police, but the young Talbots, with Billie and his grandfathers, on their way to a family celebration at the house of an aunt of Muriel�
�s.

  The grandfathers were restored to perfect amity, and were deeply curious now about The Hopper, whom the peace-loving Muriel had cajoled into robbing their houses.

  “And you’re only an honest chicken farmer, after all!” exclaimed Talbot, senior, when they were all sitting in a semicircle about the fireplace in Mary’s parlor. “I hoped you were really a burglar; I always wanted to know a burglar.”

  Humpy had chopped down a small fir that had adorned the front yard and had set it up as a Christmas tree—an attention that was not lost upon Billie. The Hopper had brought some mechanical toys from town, and Humpy essayed the agreeable task of teaching the youngster how to operate them. Mary produced coffee and pound cake for the guests; The Hopper assumed the rôle of lord of the manor with a benevolent air that was intended as much to impress Mary and Humpy as the guests.

  “Of course,” said Mr. Wilton, whose appearance was the least bit comical by reason of his bandaged head—“of course it was very foolish for a man of your sterling character to allow a young woman like my daughter to bully you into robbing houses for her. Why, when Roger fired at you as you were jumping out of the window, he didn’t miss you more than a foot! It would have been ghastly for all of us if he had killed you!”

  “Well, o’ course it all begun from my goin’ into th’ little house lookin’ fer Shaver’s folks,” replied The Hopper.

  “But you haven’t told us how you came to find our house,” said Roger, suggesting a perfectly natural line of inquiries that caused Humpy to become deeply preoccupied with a pump he was operating in a basin of water for Billie’s benefit.

  “Well, ut jes’ looked like a house that Shaver would belong to, cute an’ comfortable like,” said The Hopper; “I jes’ suspicioned it wuz th’ place as I wuz passin’ along.”