"Do you remember that ole tale 'bout Father Christmas, Joan?" he said at last.
She nodded.
"Well, s'pose you wanted somethin' very bad, an' you believed that ole tale and sent a bit of paper up the chimney 'bout what you wanted very bad and then you never got it, you'd feel kind of rotten, wouldn't you?"
She nodded again.
"I did one time," she said. "I sent a lovely list up the chimney and I never told anyone about it and I got lots of things for Christmas and not _one_ of the things I'd written for!"
"Did you feel awful rotten?"
"Yes, I did. Awful."
"I say, Joan," importantly, "I've gotter secret."
"_Do_ tell me, William!" she pleaded.
"Can't. It's a crorse-me-throat secret!"
She was mystified and impressed.
"How _lovely_, William! Is it something you're going to do?"
He considered.
"It might be," he said.
"I'd love to help." She fixed adoring blue eyes upon him.
"Well, I'll see," said the lord of creation. "I say, Joan, you comin'
to my party?"
"Oh, _yes_!"
"Well, there's an awful lot comin'. Johnny Brent an' all that lot. I'm jolly well not lookin' forward to it, I can _tell_ you."
"Oh, I'm so sorry! Why did you ask them, William?"
William laughed bitterly.
"Why did I invite them?" he said. "_I_ don't invite people to my parties. _They_ do that."
In William's vocabulary "they" always signified his immediate family circle.
William had a strong imagination. When an idea took hold upon his mind, it was almost impossible for him to let it go. He was quite accustomed to Joan's adoring homage. The scornful mockery of his auburn-haired friend was something quite new, and in some strange fashion it intrigued and fascinated him. Mentally he recalled her excited little face, flushed with eagerness as she described the expected spread. Mentally also he conceived a vivid picture of the long waiting on Christmas Eve, the slowly fading hope, the final bitter disappointment. While engaging in furious snowball fights with Ginger, Douglas, and Henry, while annoying peaceful passers-by with well-aimed snow missiles, while bruising himself and most of his family black and blue on long and glassy slides along the garden paths, while purloining his family's clothes to adorn various unshapely snowmen, while walking across all the ice (preferably cracked) in the neighbourhood and being several times narrowly rescued from a watery grave--while following all these light holiday pursuits, the picture of the little auburn-haired girl's disappointment was ever vividly present in his mind.
The day of his party drew near.
"_My_ party," he would echo bitterly when anyone of his family mentioned it. "I don't _want_ it. I don't _want_ ole Johnnie Brent an'
all that lot. I'd just like to un-invite 'em all."
"But you want Ginger and Douglas and Henry," coaxed his Mother.
"I can have them any time an' I don't like 'em at parties. They're not the same. I don't like _anyone_ at parties. I don't _want_ a party!"
"But you _must_ have a party, William, to ask back people who ask you."
William took up his previous attitude.
"Well, where's the _sense_ of it?" he groaned.
As usual he had the last word, but left his audience unconvinced. They began on him a full hour before his guests were due. He was brushed and scrubbed and scoured and cleaned. He was compressed into an Eton suit and patent leather pumps and finally deposited in the drawing-room, cowed and despondent, his noble spirit all but broken.
The guests began to arrive. William shook hands politely with three strangers shining with soap, brushed to excess, and clothed in ceremonial Eton suits--who in ordinary life were Ginger, Douglas, and Henry. They then sat down and gazed at each other in strained and unnatural silence. They could find nothing to say to each other.
Ordinary topics seemed to be precluded by their festive appearance and the formal nature of the occasion. Their informal meetings were usually celebrated by impromptu wrestling matches. This being debarred, a stiff, unnatural atmosphere descended upon them. William was a "host," they were "guests"; they had all listened to final maternal admonitions in which the word "manners" and "politeness"
recurred at frequent intervals. They were, in fact, for the time being, complete strangers.
Then Joan arrived and broke the constrained silence.
"Hullo, William! Oh, William, you do look _nice_!"
William smiled with distant politeness, but his heart warmed to her.
It is always some comfort to learn that one has not suffered in vain.
"How d'you do?" he said with a stiff bow.
Then Johnnie Brent came and after him a host of small boys and girls.
William greeted friends and foes alike with the same icy courtesy.
Then the conjurer arrived.
Mrs. Brown had planned the arrangement most carefully. The supper was laid on the big dining room table. There was to be conjuring for an hour before supper to "break the ice." In the meantime, while the conjuring was going on, the grown-ups who were officiating at the party were to have their meal in peace in the library.
William had met the conjurer at various parties and despised him utterly. He despised his futile jokes and high-pitched laugh and he knew his tricks by heart. They sat in rows in front of him--shining-faced, well-brushed little boys in dark Eton suits and gleaming collars, and dainty white-dressed little girls with gay hair ribbons. William sat in the back row near the window, and next him sat Joan. She gazed at his set, expressionless face in mute sympathy. He listened to the monotonous voice of the conjurer.
"Now, ladies and gentlemen, I will proceed to swallow these three needles and these three strands of cotton and shortly to bring out each needle threaded with a strand of cotton. Will any lady step forward and examine the needles? Ladies ought to know all about needles, oughtn't they? You young gentlemen don't learn to sew at school, do you? Ha! Ha! Perhaps some of you young gentlemen don't know what a needle is? Ha! Ha!"
William scowled, and his thoughts flew off to the little house in the dirty back street. It was Christmas Eve. Her father was "comin' out."
She would be waiting, watching with bright, expectant eyes for the "spread" she had demanded from Father Christmas to welcome her returning parent. It was a beastly shame. She was a silly little ass, anyway, not to believe him. He'd told her there wasn't any Father Christmas.
"Now, ladies and gentlemen, I will bring out the three needles threaded with the three strands of cotton. Watch carefully, ladies and gentlemen. There! One! Two! Three! Now, I don't advise you young ladies and gentlemen to try this trick. Needles are very indigestible to some people. Ha! Ha! Not to me, of course! I can digest anything--needles, or marbles, or matches, or glass bowls--as you will soon see. Ha! Ha! Now to proceed, ladies and gentlemen."
William looked at the clock and sighed. Anyway, there'd be supper soon, and that was a jolly good one, 'cause he'd had a look at it.
Suddenly the inscrutable look left his countenance. He gave a sudden gasp and his whole face lit up. Joan turned to him.
"Come on!" he whispered, rising stealthily from his seat.