e rested on a muddy object in the street
gutter, and John stooped to pick it up. Torn, disfigured with
innumerable heel marks and wagon wheels, the battered bundle of paper
was all that remained of a Christmas booklet.

"Oh!" said Louise in surprise.

"Didn't you get one?"

She shook her head. Evidently other boys at her end of the street had
emulated John and Bill.

"Tells all about toys," he volunteered. "I'll bring you one with the
paper, if you want."

She thanked him and dropped the ruin regretfully. Those dolls on the
back cover were so enticing.

"Aren't you glad Christmas is coming?" John asked. "Gee, I wish it was
day after tomorrow."

Louise nodded.

"What do you want for Christmas?" he pursued.

She didn't know. "A doll--"

"A doll!" he interrupted in disgust. What did she want with dolls? They
would be of no use when she had grown up.

"Yes, a doll," said Louise decidedly. John feigned placating approval.
"And doll clothes," she went on, "and new hair ribbons and things for my
dresses, and lots and lots of other presents. What do you want?"

He told her briefly. "But that isn't half," he concluded, as they
loitered on the apartment steps. "I'm trying to think of the others all
the time. Jiminy!" with a glance at his watch, "I'd better be going.
I've got work to do."

But there were no interviews with prospective newspaper customers that
afternoon. After John had started the parlor grate for his mother, he
fell under the spell of one of the wonder-books and scanned page after
page of the illustrations until Mrs. Fletcher interrupted him.

"Aren't you going to deliver your papers, son? It's a quarter of five
now."

What a pest the paper route was getting to be, always demanding his
attention just as he wanted to do something else. He rose to his feet
and stretched both arms to take the cramps out of them, pitched the
booklet into a corner of the hall, and dashed to the closet for his coat
and mittens.

After the evening meal, John brought out another of his store of gaudy
toy books and went into the parlor. His father, following a few moments
later, looked down at the little figure on the carpet before the fire,
and smiled.

"What is it, son?"

The boy raised his head, brown eyes a-dream with visions of automobiles,
steam engines, and hook and ladder outfits.

"Looking at this," he explained.

Mr. Fletcher drew up the big, easy armchair which he liked so well, and
lifted him into h