A MESSAGE TO SANTA CLAUS

Ladies' Mirror, Volume 4, Issue 6, 1 December 1925, Page 42

A MESSAGE TO SANTA CLAUS

ID OY was very troubled about A Moe Bailey. He wanted to be certain that Joe's stocking wouldn't be empty on Christmas morning, but he couldn't get any satisfaction from anyone about it. His father told him that Santa Claus was the only person who was likely to know anything about the matter, and a few inquiries elicited the information that Santa probably lived somewhere in the wood behind the house. So Roy decided to go and see Santa. Being eight next birthday he didn't have any trouble in finding him; for, of course, if you have a real good reason for wanting to see Santa you can always find him, if you happen to be eight next birthday. The first thing Roy caught a glimpse of between the trees was a red cloak and a white fur cap. Soon after that he came to what appeared to be a palace. Then he stopped and looked up to where Santa was standing at the top of some steps watching for one of his boys who were away getting a reindeer shod. "Hallo!" called Roy.

"Hallo!" answered Santa, just as if he had been a boy. Then he turned to go into his palace and Roy went up the steps and followed him. Santa Claus was dreadfully busy on account of Christmas being so near and he had files of messages to attend to. Sometimes Santa looked serious when he read a message and then he would thoughtfully pull his long, white beard and mutter things to himself. But some of the messages made him smile and then his merry old eyes twinkled like stars and he chuckled to himself as if he were enjoying a good joke. He seemed to have forgotten that he had a visitor. So Roy tried to think of something to say to remind him. But he found it awfully hard to say anything to Santa Claus. "Do you happen to know Joe Bailey?" he managed to ask after a time, "Joe Bailey?" Santa said with a little start as one of his boys came in with another pile of messages, "No," he added shaking his head. "1 can't say I know this Joe Bailey.'

“I didn’t think you would,” Roy admitted, “so I thought I’d come and tell you about him, I pass his place going to school, and I used to notice that he was often sitting in a big chair on the porch. So one day I stopped and said, ‘Hallo!’ Then he said, ‘Hallo!’ and we knew each other. That’s the best way to get to know a chap, isn’t it?” "It’s about the best,” Santa agreed, without looking up. “T WAS talking to Joe yesterday -*■ about getting things at Christmas,” Roy went on, “and I asked him what he expected to get in his stocking. But he told me you’ve never called at his place, and that he stopped hanging up his stocking years and years ago because he never got anything in it. You see, Joe’s mother’s a widow. I spoke to father about it and he said you don’t go to poor widow’s places. I suppose that’s because they hadn’t got enough money to get the chimney swept, and you’re frightened of getting in an awful mess?” But Santa didn’t say anything;

he just went on sorting the messages. “That’s the worst of having a long beard and a white fur hat,” Roy continued. “Besides,” he added quickly, “perhaps you’re scared of widows. Most people are. Anyhow, you don’t go to Joe’s place, and Joe’s just longing for one of those outfits that you can make all kinds of different things with. You know, cranes, and bridges and lighthouses and windmills, and when you’ve finished making one thing you can take it to pieces and make something else.” “A mechanical outfit ?” ventured Santa, looking up. J 'HAT’S it,” said Roy, “a mechanical outfit. But a good one costs an awful lot of money’bout twenty-five dollars; and Joe’s mother. being a widow, can’t buy one. So his only chance is to get it in his stocking. That’s why I thought I’d come and tell you about it. If you

think the chimney’s too dirty, I could get Joe to leave the window open or to hang his stockings out on the porch.” “I’m not frightened of any chimney,” Santa told him; “but, you see, I don’t know anything about this Joe Bailey.” “I suppose you don’t,” Roy said sadly, “or you’d have called there long ago. You see,” he explained, “Joe’s always been a cripple. He’s twelve, but you wouldn’t think so, for he can’t walk. He’s healthy enough now, and his body and his arms are all right; but there’s

something wrong with his legs. So he has to spend all his time in a chair on wheels. If he had one of those mechanical outfits he’d be able to amuse himself fine, making things when he gets tired of learning his lessons and reading. Then Santa stopped sorting over the messages and looked for a few minutes straight at Roy with sad, troubled eyes, as if he didn’t like to hear about crippled boys who hung up their stockings but didn’t get anything in them. “It’s not my fault that I’m not able to go to every crippled boy’s place,” Santa said, turning away and looking out across the top of the wood to hide something in his eyes. “And it isn’t because they've got poor widows for mothers or because

the chimneys haven’t been swept.” “Then why is it?” asked Roy in surprise. “It’s mostly because so many people have hard hearts,” Santa said sadly. “But I thought you could go anywhere you liked,” Roy protested. “I can’t,” Santa put in quickly, “or I’d have called at Joe Bailey’s place long ago. I’ve got to get a message from someone with a kind heart before I can go.” This all sounded very strange to Roy, for he had always thought that Santa had the whole thing in

bis own hands and that, when there were empty stockings, it was Santa’s fault. He was surprised to learn that quite a lot of people have a hand in the merry work that is done on Christmas Eve. “How do you get the messages?’’ he asked. “Sort of wireless,” said Santa, as he dropped one on top of a pile of others. “Only people with kind hearts can send them,” he added, “and I go where they say I’m to go and deliver the things they tell me to. I’m more anixous to go down widow’s chimneys, even if they haven’t been swept for months and months, and to put things in crippled boys’ stockings than I am to go anyContinued on page 46

where; but, like everybody else, I’ve got to do what I‘m told. All day long I sit here wishing that a lot of people who’ve got money hadn’t got such hard hearts and hoping that every message I pick up will be about taking things to crippled boys with widowed mothers. But I don’t get many of that sort.” Then Santa looked awfully sad and didn’t seem as if he cared about anything, and Roy felt sure he’d never be merry again.

Roy himself couldn’t keep from feeling miserable and disappointed, for he had imagined that he only had to find Santa Claus and tell him all about Joe Bailey for everything to be all right. He never dreamed that anyone else could have anything to do with it. “Isn’t there anything we can do for Joe?” he asked, after a long silence. “The only thing I can think of,” Santa said thoughtfully, “would be for Ivor Ensor, the millionaire, to soften his heart. You know him, don’t you? He lives in that big house up past your place.” . “You mean Old Tight Wad?” Roy asked, his heart sinking within

him, for he had heard that Ivor Ensor was the meanest millionaire in the whole world. “That’s what everybody calls him," Santa answered with a little smile, “and he deserves the name.” “What’s a Tight Wad?” Roy asked. “A Tight Wad,” said Santa, “is a rich man who doesn’t know what his money was given him for.” “Do you happen to know anything that’ll make Old Tight Wad soften

his heart?” Roy was tempted to inquire. “I don’t,” Santa had to confess. “I’m afraid it hasn’t been invented yet.” “Can’t anybody else send a message or do something for Joe?” Roy asked. OUT Santa Claus only shook his head and went on reading the messages. “This is Ivor Ensor’s affair,” he said, speaking half to himself, “and unless he softens his heart and tells me what to take to Joe Bailey, I can’t do anything.” Roy had fully intended to say Continued on page 47

something about a pony for himself. He wanted a pony more than anything else in the whole world; but his father had told him he’d have to wait another year, and a year’s an awful long time when you’re eight. So Roy had thought of telling Santa; but he was so disappointed at not being able to do anything for Joe that he forgot all about it. All that afternoon and right up until it was time to go to bed he wondered how Ivor Ensor could possibly have anything to do with Joe Bailey and what was the best way of making Tight Wads soften their hard hearts. The next afternoon Roy had an appointment with the dentist and that alone was quite enough to keep him from thinking about anything else. He went downtown shortly before three o’clock with James, the chauffeur, in the big blue automobile. James had to take the automobile to a garage to get something done to it and was to call back for Roy at a quarter past four. While in the dentist's chair Roy didn’t have much chance to think about Joe Bailey; for when a dentist’s drill is buzzing in your mouth you’ve generally got far too many troubles of your own to have time left to worry about other people’s. But in less than half an hour the dentist had finished with him, and he was in the waiting room trying to pass the three-quarters of an hour until James would return. The illustrated papers didn’t interest him for more than a few minutes, and he soon moved over to a scat near

the window where he could' see what was going on in the street below. Then he started to amuse himself by reading all the names on the brass plates at the entrance to the offices on the other side of the street. He had read about half a

5 r dozen of them when the letters on a - plate straight across the street sudn denly seemed to jump out toward d him. He gave a little gasp of astonr ishment and then his heart began

to pound madly, for the name on the plate was IVOR ENSOR. ROY was spelling it out slowly for the third time to make sure that he was not mistaken, when a closed-in automobile stopped before

the entrance to the building. A moment later a thin, bent figure in a fur coat went slowly up the steps and entered the building. It was Ivor Ensor.

For some moments Roy sat staring vacantly at the doorway through which the millionaire had disappeared, and then he suddenly remembered Joe Bailey and what Santa Claus had said. That gave Roy a brilliant idea. Perhaps Old Tight Wad wasn't so mean after all. Perhaps he didn't know Santa Claus and had never heard about having to send messages to him. When Roy came to think things over, he decided that it was very likely the millionaire didn't know anything at all about Joe Bailey. Perhaps that was the real reason he had a hard heart. Possibly if someone told him about Joe and about Santa and about the messages it would make a difference. " Roy reckoned it might, and he made up his mind to do it. So he looked around cautiously to make sure he was alone. Then he got up, tiptoed noiselessly across the waiting room to the door and slipped out. He went quickly along the corridor close to the wall, looking back every now and again to see that no one was following him. At the end of the corridor he rang for the elevator and inside a minute he was out on the sidewalk. He went up to the first crossing and soon found himself safely on the other side of the street. Then he walked slowly down to the building that bore Ivor Elisor's name on a shining brass plate. When he got inside he found that there was more than one office and he wandered about for some time looking at the names on different

doors until at last he found one marked Ivor Ensor. It was a swing door, so he pushed it open and passed through into a well-furnished reception room. Just inside on the right there sat a young man whose glossy jet-black hair was neatly parted in the middle and plastered closely down each side of his head with oil. Roy hated anyone with hair like that. WHAT can I do for you, my little man ?” the clerk asked, looking up at Roy with a forced smile.

Now, if there was one thing that Roy hated more than plastered-down hair it was to be called “my little man.” When you are eight next birthday it hurts your dignity to be referred to in that way. Besides, nobody likes being called “little.” So Roy made up his mind that he wouldn’t tell this particular clerk anything. It isn’t easy to talk to a young man with plastered hair about millionaires softening their hearts, and it isn’t possible to discuss Santa Claus with such a person. That’s how Roy felt about it, anyhow. If it had been a kind-faced old man with white hair and a funny sort of smile that made you feel happy, it would have been different. So in a frightened sort of voice, that didn’t sound a bit like his own, Roy asked if Mr. Ensor were at home. , “Want to see him, I guess?” the clerk said lightly. • “Please?” Roy faltered. “And what do you wish to see him about?” the inquisitive clerk inquired.

“ ’Bout something,” Roy said guardedly. He kept doggedly to that in the face of all questioning, and soon the clerk got up and left him. Roy sat down in a chair and wondered why millionaires had hard hearts when it must be ever so much better to have soft ones, and why young men with black hair always used too much hair oil. His meditations on these subjects were interrupted by the entrance of another clerk. He was middle-aged and he didn’t have plastered hair; but he had a moustache and Roy didn’t like

moustaches. Also, he didn’t feci that he could talk about Santa Claus to a man who had a moustache. So he refused to say anything more than that he wanted to see Mr. Ensor. TWO more clerks came out and tried to ascertain what his particular business was; but they soon gave up the attempt and retired behind the glass screen that divided the office from the reception room. After that he was left alone to watch the clock until five minutes to four. He was just beginning to think that he wouldn't have time to get the millionaire to soften his heart, when the door at the end of the reception room suddenly opened and a very superior-looking young man came out, leaving the door ajar behind him. “Won’t you tell me what you want to see Mr. Ensor about?” he asked as he approached Roy. “ ’Bout something,” was all Roy would tell him.

Then from the room beyond there came abruptly a sharp, annoyed voice that made Roy jump “I’ll see him. Mason,” it snapped. “Just step this way,”, the very superior young man said hurriedly; and then Roy was ushered into the next room. All of a sudden as he walked he felt his knees going weak and beginning to knock together, for it is no small thing to get to see a strange millionaire about the difficult business of softening his heart. Roy suddenly found himself in a big room, but the only thing that he really noticed was the flat-topped desk that occupied the left side of it. Behind this Ivor Ensor was sitting writing quickly on slips of paper that he kept dropping into a wire basket on his left. The millionaire was thin and fragile-look-ing. His hair was almost white and his sharp, clean-shaven face was very pale. His hands as he wrote seemed to be only skin and bone and made Roy think at once of claws. In fact the idea occurred to him as he stole quietly to a chair opposite the millionaire that Ivor Ensor, as he sat crouched up over his desk, looked just like a great bird. Soon the millionaire stopped writing and put down his pen. “Leave me alone for a minute or two. Mason,” he said testily. Then the very superior young man took up the basket and went out. “XJOW, what do you want with me?” Ivor Ensor asked, leaning forward and looking more like a bird than ever. “’Bout Joe Bailey,” Roy managed to gasp. “About Joe Bailey?” the millionaire repeated, his black,' piercing eyes flashing suddenly. “And who’s Joe Bailey?” “Joe’s a cripple,” Roy told him. “I pass his place going to school. He can’t do anything but sit in a chair on the porch, and he wants one of those mechanical outfits for Christmas that you can make all kinds of things out of. But his mother’s a widow and hasn’t got much money. So Santa Claus is his only chance of getting it.” “And what’s gone wrong with Santa Claus?” Ivor Ensor asked innocently, for Roy had hesitated. “Santa never calls at Joe’s place,” Roy explained, having gained courage by the pause. “Joe hasn’t hung up his stocking for years and years, ’cos he never used to get anything in it.” “Too bad! Too bad!” the millionaire muttered, looking thoughtfully at his hands. “So I went and saw Santa Claus about it,” Roy confessed, trying to work around to his point gradually. “Saw Santa Claus?” the millionaire queried incredulously as he looked up quickly with stern, set face. Then his features slowly softened. “And what did old Santa have to say?” he asked, smiling slightly. “He said he couldn’t possibly leave anything at Joe Bailey’s,” Roy ex-

plained, “unless Old Tight Wad softened his heart. That’s you, isn’t it?” “Who calls me Old Tight Wad?” the millionaire demanded fiercely, still leaning across his desk. “ ’Most everybody,” Roy told him, although he was beginning to feel

scared. “That's your other name, isn’t it? ’Most everybody’s got another name, haven't they ? My other name’s ‘Bouncer’ ; that’s what the boys call me at school ; but, of course, my real name’s Roy Allerton.” “ ALLERTON? Allerton?” the ■ty millionaire repeated thoughtfully, and then Roy knew that he had made a slip by mentioning his name. “Your father’s Edgar Allerton, the

artist, and you live up on Park Avenue?” the millionaire said. “Up near your place,” Roy told him. “What else did Santa Claus say?” the millionaire asked, as if he were really interested. “He said you’d have to send him

a message before he could leave anything at Joe Bailey’s place,” Roy told him, “and he said you couldn’t do that until you softened your heart.” Just then the young man with the. plastered hair tiptoed in and stood at the end of the desk for a moment or two. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but Brand and Weston have just phoned to say that your option over a hundred thousand Conrad Coppers has expired.”

“What’s that?” the millionaire growled, tugging out his watch. “It doesn’t expire till four.” “It’s five after four, sir,” the clerk said nervously. Then something seemed to break loose within the millionaire. His Whole manner changed, his body shook convulsively with uncontrolled passion and his face became terrible to look upon. “Mason !” he shrieked suddenly. “Mason!” And the very superior young man came in at a run.

"How are Conrad Coppers?" the millionaire spluttered. "Went up another three points just at the close," the clerk answered. "Didn't you know I wanted those shares?" Ivor Elisor demanded, beginning to struggle to his feet. "Didn't you know I was merely keeping Brand on tenterhooks until the very last minute?" "I thought you were letting them go, sir," Mason said apologetically.

“Thought!” the millionaire snarled, pacing agitatedly up and down. There was a moment of tense silence. “And I wanted those shares,” the millionaire burst out, clenching his hands wildly. “I wanted them!” He paused and glared at the very superior young man. “Fools! Idiots!” he stormed. Then he turned suddenly and stamped out of the room, muttering incoherently. The very superior young man followed him, and being left alone, Roy looked about for a moment in a bewildered manner. Then he came to the conclusion that it was useless to try to get crusty old millionaires to soften their hearts; so he got up, opened the door quietly and stole out through the reception room. He had just time to get across the street before James arrived. NEXT morning Roy was playing Indians by himself in his playhouse on the side lawn when he noticed a big automobile stop in front of the house. Then Ivor Ensor, wearing his fur coat, stepped out and began to come up the walk. That was quite enough for Roy. He had felt all along that he had made a mistake in allowing his real name to slip out, and he was quite certain about it as soon as he saw the millionaire. So he abandoned his game of Indians and hurriedly climbed as far as he could up into an ornamental tree in one corner

of the lawn. There he waited in fear and trembling for the millionaire to go away. But Ivor Ensor didn’t go away and very soon Roy realised that something was wrong. He could hear his mother and all the servants searching for him and he got very scared, especially when he heard James come out and join in the hunt. He felt that James knew his habits too well. And he was right for it wasn’t long before James had discovered him in the tree. “You’re wanted,” James said savagely, giving him a shake and beginning to drag him towards the house. TT IS face was hurriedly washed, -*■ his clothes were brushed and his hair was neatly parted. Then he was informed that his father wanted to see him and he was pushed along toward the studio. He went very unwillingly, for he had a guilty conscience and something seemed to tell him that the interview with his father might be a painful one. Outside the studio he stopped to consider his chances of escaping. The door before him was partly open, but a heavy curtain hung just inside the studio and completely hid the room. So, while Roy hesitated, he could distinctly hear Ivor Ensor speaking. “Brand nearly caught me,” the millionaire was saying, and he didn’t seem to be a bit angry. “I had a

fourteen-day option on a hundred thousand Conrad Coppers,” he went on, “and every day they were going up, I intended to close, but, as usual, hung off till the very last minute. Then your boy butted in, causing me to forget the time and option. Brand, who had been pushing the price up for days to tempt me, got greedy when I came at him after the option had expired. Evidently thought I was extra keen and tried to raise me to that day’s closing price. I went cold and refused to bite. That was the end of Conrad Coppers. Brand bolted last night and the bubble burst this morning. The whole thing was a frame-up to catch me and, if it hadn’t been for that boy of yours and his quaint notions, I’d have been landed for a cool two hundred thousand.” Then Roy heard his father laugh lightly, and he knew it was quite safe to go in. “I want you to take me to see this Joe Bailey,” the millionaire said, looking steadily at Roy with his black, piercing eyes. “Somehow I think I’d like to know him.” When they got to Joe’s place the millionaire went inside and talked for a long time with Joe’s mother, while Roy stayed outside with Joe. X 7[ THEN the millionaire came out * * Joe’s mother came with him, and Roy could see that she had been crying. But she didn’t seem a bit sad, and she bent down suddenly and gave Roy a big hug and a kiss, which he thought a funny thing for her to do. Most of the way back home in the millionaire’s automobile Roy

was silent, for he was wondering why people cried when they weren’t sad. But just as he was getting out of the automobile he thought of Santa Claus and of the mechanical outfit for Joe. “Do you think you could soften your heart even a teeny, weeny bit?” he asked the millionaire seriously. 11l have to see,” Ivor Ensor answered with a funny little smile. hen he turned abruptly and looked straight at Roy. “If you had a pony what colour would you like it to be?” he asked. “A sort of brown’s the best,” Roy said, his heart throbbing wildly. A ND when Roy got up on Christ--1 mas morning he found a beautiful brown pony, with a new saddle and bridle, tied up outside the garage. Attached to the pony’s mane there was a card on which was written “Ordered from Santa Claus by Ivor Ensor.” After breakfast Roy rode down to show the pony to Joe, who was busy out on the porch building a crane. Beside him there was a new wheeled chair that could be easily worked by a handle at the side. “Santa came all right,” Joe cried as soon as he saw Roy. “I got this mechanical outfit and he left a lot of things for mother and that new chair with bicycle tires for me. I’ll be able to go out by myself now and scoot along like one o’clock. Gee! but I’d like to know how Santa got to know exactly what I wanted.” “Sort of wireless,” said Roy casually. Then .he added excitedly: “What do you think of the pony Santa sent me?”