the weeks before Christmas thought of this very often. What would little Veronica not deserve after her long illness! How he would have liked to give each of the children a stout pair of shoes, the boys a warm cap, the girls a pretty hood. Toys and games and candy they always had had before. He hated to think of the snow-covered Christmas morning and no table richly piled with what their young hearts would most desire.
As for Mrs. Gerhardt, one could better imagine than describe her feelings. She felt so keenly about it that she could hardly bring herself to speak of the dreaded hour to her husband. She had managed to lay aside three dollars in the hope of getting enough to buy a ton of coal, and so put an end to poor George's daily pilgrimage to the coal yard, but now as the Christmas week drew near she decided to use it for gifts. Father Gerhardt was also secreting two dollars without the knowledge of his wife, thinking that on Christmas Eve he could produce it at a critical moment, and so relieve her maternal anxiety.
When the actual time arrived, however, there was very little to be said for the comfort that they got out of the occasion. The whole city was rife with Christmas atmosphere. Grocery stores and meat markets were strung with holly. The toy shops and candy stores were radiant with fine displays of everything that a self-respecting Santa Claus should have about him. Both parents and children observed it all—the former with serious thoughts of need and anxiety, the latter with wild fancy and only partially suppressed longings.
Frequently had Gerhardt said in their presence:
"Kriss Kringle is very poor this year. He hasn't so very much to give."
But no child, however poverty-stricken, could be made to believe this. Every time after so saying he looked into their eyes, but in spite of the warning, expectation flamed in them undiminished.
Christmas coming on Tuesday, the Monday before there was no school. Before going to the hotel Mrs. Gerhardt had cautioned George that he must bring enough coal from the yards to last over Christmas day. The latter went at once with his two younger sisters, but there being a dearth of good picking, it took them a long time to fill their baskets, and by night they had gathered only a scanty supply.
"Did you go for the coal?" asked Mrs. Gerhardt the first thing when she returned from the hotel that evening.
"Yes," said George.
"Did you get enough for to-morrow?"
"Yes," he replied, "I guess so."
"Well, now, I'll go and look," she replied. Taking the lamp, they went out into the woodshed where the coal was deposited.
"Oh, my!" she exclaimed when she saw it; "why, that isn't near enough. You must go right off and get some more."
"Oh," said George, pouting his lips, "I don't want to go. Let Bass go."
Bass, who had returned promptly at a quarter-past six, was already busy in the back bedroom washing and dressing preparatory to going down-town.
"No," said Mrs. Gerhardt. "Bass has worked hard all day. You must go."
"I don't want to," pouted George.
"All right," said Mrs. Gerhardt, "maybe to-morrow you'll be without a fire, and then what?"
They went back to the house, but George's conscience was too troubled to allow him to consider the case as closed.
"Bass, you come, too," he called to his elder brother when he was inside.
"Go where?" said Bass.
"To get some coal."
"No," said the former, "I guess not. What do you take me for?"
"Well, then, I'll not," said George, with an obstinate jerk of his head.
"Why didn't you get it up this afternoon?" questioned his brother sharply; "you've had all day to do it."
"Aw, I did try," said George. "We couldn't find enough. I can't get any when there ain't any, can I?"
"I guess you didn't try very hard," said the dandy.
"What's the matter now?" asked Jennie, who, coming in after having stopped at the grocer's for her mother, saw George with a solemn pout on his face.
"Oh, Bass won't go with me to get any coal?"
"Didn't you get any this afternoon?"
"Yes," said George, "but ma says I didn't get enough."
"I'll go with you," said his sister. "Bass, will you come along?"
"No," said the young man, indifferently, "I won't." He was adjusting his necktie and felt irritated.
"There ain't any," said George, "unless we get it off the cars. There wasn't any cars where I was."
"There are, too," exclaimed Bass.
"There ain't," said George.
"Oh, don't quarrel," said Jennie. "Get the baskets and let's go right now before it gets too late."
The other children, who had a fondness for their big sister, got out the implements of supply—Veronica a basket, Martha and William buckets, and George, a big clothes-basket, which he and Jennie were to fill and carry between them. Bass, moved by his sister's willingness and the little regard he still maintained for her, now made a suggestion.
"I'll tell you what you do, Jen," he said. "You go over there with the kids to Eighth Street and wait around those cars. I'll be along in a minute. When I come by don't any of you pretend to know me. Just you say, 'Mister, won't you please throw us some coal down?' and then I'll get up on the cars and pitch off enough to fill the baskets. D'ye understand?"
"All right," said Jennie, very much pleased.
Out into the snowy night they went, and made their way to the railroad tracks. At the intersection of the street and the broad railroad yard were many heavily laden cars of bituminous coal newly backed in. All of the children gathered within the shadow of one. While they were standing there, waiting the arrival of their brother, the Washington Special arrived, a long, fine train with several of the new style drawing-room cars, the big plate-glass windows shining and the passengers looking out from the depths of their comfortable chairs. The children instinctively drew back as it thundered past.
"Oh, wasn't it long?" said George.
"Wouldn't I like to be a brakeman, though," sighed William.
Jennie, alone, kept silent, but to her particularly the suggestion of travel and comfort had appealed. How beautiful life must be for the rich!
Sebastian now appeared in the distance, a mannish spring in his stride, and with every evidence that he took himself seriously. He was of that peculiar stubbornness and determination that had the children failed to carry out his plan of procedure he would have gone deliberately by and refused to help them at all.
Martha, however, took the situation as it needed to be taken, and piped out childishly, "Mister, won't you please throw us down some coal?"
Sebastian stopped abruptly, and looking sharply at them as though he were really a stranger, exclaimed, "Why, certainly,"
