A Reversible Santa Claus | Page 9

excursion of some sort. But The Hopper
groped in the dark for an explanation of the calmness with which the
householders accepted the loss of the child. It was not in human nature
for the parents of a youngster so handsome and in every way so
delightful as Shaver to permit him to be stolen from under their very
noses without making an outcry. The Hopper examined the silver
pieces and found them engraved with the name borne by the locket. He
crept through a living-room and came to a Christmas tree--the smallest
of Christmas trees. Beside it lay a number of packages designed clearly
for none other than young Roger Livingston Talbot.
Housebreaking is a very different business from the forcible entry of
country post-offices, and The Hopper was nervous. This particular
house seemed utterly deserted. He stole upstairs and found doors open
and a disorder indicative of the occupants' hasty departure. His
attention was arrested by a small room finished in white, with a white
enameled bed, and other furniture to match. A generous litter of toys
was the last proof needed to establish the house as Shaver's true
domicile. Indeed, there was every indication that Shaver was the central
figure of this home of whose charm and atmosphere The Hopper was
vaguely sensible. A frieze of dancing children and watercolor sketches

of Shaver's head, dabbed here and there in the most unlooked-for places,
hinted at an artistic household. This impression was strengthened when
The Hopper, bewildered and baffled, returned to the lower floor and
found a studio opening off the living room. The Hopper had never
visited a studio before, and satisfied now that he was the sole occupant
of the house, he passed passed about shooting his light upon unfinished
canvases, pausing finally before an easel supporting a portrait of
Shaver--newly finished, he discovered, by poking his finger into the
wet paint. Something fell to the floor and he picked up a large sheet of
drawing paper on which this message was written in charcoal:--
Six-thirty. Dear Sweetheart:--
This is a fine trick you have played on me, you dear girl! I've been
expecting you back all afternoon. At six I decided that you were going
to spend the night with your infuriated parent and thought I'd try my
luck with mine! I put Billie into the roadster and, leaving him there, ran
over to the Flemings's to say Merry Christmas and tell 'em we were off
for the night. They kept me just a minute to look at those new Jap prints
Jim's so crazy about, and while I was gone you came along and skipped
with Billie and the car! I suppose this means that you've been making
headway with your dad and want to try the effect of Billie's
blandishments. Good luck! But you might have stopped long enough to
tell me about it! How fine it would be if everything could be
straightened out for Christmas! Do you remember the first time I kissed
you--it was on Christmas Eve four years ago at the Billings's dance! I'm
just trolleying out to father's to see what an evening session will do. I'll
be back early in the morning.
Love always, ROGER.
Billie was undoubtedly Shaver's nickname. This delighted The Hopper.
That they should possess the same name appeared to create a strong
bond of comradeship. The writer of the note was presumably the child's
father and the "Dear Sweetheart" the youngster's mother. The Hopper
was not reassured by these disclosures. The return of Shaver to his
parents was far from being the pleasant little Christmas Eve adventure
he had imagined. He had only the lowest opinion of a father who would,

on a winter evening, carelessly leave his baby in a motor-car while he
looked at pictures, and who, finding both motor and baby gone, would
take it for granted that the baby's mother had run off with them. But
these people were artists, and artists, The Hopper had heard, were a
queer breed, sadly lacking in common sense. He tore the note into
strips which he stuffed into his pocket.
Depressed by the impenetrable wall of mystery along which he was
groping, he returned to the living-room, raised one of the windows and
unbolted the front door to make sure of an exit in case these strange,
foolish Talbots should unexpectedly return. The shades were up and he
shielded his light carefully with his cap as he passed rapidly about the
room. It began to look very much as though Shaver would spend
Christmas at Happy Hill Farm--a possibility that had not figured in The
Hopper's calculations.
Flashing his lamp for a last survey a letter propped against a lamp on
the table arrested his eye. He dropped to the floor and crawled into