The Tin Soldier | Page 2

shoulder, asked, "Where do you live?"
He murmured indistinctly.
"Where?" she bent her ear down to him.
Waking, he sang:
"Two little soldiers, blowing up a Hun-- The darned thing--exploded-- And then there was--One--"
"Oh, Emily, did you ever hear anything so funny?"
Emily couldn't see the funny side of it. It was tragic and it was disconcerting. "I don't know what to do. Perhaps you'd better call a taxi."
"He's shivering, Emily. I believe I'll make him a cup of chocolate."
"Dear child, it will be a lot of trouble--"
"I'd like to do it--really."
"Very well." Emily was not unsympathetic, but she had had a rather wearing life. Her love of toys and of little children had kept her human, otherwise she had a feeling that she might have hardened into chill spinsterhood.
As Jean disappeared through the door, the elder woman moved about the shop, setting it in order for the night. It was a labor of love to put the dolls to bed, to lock the glass doors safely on the puffy rabbits and woolly dogs and round-eyed cats, to close the drawers on the tea-sets and Lilliputian kitchens, to shut into boxes the tin soldiers that their queer old customer had craved.
For more than a decade Emily Bridges had kept the shop. Originally it had been a Thread and Needle Shop, supplying people who did not care to go downtown for such wares.
Then one Christmas she had put in a few things to attract the children. The children had come, and gradually there had been more toys--until at last she had found herself the owner of a Toy Shop, with the thread and needle and other staid articles stuck negligently in the background.
Yet in the last three years it had been hard to keep up the standard which she had set for herself. Toys were made in Germany, and the men who had made them were in the trenches, the women who had helped were in the fields--the days when the bisque babies had smiled on happy working-households were over. There was death and darkness where once the rollicking clowns and dancing dolls had been set to mechanical music.
Jean, coming back with the chocolate, found Emily with a great white plush elephant in her arms. His trappings were of red velvet and there was much gold; he was the last of a line of assorted sizes.
There had always been a white elephant in Miss Emily's window. Painfully she had seen her supply dwindle. For this last of the herd, she had a feeling far in excess of his value, such as a collector might have for a rare coin of a certain minting, or a bit of pottery of a pre-historic period.
She had not had the heart to sell him. "I may never get another. And there are none made like him in America."
"After the war--" Jean had hinted.
Miss Emily had flared, "Do you think I shall buy toys of Germany after this war?"
"Good for you, Emily. I was afraid you might."
But tonight a little pensively Miss Emily wrapped the old mastodon up in a white cloth. "I believe I'll take him home with me. People are always asking to buy him, and it's hard to explain."
"I should say it is. I had an awful time with him," she indicated the old gentleman, "yesterday."
She set the tray down on the counter. There was a slim silver pot on it, and a thin green cup. She poked the sleeping man with a tentative finger. "Won't you please wake up and have some chocolate."
Rousing, he came slowly to the fact of her hospitality. "My dear young lady," he said, with a trace of courtliness, "you shouldn't have troubled--" and reached out a trembling hand for the cup. There was a ring on the hand, a seal ring with a coat of arms. As he drank the chocolate eagerly, he spilled some of it on his shabby old coat.
He was facing the door. Suddenly it opened, and his cup fell with a crash.
A young man came in. He too, was shabby, but not as shabby as the old gentleman. He had on a dilapidated rain-coat, and a soft hat. He took off his hat, showing hair that was of an almost silvery fairness. His eyebrows made a dark pencilled line--his eyes were gray. It was a striking face, given a slightly foreign air by a small mustache.
He walked straight up to the old man, laid his hand on his shoulder, "Hello, Dad." Then, anxiously, to the two women, "I hope he hasn't troubled you. He isn't quite--himself."
Jean nodded. "I am so glad you came. We didn't know what to do."
"I've been looking for him--" He bent to pick up the broken cup. "I'm dreadfully sorry. You must let me pay for it."
"Oh, no."
"Please." He was looking at it. "It