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Morgridge had no children, and Peter had no father, the two lived together alone in the old house. Mr. Morgridge was not a talkative man one would see that at a glance; his mouth looked as if it shut with a spring. Mr. Mit, when living had been even more silent, but when he did speak then one would look for golden words; for so small a man he was surely very wise. Mr.
The little man has come down from his tower for the last time, and has puffed his last pipeful of tobacco smoke. This, too, is Christmas Eve, and Solomon Mit has not forgotten it. Listen, he is speaking now. "David Morgridge, old friend, twenty years we've lived together. You've been a true friend to me. We haven't said much, but we've trusted each other.
He cares nothing about time or place either. He can be where he chooses at any moment. So, just as the twelfth stroke of Trinity sounded, Santa Klaus was in Fountain Court. The Indian was scurrying down the place with his cigars in his hand, and taking his stand before Morgridge and Mit, put on his face its fiercest expression as the sound of the stroke died away.
Morgridge Klaus stuffed a paper parcel into the stocking, and laying it carefully on the floor, stumbled down stairs, chuckling to himself and taking snuff immoderately. Mr. Morgridge's Christmas Day had in fact commenced, but it was an hour yet before Peter Mit began his Christmas Day. The little fellow rubbed his eyes and drew his knees nearer his chin when he awoke.
Morgridge having listened to what Peter had to say, took more snuff and seemed disposed to let that end the matter, but Peter persisted in getting his opinion. "Mr. Morgridge," said he, "do you think Santa Klaus will come and fill my stocking?" Being pressed for an answer, Mr. Morgridge made shift to say
As he was looking at it in wonderment, there was another undoubted chuckle from Morgridge Klaus. Peter was astonished beyond measure. Could Mr. Morgridge be Santa Klaus? impossible! yet he began to believe it, for was it any harder of belief than that it was Mr. Morgridge who then spoke in a voice that had in it the cheeriness of Solomon Mit: "Come down, little Peter! To-day is Christmas Day.
Morgridge taking his customary seat upon his bench, with a pot of snuff beside him, set about his work of putting up tobacco in divers shapes. Peter took his customary seat also, much above Mr. Morgridge. It was a seat which he had inherited from his uncle.
Now, in Fountain Court, almost before daylight, there was some one astir. He came out of the door of Morgridge & Mit, dealers in tobacco, and toddled up the court at an astonishing gait. Where did he go to? he certainly passed the pump and turned the corner, and in a quarter of an hour more was trotting down the court with a parcel in his hand.
Then does Solomon Mit clamber down from his watch-tower, and with his cheery, piping voice sing a Christmas hymn, and though David Morgridge never lends his voice, the little man is no whit disheartened, but ends with laying his hand on David's shoulder and heartily wishing "God bless you, David Morgridge, old friend God bless us all!" and climbs once more to the top of his tower.
We must hurry through breakfast; for we've got twenty-five turkeys to carry to twenty-five honest poor folk. It will go hard with us, but we'll make shift to buy 'em. God bless you Peter Mit!" and may the Indian in front of the door tomahawk me if David Morgridge did not then and there, in his old, wheezy, snuff-choked voice, sing
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