He looked again at the list.
“Mrs. Samuel McDonald, bridge bug. Miss Harriet McDonald, reverse English. Miss Louise McDonald, thin hair. Miss Mary Carey, church stuff. Bob and Wife, The Man Who Married a Dumb Wife and gets mysteriously jealous. Walter McDonald, real kid. Edith, fat lady. Wilma, a splinter.”
He consulted Old Pal once more. Old Pal’s advice was to go to the third floor and look over the books. The advice proved sound. On the third floor Tommy found for Mother The First Principles of Auction Bridge, and for Aunt Harriet an English grammar. He also bumped into a counter laden with hymnals, chant books, and Books of Common Prayer.
“Aunt Mary!” he exclaimed. And to the clerk: “How much are your medium prayer-books?”
“What denomination?” asked the clerk, whose name was Freda Swanson.
“One or two dollars,” said Tommy.
“What church, I mean?” inquired Freda.
“How would I know?” said Tommy. “Are there different books for different churches?”
“Sure. Catholic, Presbyterian, Episcopal, Lutheran—”
“Let’s see. McDonald, Carey. How much are the Catholic?”
“Here’s one at a dollar and a half. In Latin, too.”
“That’s it. That’ll give her something to work on.”
Tommy figured on the back of his list.
“Good work, Tommy!” he thought. “Four and a half under the top limit for those three. Walter’s next.”
He plunged on Walter. A nice poker set, discovered on the fourth floor, came to five even. Tommy wished he could keep it for himself. He also wished constantly that the women shoppers had taken a course in dodging. He was almost as badly battered as the day he played guard against the Indians.
“Three left besides the queen herself,” he observed. “Lord, no. I forgot Bob and his missus.”
He moved downstairs again to the books.
“Have you got The Man Who Married a Dumb Wife?” he queried.
Anna Henderson looked, but could not find it.
“Never mind!” said Tommy. “Here’s one that’ll do.”
And he ordered The Green-Eyed Monster for the cooing doves in Evanston.
“Now,” he figured, “there’s just Wilma and Edith and Aunt Louise.” Once more he started away from the books, but a title caught his eye: Eat and Grow Thin.
“Great!” exclaimed Tommy. “It’ll do for Edith. By George! It’ll do for both of them. ‘Eat’ for Wilma, and the ‘Grow Thin’ for Edith. I guess that’s doubling up some! And now for Aunt Louise.”
The nearest floorwalker told him, in response to his query, that switches would be found on the second floor.
“I ought to have a switch-engine to take me round,” said Tommy, who never had felt better in his life. But the floorwalker did not laugh, possibly because he was tired.
“Have you anything to match it with?” asked the lady in the switch-yard.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Can you give me an idea of the color?”
“What colors have you got?” demanded Tommy.
“Everything there is. I’ll show them all to you, if you’ve got the time.”
“Never mind,” said Tommy. “What’s your favorite color in hair?”
The girl laughed.
“Golden,” she said.
“You’re satisfied, aren’t you?” said Tommy, for the girl had chosen the shade of her own shaggy mane. “All right, make it golden. And a merry Christmas to you.”
He forgot to ask the price of switches. He added up the rest and found that the total was $16.25.
“About seventy-five cents for the hair,” he guessed. “That will make it seventeen even. I’m some shopper. And all done in an hour and thirteen minutes.”
He discovered Billy asleep in the waiting-room and it took him three precious minutes to bring him to.
“Everybody’s fixed but the girl herself,” he boasted. “I got books for most of ’em.”
“Where you been?” asked Billy. “What time is it?”
“You’ve got about thirty-three minutes to get a present for your lady love and grab your train. You’ll have to pass up the office.”
“What time is it? Where you been?”
“Don’t bother about that. Come on.”
On the ride down, Billy begged everyone in the elevator to tell him the time, but no one seemed to know. Tommy hurried him out of the store and into a taxi.
“There’s a flock of stores round the station,” said Tommy. “You can find something there for the dame.”
But the progress of the cab through the packed downtown streets was painfully slow and the station clock, when at last they got in sight of it, registered 5:17.
“You can’t wait!” said Tommy. “Give me some money and tell me what to get.”
Billy fumbled clumsily in seven pockets before he located his pocketbook. In it were two fives and a ten.
“I gotta have a feevee,” he said.
“All right. I’ll get something for fifteen. What’ll it be?”
“Make it a wristwatch.”
“Sure she has none?”
“She’s got one. That’s for other wris’.”
“I used your last card. Have you got another?”
“Pocketbook,” said Billy.
Tommy hastily searched and found a card. He pushed Billy toward the station entrance.
“Goodbye and merry Christmas,” said Tommy.
“Goo’bye and God bless you!” said Billy, but he was talking to a large policeman.
“Where are you trying to go?” asked the latter.
“Souse Ben’,” said Billy.
“Hurry up, then. You’ve only got a minute.”
The minute and six more were spent in the purchase of a ticket. And when Billy reached the gate, the 5:25 had gone and the 5:30 was about to chase it.
“Where to?” inquired the gateman.
“Souse Ben’,” said Billy.
“Run then,” said the gateman.
Billy ran. He ran to the first open vestibule of the Rock Island train, bound for St. Joe, Missouri.
“Where to?” asked a porter.
“Souse,” said Billy.
“Ah can see that,” said the porter. “But where you goin’?”
The train began to move and Billy, one foot dragging on the station platform, moved with it. The porter dexterously pulled him aboard. And he was allowed to ride to Englewood.
Walking down Van Buren Street, it suddenly occurred to the genial Mr. Richards that he would have to go some himself to get his baggage and catch the 6:30 for the northwest. He thought of it in front of a Van Buren jewelry shop.
