"What's your name?" he said.
"Sheila. What's yours?"
"Red Hand--I mean, William."
"I'll tell you sumpthin' if you'll come an' sit down by me."
"What'll you tell me?"
"Sumpthin' I bet you don't know."
"I bet I _do_."
"Well, come here an' I'll tell you."
He advanced towards her suspiciously. Through the open door he could
see a bed in a corner of the dark, dirty room and a woman's white face
upon the pillow.
"Oh, come _on_!" said the little girl impatiently.
He came on and sat down beside her.
"Well?" he said condescendingly, "I bet I knew all the time."
"No, you didn't! D'you know," she sank her voice to a confidential
whisper, "there's a chap called Father Christmas wot comes down
chimneys Christmas Eve and leaves presents in people's houses?"
He gave a scornful laugh.
"Oh, that _rot_! You don't believe _that_ rot, do you?"
"Rot?" she repeated indignantly. "Why, it's _true_--_true_ as _true_!
A boy told me wot had hanged his stocking up by the chimney an' in the
morning it was full of things an' they was jus' the things wot he'd
wrote on a bit of paper an' thrown up the chimney to this 'ere
Christmas chap."
"Only _kids_ believe that rot," persisted William. "I left off
believin' it years and _years_ ago!"
Her face grew pink with the effort of convincing him.
"But the boy _told_ me, the boy wot got things from this 'ere chap wot
comes down chimneys. An' I've wrote wot I want an' sent it up the
chimney.
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