The pack, according to every story Georgie had been told, should have
been bulging with presents; but if the latter were there they were under
more old clothes, even worse than those the Christmas saint was wearing.
Santa Claus hurriedly pawed over the upper layer and then took out a
little package wrapped in tissue paper. Untying the string, he exposed a
small pasteboard box and from this box he lifted some cotton and then--a
ring.
It was a magnificent ring, so Georgie thought. It had a big green stone
in the center and the rest was gold, or what looked like gold. Santa
seemed to think well of it, too, for he held it to the lamplight and
moved it back and forth, watching the shine of the green stone. Then
he put the ring down, tore a corner from the piece of tissue paper,
rummaged the stump of a pencil out of his rags, and, humping himself
over the table, seemed to be writing.
It took him a long time and was plainly hard work, for he groaned
occasionally and kept putting the point of the pencil into his mouth.
Georgie's curiosity grew stronger each second. Unconscious of what he
was doing, he parted the fringe still more and thrust out his head for a
better view. The top of his head struck the edge of the sofa with a dull
thump.
Santa Claus jumped as if someone had stuck a pin into him and turned.
That portion of his face not covered by the scraggly beard was as white
as mud and dirt would permit.
"Who--who be YOU?" he demanded in a frightened whisper.
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