VI. The Christmas Venture of the Unwiseman.In which the Unwiseman goes into an unprofitable business.
It]
was the Saturday before Christmas. Mollie and Whistlebinkie started outin the afternoon to watch the boys skating for a while, after which theywent to the top of the great hill just outside the village to take acoast or two. Whistlebinkie had never had any experience on a sled, andhe was very anxious to try it just once, and, as Mollie was a littlesleepy when he began persuading her to take him some time when she went,for the sake of peace and rest she had immediately promised what hewished of her. So here they were, on this cold, crisp December day,laboriously lugging Mollie's sled up the hill.
"Tain-teesy!" whistled Whistlebinkie.
"What's that you say?" panted Mollie, for she was very much out ofbreath.
"Tain-teesy," repeated Whistlebinkie. "I can't wissel well when I'm outof breath."
"Well, I guess I know what you mean," said Mollie. "You mean that itisn't easy pulling this sled up hill."
"Thassit!" said Whistlebinkie. "If this is what you call coasting, Idon't want any more of it."
"Oh, no!" said Mollie. "This isn't coasting. This is only getting readyto coast. The coast comes when you slide down hill. We'll come down inabout ten seconds."
"Humph!" said Whistlebinkie. "All this pulling and hauling for tenseconds' worth of fun?"
"Sliding down hill is never any fun unless you live atthe top of the hill."]
"That's what I say!" said a voice at Mollie's elbow. "Sliding down hillis never any fun unless you live at the top of the hill and wish to godown to the level to stay forever."
"Why," cried Mollie, delightedly, as she recognized the voice; "why it'sthe Unwiseman!"
"Sotiz!" roared Whistlebinkie, intending, of course to say "so it is."
"Certainly it is," said the Unwiseman; "for how could it be otherwise,seeing as I am not a magic lantern and so cannot change myself into someone else? I've got to stay Me always."
"Magic lanterns can't change themselves into anything else," saidMollie. "You must mean magician."
"Maybe I must," said the Unwiseman. "I guess you are right. Some peoplecall 'em by a long name like prestodigipotatoes, but your word is goodenough for me, so we'll let it go at that. I'm not a magellan, so Ican't transfigure myself. Therefore, I am still the Unwiseman at yourservice. But tell me, are you going sliding?"
"Yes," said Mollie. "Want to come with us?"
"I'd like to, but I'm afraid I can't. I'm very busy," replied theUnwiseman. "I'm going into business."
"You?" cried Mollie, in amazement. "Why, didn't you tell me once thatyou never worked? That no member of your family had ever worked, andthat you despised trade?"
"Iyeardim," put in Whistlebinkie.
"What's that?" queried the Unwiseman, frowning at Whistlebinkie. "Whatdoes iyeardim mean?"
"It's Whistlebinkie for 'I heard him,'" explained Mollie. "He means tosay that he heard you say you had never worked and never intended to."
"No doubt," said the Unwiseman. "No doubt. But misfortune has overtakenme. I have ceased to like apples."
"Ho!" laughed Mollie. "What has that to do with it?"
"I have ceased to like apples and have conceived an unquenchable thirstfor chocolate eclaires," said the Unwiseman. "Hitherto, as I once toldyou, I have lived on apples, which cost me nothing, because I could pickthem up in the orchard, but chocolate eclaires cost money. I have beeninformed, and I believe, they cost five cents a piece; that they do notgrow on trees, but are made by men calling themselves fakirs----"
"Bakers, you mean, I guess," interrupted Mollie.
"It may be," said the Unwiseman, "though neither fakir nor baker seemsto me to be so good a name for a man who makes cakes as the word caker."
"But there isn't any such word," said Mollie.
"Then that accounts for it," said the Unwiseman. "If there were such aword those men would be called by it. But to come back to the chocolateeclaires, whether they are made by bakers, fakirs, or plumbers, theycost money; if I don't have them I shall starve to death, for I cannever more eat apples; therefore, to live I must make some money, and tomake money I must go into business."
"Well, I haven't any doubt it will be good for you," said Mollie. "It'salways well to have something to do. What business are you going into?"
"Ah!" said the Unwiseman, with a shake of his head. "That's my secret.I've got a patent business I'm going into. It's my own invention. I wasgoing to be a lawyer at first, but I heard that lawyers gave advice. Idon't intend to give anything. There isn't any money in giving things,so, of course, I decided not to be a lawyer--besides, I know of a manwho was a lawyer and he spent all of his life up to his ears in trouble,and he didn't even own the trouble. It all belonged to his victims."
"Why don't you become a minister?" suggested Mollie.
"That's too hard work," said the Unwiseman. "You've got to go to churchthree times every Sunday, and, besides, my house wouldn't look well witha steeple on it. Then, too, I'd have to take a partner to ring the belland play the organ, and, of course, he'd want half the collections. No:I couldn't be a minister. I'm too droll to be one, even if my housewould look well with a steeple on it. I did think some of being adoctor, though."
"Why don't you?" said Mollie. "Doctors are awfully nice people. Ourdoctor is just lovely. He gives me the nicest medicines you ever saw."
"That may be true; but I don't want to be a doctor," returned theUnwiseman. "You have to study an awful lot to be a doctor. I knew a manonce who studied six weeks before he could be a doctor, and then what doyou suppose happened? It was awfully discouraging."
"What was it?" queried Mollie.
"Why, he practised on a cat he owned, to see what kind of a doctor hehad become, and the cat died all nine times at once; so the poor fellow,after wasting all those weeks on study, had to become a plumber, afterall. Plumbing is the easiest profession of all, you know. You don't haveto know anything to be a plumber, only you've got to have strong eyes."
"I didn't know that," said Mollie.
"Oh my, yes!" returned the Unwiseman. "You can't be a plumber unless youhave strong eyes. It is very bad for a weak-eyed person to have to siton the floor and look at a pipe all day. That is one reason why I'm notgoing to be a plumber. The other reason is that they never get any rest.They work all day eying pipes, and then have to sit up all night makingout bills, and then they burn their fingers on stoves, and theysometimes get their feet wet after springing a leak on a pipe, and,altogether, it isn't pleasant. People play jokes on plumbers, too; meanjokes. Why, I knew a plumber who was called out in the middle of thenight once by a city man who was trying to be a farmer during the summermonths, and what do you suppose the trouble was?"
"I'm sure I don't know," said Mollie. "What?"
"The city man said he'd come home late and found the well full of water,and what was worse, the colander was riddled with holes. Twelve o'clockat night, mind you, and one of these bitter cold summer nights you finddown in New Jersey."
"That was awfully mean," said Mollie. "That is, it was if the city mandidn't know any better."
"He did know better. He did it just for a joke," said the Unwiseman.
"And didn't the plumber put in a great big bill for that?" asked Mollie.
"Yes--but the city man couldn't pay it," said the Unwiseman. "That wasthe meanest part of the joke. He went and lost all his money afterward.I believe he did it just to spite the plumber."
"Well," said Mollie, "here we are at the top of the hill at last. Won'tyou change your mind and go down with us, just once?"
"Nope," returned the Unwiseman. "I can't change my mind. Can't get itout of my head, to change. Besides, I must hurry. I've got to get ahundred pairs of stockings before Christmas Eve."
"Oh!" said Mollie. "I see. You are going into the stocking business."
"No, I'm not," said the queer old fellow, with a knowing smile. "Thereisn't much money in selling stockings. I've got a
better idea than that.You come around to my house Christmas morning and I'll show you a thingor two--that is, I will if I can get the hundred pairs of stockings--youcouldn't lend me a few pairs, could you?"
"I guess maybe so," said Mollie.
"All right--thank you very much," said the Unwiseman. "I'll be off nowand get them. Good-by."
And before Mollie could say another word he was gone.
"Isn't he the worst you ever saw?" said Mollie.
"Puffickly-digulous," said Whistlebinkie.
"I wonder what his business is to be," observed Mollie, as she seatedherself on the sled and made ready for the descent.
"I haven't the slightest ideeeee-eeeeeeee-eeeee-eeee-ah!" whistledWhistlebinkie; a strange and long-drawn-out word that; but whistlingdolls are very like boys and girls when they are sliding down hill.Mollie had set the sled in motion just as Whistlebinkie started tospeak, and her little rubber companion could not get away from theletter _e_ in idea until he and his mistress ran plump into thesnow-drift at the foot of the hill.
"My!" said Whistlebinkie, blowing the snow out of his whistle. "Wasn'tthat fine! I could do that all day."
"You could if the hill was long enough," said Mollie, sagely. "Butcome, we must go home now." And home they went.
In the forty-eight or more hours that passed before Christmas morningcame, Mollie often wondered at the business venture of the Unwiseman.What it could be she could not guess. The hundred pairs of stockingsmystified her exceedingly, and so, when Christmas morning finallydawned, the first thing she and Whistlebinkie did was to post off atfull speed to the house of the Unwiseman.
"I wonder where his home is now?" said Whistlebinkie, as they walkedalong.
"I haven't the slightest idea," said Mollie; "but it's had a way ofturning up where we least expected it in the past, so maybe we'll findit in the same way now."
Mollie was right, for hardly were the words out of her mouth whendirectly in front of her she saw what was unmistakably the house of theUnwiseman, only fastened to the chimney was a huge sign, which had notbeen there the last time she and Whistlebinkie had visited theUnwiseman.
"What is that he's got on his chimmilly?" said Whistlebinkie, who didnot know how to spell, and who always pronounced words as he thoughtthey were spelled.
"It's a sign--sure as you live," said Mollie.
"What does it say?" Whistlebinkie asked.
"The Unwiseman's Orphan Asylum," said Mollie, reading the sign. "Noticeto Santa Claus: Dear Sir:--Too Hundred Orphans is Incarcerated Here.Please leave Toys Accordingly."
"Ho!" said Whistlebinkie. "How queer."
"You don't suppose he has really gone into the Orphan Asylum business?"said Mollie.
"I dono," said Whistlebinkie. "Let's wait till we see him before wedecide."
So they ran on until they got to the Unwiseman's front door, upon whichthey knocked as hard as they knew how.
"Who's there?" came a reply in a mournful voice, from within.
"It's us," said Mollie.
"Who is Uss?" said the voice. "I know several Usses. Are you George W.Uss, the trolley-car conductor, or William Peters Uss, the poet? If youare the poet, I don't want to see you. I don't care for any poetryto-day. If you are the conductor, I've paid my fare."
"It's Mollie and Whistlebinkie," said Mollie.
"Oh--well, that's different. Come in and see your poor ruined oldfriend, who's got to go back to apples, whether he likes them or not,"said the voice.
Mollie opened the door and walked in, Whistlebinkie following closebehind her--and what a sight it was that met their gaze! There in themiddle of the floor sat the Unwiseman, the perfect picture of despair.Scattered about the room were hundreds of broken toys, and swinging fromthe mantel-piece were two hundred stockings.
"Hello!" said the Unwiseman. "Merry Christmas. I'm ruined; but what ofthat? You aren't."
"But how are you ruined?" asked Mollie.
"My business has failed--it didn't work," groaned the Unwiseman. "It wasthe toy business I was going into, and as I had no money to buy the toyswith I borrowed a hundred pairs of stockings and hung 'em up. Then I putout that notice for Santa Claus, telling him that this was an OrphanAsylum."
"Yes," said Mollie, "I know. But it wasn't the truth, was it?"
"Of course it was," said the Unwiseman. "I'm an orphan. Very few men ofmy age are not, and this is my asylum."
"Yes; but you said there were two hundred in here," said Mollie. "I sawyour sign."
The Unwiseman's "orphans."]
"Well there are," said the Unwiseman. "The piano hasn't any father ormother, neither have the chairs, or the hundred and ninety-eight otherorphans in this house. It was all true."
"Well, anyhow," said Whistlebinkie, "you've got heaps of things. Everystocking seems to have been filled."
"True," said the Unwiseman. "But almost entirely with old, cast-offtoys. I think it's pretty mean that boys and girls who are not orphansshould get all the new toys and that those who are orphans get thebroken ones."
Which strikes me as a very wise remark for an unwise man to make.
"Anyhow," continued the Unwiseman, "I'm ruined. I can't sell these toys,and so I've got to go back to apples."
And here he fell to weeping so violently that Mollie and Whistlebinkiestole softly out and went home; but on the way Mollie whispered toWhistlebinkie:
"I'm rather sorry for him; but, after all, it was his own fault. Hereally did try to deceive Santa Claus."
"Yes," said Whistlebinkie. "That's so. But he was right about themeanness of giving only old toys to orphans."
"Yes, he was," said Mollie.
"Yesindeedy!" whistled Whistlebinkie through his hat, gleefully, for hewas very happy, as indeed I should be, if I were an old toy, to hear mylittle master or mistress say it was mean to give me away.
"By the way," said Mollie. "He seems to have got over his anger with us.I was afraid he wouldn't ever speak to us again after his call."
"So was I," said Whistlebinkie. "And I asked him if he wasn't mad at usany more, and he said, yes he was, but he'd forgiven us for ourChristmas present."