some one was undoubtedly busily engaged in searching for both baby and
car; the police far and near would be notified, and would be on the
lookout for a smart roadster containing a stolen child.

"Merry Christmas!" a boy shouted from a farm gate.

"M'y Kwismus!" piped Shaver.

The Hopper decided to run the machine home and there ponder the
disposition of his blithe companion with the care the unusual
circumstances demanded.

"'Urry up; me's goin' 'ome to me's gwanpa's kwismus t'ee!"

"Right ye be, little un; right ye be!" affirmed The Hopper.

The youngster was evidently blessed with a sanguine and confiding nature.
His reference to his grandfather's Christmas tree impinged sharply upon
The Hopper's conscience. Christmas had never figured very prominently in
his scheme of life. About the only Christmases that he recalled with any
pleasure were those that he had spent in prison, and those were marked
only by Christmas dinners varying with the generosity of a series of
wardens.

But Shaver was entitled to all the joys of Christmas, and The Hopper had
no desire to deprive him of them.

"Keep a-larfin', Shaver, keep a-larfin'," said the Hopper. "Ole Hop ain't
a-goin' to hurt ye!"