From the low porch-steps Crosby waved an absent good-bye, his eyes still on the pictured pony. As he tore away some yellow seals, a letter fell out, and he creased the big folder again and cautiously sat down on it so that it would not blow away. Then he spread the letter across his knees.

It was more than half an hour later that he looked up and drew a long breath of relief. It was the first really full-sized breath that he had taken since he began the letter--and he had just finished it. His eyes dwelt on the last sentences again, and as he pulled the folder from under him, they traveled back to the beginning.

'I have some good news for you!' It read more easily this time. 'What would make you happier than anything else you can think of? To have me tell you that you can have a pony of _your own?_' The characteristic, slow flush came into his cheeks. 'Well, that is just what I _am_ going to tell you! Because on the twentieth of August we are going to give away to some boy or girl, one of the prettiest little Indian ponies you ever saw. Her name is "Lightfoot," and _you can have her if you get started right away_. The thing is to start right out--'

Oh, he understood the rest perfectly! He was simply to get subscriptions for the _most delicious breakfast food that had ever been boxed for the public market!_ Its name? b.u.t.tercup Crisps! He was simply to get the names of people who were willing to put their names down for one order or more of b.u.t.tercup Crisps!

'b.u.t.tercup Crisps!' he whispered, and caught another deep breath at the mere sound of it, as he opened up the big folder. _'A Prize for Every Contestant!'_ It stared at him in huge letters, and his eyes traveled swiftly from the shining bicycle to the little mahogany writing-desk, to the violin, to the beautiful gold watch--then rested again gently, lingeringly, on THE PONY. Just once again his glance shifted to the sentence which seemed to shine out from all the others. _'Her name is "Lightfoot," and you can have her if you get started right away.'_

He gathered up all his papers and went in.

'Mother--' he began; but he found that he needed a steadying pause at the very beginning. 'Mother--can I go out--for a little while? I want to--do something.'

She looked at the folded sheets in his hand.

'O Crosby, that's so foolish!' she protested. 'You know you couldn't get that pony, no matter how hard you tried.'

'Well, can I go?' he repeated, sticking characteristically to the original question.

'Oh, yes, I suppose so. But I wouldn't waste my time over _that_, if I were you. It's too warm a day.'

He was already storing all the papers and pictures inside his waist for safe keeping, and as he marched steadily down town toward 'the centre,'

he kept one hand of protection upon them and made out a careful plan of campaign. He must go to every house in town, beginning with the one right there, next the post-office. But it wasn't a house. It was a store. Never mind, he would begin with the store. He felt very strange, though, as he stood before the counter, while the man behind it waited, flirting some string which hung down from a suspended ball, and evidently quite ready for business.

'Would you like,' began Crosby, his voice growing so faint that he had to swallow to get it back again; 'would you like--some b.u.t.tercup Crisps?'

'Like some _what?_' bawled the man.

Crosby had an idea that he might get arrested if he asked that again, at least if he didn't make some variation, so he launched desperately into another construction.

'It's something--to eat! For breakfast! b.u.t.tercup Crisps! It comes--in boxes.'

'Well, what about it?' questioned the man behind the counter distractedly.

'I--do you--do you want some?' continued Crosby bravely.

'No, I don't,' declared the man behind the counter with both strength and finality. ''Twouldn't make any difference _what_ it came in! I'm so overrun now with these breakfast concoctions that there ain't room left for anything else!'

'Yes, sir,' returned Crosby politely, and walked out to the street again.

It was not a very promising beginning, to be sure, but it was a relief to have that first dreadful plunge over. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad after that. And he marched on to the next house, which _was_ a house and not a store. A middle-aged colored woman, in an ample white ap.r.o.n, came to the door and stood smiling at him while he screwed his courage into words again.

'Would you like--would you like--to try a few b.u.t.tercup Crisps?' he asked, with a fleeting consciousness that he had made a really elegant effort.

'W'at's dat, chile?' inquired the woman of color in kindly tones.

'b.u.t.tercup Crisps!' stammered Crosby. '_Crisps!_ A few--'

'One o' dese yere breakfus' fancies, I s'pose?' came the kindly encouragement. 'An' it soun' good, too, doan't it? But'--she lowered her voice to a note of confidential intimacy--'dey doan't 'low me ter transac' no business at de do', chile, no matter _w'at_ yer offers. Dey wouldn't trus' it!'

'Yes'm,' returned Crosby faintly, and walked down the steps.

It made him positively dizzy to think of asking that question again. But his hand rose mechanically to the folded papers under his waist, and once more a vision of a beautiful, long-tailed pony swept before his eyes.

'It said I could have her if I got started right away,' he reasoned steadily, 'and I have got started right away, so I--I guess I better keep right on.'

He looked so hot and tired when he came in to dinner, that his mother glanced at him questioningly.

'Why, Crosby, where _have_ you been? You look perfectly roasted. Is is so hot in the sun? Well, don't go out again this afternoon until it's cooler.'

'I'm not--so very hot,' he a.s.sured her.

But he thought, himself, that he wouldn't go out again right away. He had been to a good many houses that morning, but for some reason he had not a real name to show for it. He had not seen the right people! Most of them had been servants, and of course they couldn't have bought b.u.t.tercup Crisps--if they had wanted to. No--he must begin asking for 'the lady of the house.' And he must become more familiar with the literature of his folder. Its advertising value was his chief a.s.set.

He set forth the next morning with new hope and confidence. And something very exhilarating soon happened. The very first 'lady of the house' who smiled down at him from her doorway, as he explained with conscientious, steadying pauses, the full meaning of his call, and then, pointing to the pictured pony, explained, with even longer steadying pauses, that he wanted to get her for a prize--why, that very first generous lady decided that she would give him her name for six boxes of b.u.t.tercup Crisps! Crosby fairly tottered with the monstrous significance of it. But as he drew more papers out from under his waist and found the page where subscribers' names were to be written, she glanced it hastily over.

'Yes, now I am to give you seventy-five cents,' she explained kindly, as she wrote her name, 'and it tells you in this little notice here that that counts you one point. It says, too, I see, that it takes six points to become a contestant.'

'Everybody gets a prize,' explained Crosby; and he unfolded the beautiful folder again with its large and frequent letters of a.s.surance still staring joyously.

'Yes, but--' She looked down at his small, upturned face, and flushed with a kind of helpless shame,--'but don't you see, dear child--it tells you here, in fine print, that it takes _six points_ to become a contestant?'

Crosby looked puzzled. 'Every contestant gets--a prize,' he repeated slowly. 'Does that mean that if you work--and get names--that perhaps you won't get a prize either?'

'That's just what it means, and I wouldn't bother with it if I were you.

You see it means so much work for you--and it's so uncertain.'

'But the letter--was written to me,' explained Crosby. 'And the Pony Man says--I can't lose!'

'Well, then he's saying what isn't so. Because you can lose very easily, and I'm very much afraid that you will. But if you want to keep trying,'--she just touched his cheek with her hands,--'I--I hope that you will be successful!'

He went down the steps with a troubled face, tying three silver quarters into the corner of his handkerchief. So he did not yet understand all those printed doc.u.ments! He looked up and down the warm, tree-lined street, and sat down under the first tree, spreading them all carefully out upon the gra.s.s. When he got up and started on again, he still looked troubled, but there was, too, a look of patient determination about him--entirely characteristic. He understood it all now. He understood about the points.

At dinner-time his eyes looked very bright. He had six names on his list for varying and a.s.sorted orders of b.u.t.tercup Crisps! As he brought out all his money and showed it to his mother, she smiled at him and told him that he was wasting his time. But he looked back at her with bright, confident eyes, as he went out again, his precious papers still b.u.t.toned under his waist.

As his campaign went on with steadily growing success, he trudged off as regularly as possible every morning, back again at noon and again at night. His mother listened and smiled at explanations of wonderful progress, at the growing list of names, and occasionally his father half listened, and smiled too.

After perhaps three weeks of it, there came a day when Crosby's most confident hope, at all times unwavering, became a thing which seemed to soar away with him into a kind of pony heaven, where he heard only the word 'Lightfoot,' and saw only one beautiful animal with a long, sweeping tail, because it kept flashing so continuously before his eyes.

That was the day when he was obliged to send for a new subscription blank. That was the day when his hope, if it had ever in the past wavered even unconsciously, became a thing of absolute fixedness. And when there were seven new names on the new blank, and his little bag of money was so fat and heavy that he doubted whether it would hold any more, anyway, he had a conference with his mother about dates, and decided that it was time--it was the _day_ to send everything--all the returns--to the Pony Man.

She helped him, with the same smile of forbearance, about the money-order, made out with such dashing effect by the man at the post-office, and together they got off an impressive-looking envelope full of impressive-looking matter. It gave just the last touch of safety and surety to it all to have his mother helping, and Crosby looked up at her with shining eyes.

'You can ride in the pony-cart,--after the pony comes,--can't you?'

It took longer pauses than usual to keep things steady that time, and her glance wandered to his bright eyes.

'Would you be very much disappointed if it didn't come?'

A puzzled reproach crept over his face. She felt guilty of an unwarrantable suspiciousness of nature as he looked back at her--and then hurried off to the old stall in the barn. It seemed so strange not to have to think about names any more. He could give all his time to the barn now. He wished that it was a nicer one, but with a little well-spent labor he thought he might make it very presentable, after all.