screeched.
Faces turned toward the float. Parents and children stared in horror, first at the pad, then at Tony.
Without the fake belly, his pants fell again. Laughter swelled up around him.
"Shut up!" Tony grumbled, letting go of his waist.
PHWEEEEEEET! trilled a drum major's whistle.
The parade was beginning!
His pants around his feet, Tony bellowed, " Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night! "
He raised the whip handle. The whip pulled on his ankles.
Out went Tony's feet.
He flipped into the air. With a whomp , he landed on the sleigh floor.
Ping! Ping! Ping! Ping!
At once, the bolts holding the sleigh to the float sprang off.
Dorey Walker stood at the curb, gaping. "Oh, no!" she whispered as she watched the entire sleigh slowly topple to the street.
Thanksgiving Day, 10:31 A.M.
"Heeeee-yah-ha-ha-ha-ha!"
He was laughing. That drunken sot was lying on the street in his Cole's Santa suit and laughing .
Dorey was horrified. She hoped no news cameras were around. Cole's was having enough trouble as it was. This would be a disaster for the store's image.
Workers were lifting the sleigh back onto the float. But as far as Dorey was concerned, Tony was history. He couldn't go back up. Not in this state.
"Officer!" she called to the nearest policeman. "There was an older man on the float a few minutes ago. Did you see him?"
"Yeah, he was just here," the policeman said. "You're the Cole's lady?"
Dorey nodded.
"He wanted to talk to you." The policeman pointed across the street. "That's him. In the old coat."
"Thanks."
The old man was walking into Central Park. A little shabby, but neat , Dorey thought. Not a bum. He might be able to handle it. She ran across the
street, scooping up Tony's Santa hat on the way.
"Sir?" she shouted.
The man turned around.
"I'm Dorey Walker, Director of Special Projects for C. F. Cole and Company." She extended her hand.
"My pleasure," the man replied. "I was looking for you. As you probably saw, your Santa Claus is drunk."
"I know. He's created a terrible problem. Millions of kids are watching, here and on television. They're expecting to see Santa Claus—and now we don't have one." Dorey looked him square in the eye. "Would you be our Santa Claus?"
"Me? Surely there are other people you could ask."
"Sir, the parade's already started. It's you, right now, or there's no Santa in the parade. If you want, you can have the job at the store, too."
"Can I have a moment to think about it?"
"Sure." Dorey looked at her watch for a moment. "Okay, time's up."
"I'll do it—but starting tomorrow, I must wear my own suit. I'll bring it with me to work."
"A deal." She took his hand and led him back to the parade. "Now, there's nothing to worry about. Just be yourself. You'll be fine, Mister . . . ?"
"Kringle. Kriss Kringle."
Dorey laughed. "Uh-huh. Of course."
They wound their way through the crowd. In the center of the street, the workers had repaired the sleigh. Dorey helped the old man up.
She crossed her fingers. This guy could be a dud. Without a costume, without practice . . .
But something happened as he sat in the seat. His eyes seemed to dance with delight. His rounded back straightened out. And boy, did he know how to crack a whip.
Snnnnap!
It resounded like a shot.
"Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donder and Blitzen!"
Even his voice was different—strong and booming. Around her, children's and parents' eyes were riveted on the old man.
Dorey was thrilled. She ran back to the TV network booth. Shellhammer was there, grinning at the monitor.
"This Santa Claus is fantastic," he said. "Did he sign a contract?"
"There wasn't time," Dorey replied. "Myrna's going to have him sign after the parade. He'll start work in the morning. The only condition he insisted on is that he be able to wear his own suit."
Shellhammer looked at her, amazed. "He has a Santa suit?"
"Apparently. If it's horrible, we'll make him wear
Faces turned toward the float. Parents and children stared in horror, first at the pad, then at Tony.
Without the fake belly, his pants fell again. Laughter swelled up around him.
"Shut up!" Tony grumbled, letting go of his waist.
PHWEEEEEEET! trilled a drum major's whistle.
The parade was beginning!
His pants around his feet, Tony bellowed, " Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night! "
He raised the whip handle. The whip pulled on his ankles.
Out went Tony's feet.
He flipped into the air. With a whomp , he landed on the sleigh floor.
Ping! Ping! Ping! Ping!
At once, the bolts holding the sleigh to the float sprang off.
Dorey Walker stood at the curb, gaping. "Oh, no!" she whispered as she watched the entire sleigh slowly topple to the street.
Thanksgiving Day, 10:31 A.M.
"Heeeee-yah-ha-ha-ha-ha!"
He was laughing. That drunken sot was lying on the street in his Cole's Santa suit and laughing .
Dorey was horrified. She hoped no news cameras were around. Cole's was having enough trouble as it was. This would be a disaster for the store's image.
Workers were lifting the sleigh back onto the float. But as far as Dorey was concerned, Tony was history. He couldn't go back up. Not in this state.
"Officer!" she called to the nearest policeman. "There was an older man on the float a few minutes ago. Did you see him?"
"Yeah, he was just here," the policeman said. "You're the Cole's lady?"
Dorey nodded.
"He wanted to talk to you." The policeman pointed across the street. "That's him. In the old coat."
"Thanks."
The old man was walking into Central Park. A little shabby, but neat , Dorey thought. Not a bum. He might be able to handle it. She ran across the
street, scooping up Tony's Santa hat on the way.
"Sir?" she shouted.
The man turned around.
"I'm Dorey Walker, Director of Special Projects for C. F. Cole and Company." She extended her hand.
"My pleasure," the man replied. "I was looking for you. As you probably saw, your Santa Claus is drunk."
"I know. He's created a terrible problem. Millions of kids are watching, here and on television. They're expecting to see Santa Claus—and now we don't have one." Dorey looked him square in the eye. "Would you be our Santa Claus?"
"Me? Surely there are other people you could ask."
"Sir, the parade's already started. It's you, right now, or there's no Santa in the parade. If you want, you can have the job at the store, too."
"Can I have a moment to think about it?"
"Sure." Dorey looked at her watch for a moment. "Okay, time's up."
"I'll do it—but starting tomorrow, I must wear my own suit. I'll bring it with me to work."
"A deal." She took his hand and led him back to the parade. "Now, there's nothing to worry about. Just be yourself. You'll be fine, Mister . . . ?"
"Kringle. Kriss Kringle."
Dorey laughed. "Uh-huh. Of course."
They wound their way through the crowd. In the center of the street, the workers had repaired the sleigh. Dorey helped the old man up.
She crossed her fingers. This guy could be a dud. Without a costume, without practice . . .
But something happened as he sat in the seat. His eyes seemed to dance with delight. His rounded back straightened out. And boy, did he know how to crack a whip.
Snnnnap!
It resounded like a shot.
"Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Donder and Blitzen!"
Even his voice was different—strong and booming. Around her, children's and parents' eyes were riveted on the old man.
Dorey was thrilled. She ran back to the TV network booth. Shellhammer was there, grinning at the monitor.
"This Santa Claus is fantastic," he said. "Did he sign a contract?"
"There wasn't time," Dorey replied. "Myrna's going to have him sign after the parade. He'll start work in the morning. The only condition he insisted on is that he be able to wear his own suit."
Shellhammer looked at her, amazed. "He has a Santa suit?"
"Apparently. If it's horrible, we'll make him wear
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