Free Circus Shoes by Noel Streatfeild

to Gus. She carried the bowl of water.
    “Mr. Stibbings is always right and proper, dear. But what are you going to do with us?”
    Gus looked first at her and then at Peter
    “Would you like to stay with me for the rest of the tenting tour?”
    Peter looked at Santa.
    “You would, wouldn’t you?”
    Santa nodded.
    “I think it would be heavenly.”
    Gus gave a quick glance at Peter.
    “And you?”
    “I’d like it.”
    “Right.” Gus put the telegram in his pocket. That’s settled. Now we must get a move on. I’ e another bed to fix. Mr. Cob to see. When you’ve done the washing up you must write to the reverend to thank him, and to Mrs. Ford to send on your things. We must hurry or we’ll never be through by five- thirty.”
    “Five-thirty?” Peter stopped in the doorway “What happens then?”
    Gus looked shocked.
    “What happens! The show, of course. What we’re here for, and don’t you two forget it.”

    VI
    In the Stables
    *
    IT WAS wretchedly dull writing letters with so much going on outside. Peter and Santa simply could not give their minds to it. Every few minutes one of them would go to the caravan door and look out. All sorts of things were going on. Scattered groups came up from the town and paid sixpence to look at the animals. People brought the most exciting-looking clothes out from their caravans and hung them up to give them a brushing. A smart-looking woman, with a very olive skin and black hair cut in a fringe, came and sat on the steps of her caravan and covered a small wooden ring with artificial roses. While she worked she talked to somebody inside the caravan. Santa, who was the first to hear her speak, looked very surprised and beckoned to Peter.
    “French! My goodness, doesn’t she do it well!”
    Peter listened.
    “Perhaps she is French.”
    Santa sat down again. Grudgingly she took up her pen. She gave it an angry bite.
    “Why must we write letters? I’d like to watch her make that ring of roses. I wonder what it’s for? It’s too small to wear.” She sighed and looked down at her letter. “You know I don’t know what to ask Mrs. Ford to send. Gus said only useful things. I’ve written down ‘raincoat.’ That must be useful. But I can’t think of anything else. What have you put?”
    Peter turned his page over.
    “I’ve said: ‘Please send all my pajamas, even the old ones. Any pants and vests and socks you can find. My shirts and ties. All my handkerchiefs. My other suit, and the old one that needs mending on the elbows.’”
    Santa began to write furiously. “What a fool I am. Of course those are want we want. Pajamas. All my vests and things. As a matter of fact I’ve only got three good pairs, and one I’ve got on and one is in my case. Still, she may as well look, she might find some old ones. What next?”
    Peter looked back at his list.
    “Shirts and ties. You haven’t got those. Then there’s your shoes and all your handkerchiefs.”
    Santa nodded.
    “And my other dress and coat and things. And my summer dresses, only they’ll be too short. And that’s all.” She wrote quickly across the bottom, “Much love, Santa,” then got up and went back to the door.
    “Oh, Peter, come and look. There’s a man climbing about on the top of the big top.”
    Peter jumped up. It was perfectly true. There was a man right up at the top of one of the king-poles. They watched with enormous interest, wondering what on earth he could be doing. Suddenly they saw. He was fixing up a chain of colored electric lights. They came back to the table again. Santa addressed an envelope to Mrs. Ford and pushed it across to Peter to put his letter in. Peter drew a picture of a caravan on the blotting-paper.
    “I was wondering. Do you think we ought to write to Bill?”
    Santa tried to think fairly. Of course they ought to write to Bill. He had been kinder than almost anyone they had ever known. All the same the thought of writing yet another letter gave her a sinking