The Telephone Boy knew the answers to all the conundrums in the world, and a way out of nearly all troubles such as are likely to overtake boys and girls.  But now he had no suggestions to offer and could speak no comfortable words.

“He can’t git inter de front, an’ he can’t git inter de back, an’ he can’t come down no chimney in dis here house, an’ I tell yer dose,” he said, and shut his mouth grimly, while cold apprehension crept around Ernest’s heart and took the sweetness out of Roderick’s sucker.

Nevertheless, hope springs eternal, and the boys each and individually asked their fathers—­tremendously wise and good men—­if they thought there was any hope that Santa Claus would get into the Santa Maria flats, and each of the fathers looked up from his paper and said he’d be blessed if he did!

And the words sunk deep and deep and drew the tears when the doors were closed and the soft black was all about and nobody could laugh because a boy was found crying!  The girls cried too—­for the awful news was whistled up tubes and whistled down tubes, till all the twenty-six flat children knew about it.  The next day it was talked over in the brick court, where the children used to go to shout and race.  But on this day there was neither shouting nor racing.  There was, instead, a shaking of heads, a surreptitious dropping of tears, a guessing and protesting and lamenting.  All the flat mothers congratulated themselves on the fact that their children were becoming so quiet and orderly, and wondered what could have come over them when they noted that they neglected to run after the patrol wagon as it whizzed round the block.

It was decided, after a solemn talk, that every child should go to its own fireplace and investigate.  In the event of any fireplace being found with an opening big enough to admit Santa Claus, a note could be left directing him along the halls to the other apartments.  A spirit of universal brotherhood had taken possession of the Santa Maria flatters.  Misery bound them together.  But the investigation proved to be disheartening.  The cruel asbestos grates were everywhere.  Hope lay strangled!

As time went on, melancholy settled upon the flat children.  The parents noted it, and wondered if there could be sewer gas in the apartments.  One over-anxious mother called in a physician, who gave the poor little child some medicine which made it quite ill.  No one suspected the truth, though the children were often heard to say that it was evident that there was to be no Christmas for them!  But then, what more natural for a child to say, thus hoping to win protestations—­so the mothers reasoned, and let the remark pass.

The day before Christmas was gray and dismal.  There was no wind—­indeed, there was a sort of tightness in the air, as if the supply of freshness had given out.  People had headaches—­even the Telephone Boy was cross—­and none of the spirit of the time appeared to enliven the flat children.  There appeared to be no stir—­no mystery.  No whisperings went on in the corners—­or at least, so it seemed to the sad babies of the Santa Maria.