Toby, aged nearly seven, had no parents, and lived with his Aunt and Uncle in the country. He loved them both, for they were very kind to him, yet they were not quite the same as the father and mother he could just remember. They had no children of their own. His Aunt Sophy was rather deaf. In his mind he always connected her with puddings, because of the way she said: “No, Toby, one helping is quite enough today. If you eat any more, you’ll turn into a pudding yourself.” His Uncle was in the wholesale hat business and had an office and a big factory somewhere far away in London, where he went twice a week. He also hunted twice a week. On both occasions he wore a top-hat; and Toby longed for the day when he, too, could make hats and hunt, and so wear one of these tall, shiny things on the top of his head. It puzzled him why the same kind of hat was used for chasing a fox and for going to an office, but his Uncle’s explanation was not very clear. Once he put the hat on his own head; it came down over eyes and nose to his mouth and his voice sounded queer inside it. It was difficult to get off again. He hadn’t improved its looks when he got it off. The only other times a top-hat was worn seemed to be a funeral or a wedding. But that had no interest for Toby. It was a queer business altogether. Hats, anyhow, brought in a lot of money. His real trouble, however, was that he had no brothers or sisters to play with. What he wanted even more than a top-hat was a playmate. His seventh birthday was now near, and he knew his Uncle would snatch him up, set him on his knee with a jerk, and say in his loud, booming voice: “Now, Toby, my little man, what d’you want for your birthday, eh?” He hated being called a Little Man; otherwise the question was all right. Last year he had no answer ready. It seemed silly to say: “I want a top-hat,” and his Uncle’s suggestion of a cob⁠—well, the only cob he knew had kicked, and he wasn’t sure of staying on its back for very long. Besides, he couldn’t play with a cob. This year, anyhow, he had his answer ready, and when the thing happened, and he found himself perched on his Uncle’s knee, and heard the big voice asking the expected question, he answered promptly: “A cat, please.” “What?” (In a loud voice.) “And a tortoise.” “Eh?” (In a shout.) “And a owl.” “You mean an owl,” boomed his Uncle. “A nowl, yes,” repeated Toby. The man roared out then: “Bless the boy! What’s the matter with him? A cat, a tortoise and an owl, indeed! I hoped you were going to say a cob!” He jumped him about on his great knees. Anybody else might have thought his Uncle was angry, but Toby knew better. The big voice didn’t frighten him. It was loud from the habit of talking to his deaf wife. It meant nothing. Toby explained then: The Brown children down the road had a pet owl in a cage, the White family up the hill had a beautiful Persian cat that was always having kittens, and the Green’s boy across the lane had a tortoise. So why shouldn’t Toby Black have them too! He explained at some length his point of view. His Uncle, however, didn’t approve of presents of this sort. “Pets,” he declared, “are nothing but a nuisance in the house. They’re noisy and messy, and they’re always getting lost. Besides, they’re no use. My money comes from making useful things. Think of something else, my little man⁠—something useful⁠—and you shall have it.” “Promise?” asked Toby, earnestly. “Yes. I told you once. If it’s useful you shall have it.” “Thank you,” said the boy, and shot off his Uncle’s knee like a cannonball before any further conditions could be made. There was less than a week now to his birthday, and he at once set about finding out what use a cat, a tortoise and an owl might be. None, it seemed! Nannie said there were no mice in the nursery; the gardener said a tortoise ate his yellow flowers and was always getting lost; and the stable-groom, who looked after the hunters, told him that owls weren’t worth bothering about, as they only made a horrid noise at night and stared in the daytime. As for tortoises, he added, they were like some people he knew⁠—he wondered why they had ever been made at all. Cats, owls and tortoises were evidently not much use in the world to anybody. Aunt Sophy, in this matter of presents, was different. She didn’t ask what present he wanted; she just told him what she was going to give⁠—then watched his face to see whether he looked glum or happy. Last year it had been a football. “You want a football, Toby,” she said. “That’s what you want.” But he didn’t want a football, because he had no one to kick it to, Nannie being a bit too big to run. He got it just the same, though.