Too Many Elves
By
Parhelion
Maybe it was because I'd had such a great time at last night's Christmas party that I decided to pull Fritz's leg. He was pouring batter for my fourth blueberry flapjack onto the griddle when I said, "A miracle. Fresh orange juice, fresh chives, and fresh blueberries. At this time of the year, too. What did you do, take lessons from Mandrake the Magician?"
"Such small chores are easy when one has the proper associates," Fritz said without turning from the stove.
"Who would those be, the little guys running around doing the housework in Disney cartoons?"
As always when I amused him, Fritz giggled. Then his expression went grave and he said, "Now you have rumbled me." He loved slang.
I grinned. "So you're a brownie."
He turned and gave a little bow.
"That explains the miracles in the kitchen. What about the miracles up in the greenhouse? Is Horstman also a brownie?"
Fritz's look was reproachful. "No."
"Sure, a gardener's too earthy." Continuing the game, I said, "So you're a brownie, and Theodore's a gnome. What does that make Wolfe, the eighth dwarf?" I pretended to consider. "Talky? Smarty? Grumpy is already taken. Huffy?"
"No, no, no, Archie" Fritz paused and shook his head. "You are not considering the evidence." He tapped the spatula against the griddle for emphasis. "There is Mr. Wolfe's figure, his memory, his genius for knowing who is wrong and who is right, his hatred of fires in fireplaces, his need to rest and restore his élan vital for most of the year..." Trailing off, he seemed to ponder before he added, expression still grave, "But then, you are always absent on the eve itself. You can mistake the world-weariness brought on by his grand effort for cynicism. He is, of course, that greatest and most powerful of elves, the one called in this country Sa--"
Hoisting both hands high, I interrupted him hastily. Even for me there are limits. "Okay, I get it. No need to keep trying. You are officially the hardest leg-puller in this brownstone."
Fritz bowed with a strange little smile on his face before he turned back to the griddle and flipped my flapjack. Shaking my head, I returned to the Gazette.
Later that morning, when Wolfe had come into the office, I said, "You never told me your real name was Nicholas."
"You never asked," he muttered.
"About that Christmas when I was eight--"
"The Lincoln Logs were too easily broken, and you had no place to keep a pony."
I admit, my head came up and I stared. Then I recovered. I opened my mouth, but he beat me to the punch again.
"Nor will I have livestock under this roof." He grunted before he continued, "To the attention of Henry Winthrop at Williams, Winthrop, and Pierce. Dear Sir..."
Fine. I flipped to a fresh page in my notebook and hurried to catch up with his dictation.
See if I left out milk and cookies this year.