“Do you think they’re going to be big sellers?” asked Dozy doubtfully.

“Possibly, if the shop was situated in a country that spoke Urdu or Serbo-Croat,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. “Otherwise, probably not. I do wish you hadn’t turned it on, though. It takes a while for it to finish the song.”

They all tried to ignore the tree as the interview began.

“Now, which job might you be applying for?” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley.

The dwarfs exchanged looks. They were in a toy shop. It was coming up to Christmas. The shop had a Christmas grotto. They were hardly there to audition for roles as Easter bunnies.

“Elves,” said Jolly. “We’re here to be elves.”

“Not Father Christmas?” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley.

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Are you trying to be clever?” asked Jolly.

“Not at all,” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. “I can’t just assume that because you’re gentlemen of, er, reduced stature you’re only here to be elves. That would be wrong. It’s all equal opportunities now, you know. I could get into terrible trouble for saying to you, ‘Oh, you must be here about the elf job, then.’ I could end up in court.”

“But we are here about the elf job,” said Angry.

“Wouldn’t you at least like to think about being Father Christmas?” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because we want to be elves. We’re the right size for elves. It’s not, if you’ll forgive the pun, much of a stretch for us.”

“Well, I have to offer you the chance to apply for the job of Father Christmas. It’s the rules.”

“We don’t want to be Father Christmas.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Wouldn’t you like to try one little ‘Ho-Ho-Ho!,’ just a teeny one?”

“No!” said Jolly. “We want to be elves.”

Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley scowled at him.

“What’s wrong with being Father Christmas? Don’t you like fat people?”

“What?” said Jolly.

He was confused. Beside him, the singing Christmas tree continued to sing. It seemed to know a lot more verses to “Jingle Bells” than Jolly did.

“Are you saying you don’t want to be Father Christmas because he’s fat?” Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley persisted. “Are you fattist? You know, we can’t have people working here who are fattist. We won’t put up with that kind of thing, do you hear? We won’t put up with it at all. How dare you come into this store and say unpleasant things about fat people!”

“But—” said Jolly.

“Don’t you go making excuses! You should be ashamed of yourselves. I’ve a good mind to call the police.”

Angry stared very intently at Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. The singing Christmas tree continued to chirp away merrily. Angry was starting to hate it.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but are you a mad bloke?”

“Oh, and I suppose you don’t like them either!” said Mr. St. John-Cholmondeley. “What if I was fat and mad, eh? What then? I suppose you’d come after me with pitchforks and flaming torches. You’d want me hidden away from sight, locked up in a cell somewhere with only bread and water!”