"

"Mamma! Oh, gracious, no. Mamma's far too slow for that. But I shall
tell her that Santa Claus insisted on putting in the little money
boxes."

"I suppose she believes in Santa Claus, just as my mamma does."

"Oh, absolutely," said Clarisse, and added, "What if we play a little
game! With a double dummy, the French way, or Norwegian Skat, if you
like. That only needs two."

"All right," agreed Ulvina, and in a few minutes they were deep in a
game of cards with a little pile of pocket money beside them.

About half an hour later, all the members of the two families were
again in the drawing-room. But of course nobody said anything about the
presents. In any case they were all too busy looking at the beautiful
big Bible, with maps in it, that the Joneses had brought to give to
Grandfather. They all agreed that, with the help of it, Grandfather
could hunt up any place in Palestine in a moment, day or night.

But upstairs, away upstairs in a sitting-room of his own Grandfather
Jones was looking with an affectionate eye at the presents that stood
beside him. There was a beautiful whisky decanter, with silver filigree
outside (and whiskey inside) for Jones, and for the little boy a big
nickel-plated Jew's harp.

Later on, far in the night, the person, or the influence, or whatever
it is called Santa Claus, took all the presents and placed them in the
people's stockings.

And, being blind as he always has been, he gave the wrong things to the
wrong people--in fact, he gave them just as indicated above.

But the next day, in the course of Christmas morning, the situation
straightened itself out, just as it always does.

Indeed, by ten o'clock, Brown and Jones were playing with the train, and
Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Jones were making dolls' clothes, and the boys were
smoking cigarettes, and Clarisse and Ulvina were playing cards for their
pocket-money.

And upstairs--away up--Grandfather was drinking whisky and playing the
Jew's harp.

And so Christmas, just as it always does, turned out all right after
all.

XI. Lost in New York

A VISITOR'S SOLILOQUY

Well! Well!

Whatever has been happening to this place, to New York? Changed? Changed
since I was here in '86? Well, I should say so.

The hack-driver of the old days that I used to find waiting for me at
the station curb, with that impossible horse of his--the hack-driver
with his bulbous red face, and the nice smell of rye whisky all 'round
him for