ersation was characterized by the same
intellectual exaltation, the same cautious reverence, the same
fastidious delicacy, the same rhetorical precision, and the same logical
and coherent discourse somewhat later in the evening, which distinguish
similar gatherings of the masculine sex in more civilized localities and
under more favorable auspices. No glasses were broken in the absence of
any; no liquor was uselessly spilt on floor or table in the scarcity of
that article.

It was nearly midnight when the festivities were interrupted. "Hush,"
said Dick Bullen, holding up his hand. It was the querulous voice of
Johnny from his adjacent closet: "O dad!"

The Old Man arose hurriedly and disappeared in the closet. Presently he
reappeared. "His rheumatiz is coming on agin bad," he explained, "and
he wants rubbin'." He lifted the demijohn of whiskey from the table
and shook it. It was empty. Dick Bullen put down his tin cup with
an embarrassed laugh. So did the others. The Old Man examined their
contents and said hopefully, "I reckon that's enough; he don't need
much. You hold on all o' you for a spell, and I'll be back"; and
vanished in the closet with an old flannel shirt and the whiskey. The
door closed but imperfectly, and the following dialogue was distinctly
audible:--

"Now, Sonny, whar does she ache worst?"

"Sometimes over yar and sometimes under yer; but it's most powerful from
yer to yer. Rub yer, dad."

A silence seemed to indicate a brisk rubbing. Then Johnny:

"Hevin' a good time out yer, dad?"

"Yes, sonny."

"To-morrer's Chrismiss, ain't it?"

"Yes, Sonny. How does she feel now?"

"Better rub a little furder down. Wot's Chrismiss, anyway? Wot's it all
about?"

"O, it's a day."

This exhaustive definition was apparently satisfactory, for there was a
silent interval of rubbing. Presently Johnny again:

"Mar sez that everywhere else but yer everybody gives things to
everybody Chrismiss, and then she jist waded inter you. She sez thar's
a man they call Sandy Claws, not a white man, you know, but a kind o'
Chinemin, comes down the chimbley night afore Chrismiss and gives things
to chillern,--boys like me. Puts 'em in their butes! Thet's what she
tried to play upon me. Easy now, pop, whar are you rubbin' to,--thet's
a mile from the place. She jest made that up, didn't she, jest to
aggrewate me and you? Don't rub thar. . . . Why, dad!"

In the great quiet that seemed to have fallen upon the house t