couldn't finish and turned and stamped
out, slamming the door after him.

Brother Littell winked and waited till Mr. Nicholson got out before he
mildly observed "Kind o' hot in under the collar, 'pears like."

"Righteous mad, I s'pose," said Abel Horn.

"You waited on yit, bub?" asked Brother Littell. "I betchy he's
a-thinkin' right now he'll take his letter out o' Centre Street an' go
to the Barefoot Church. He would, too, if 't wasn't clean plumb at the
fur end o' town an' a reg'lar mud-hole to git there."

"Pity him an' a few more of 'em up in the Amen corner wouldn't go," said
Abel Horn. "Mind the time we sung, 'There is a Stream?' You know
they's a solo in it fer the soprano. Well, 't is kind o' operatic an'
skallyhootin' up an' down the scale. I give the solo to Tilly Wilkerson
an' if that old skeezicks didn't beller right out in the middle of it:
'It's a disgrace tud Divine service!' He did. You could 'a' heard him
clear to the court-house. My! I thought I'd go up. Tilly, she was kind
o' scared an' trimbly, but she stuck to it like a major. Said afterwards
she'd 'a' finished that solo if it was the last act she ever done."

"Who's a-goin' to be Santy Claus?" asked Brother Littell, with cheerful
irrevelance.

"The committee thought that had better be kept a secret," replied Abel,
with as much dignity as his four feet nine would admit of.

"Ort to be somebody kind o' heavy-set, ort n't it?" hinted the grocer,
giving a recognizable description of himself.

"Well, I don' know 'bout that," contested Abel. "Git somebody kind o'
spry an' he could pad out weth a pilfer. A pussy man 'd find it rather
onhandy comin' down that chimbly an' hoppin' hether an' yan takin'
things off o' the tree. Need somebody with a good strong voice, too,
to call off the names.... Woosh's you'd git them things up to the house
soon 's you kin, Otho. Ma's in a hurry fer 'em."

"Betchy two cents," said Brother Littell to his clerk, Clarence
Bowersox, "'at Abel Horn 'll be Santy Claus."

"Git out!" doubted Clarence.

"'Ll, you see now. He's the daggonedest feller to crowd himself in an'
be the head leader o' everything. W'y, he ain't no more call to be Santy
Claus 'n that hitchin' post out yan. Little, dried-up runt, bald 's a
apple. Told me one time: 'I never grow'd a' inch tell I was sixteen
'n' then I shot up like a weed.'... Bub, you tell yer Ma if she wants a
turkey fer Christmas she better be gittin' her order in right quick."