LITMIR.BIZ

      ‘There ain’t any Santa Claus,’ whined the boy. ‘You’ve got old false billy goat’s whiskers on your face. I ain’t no kid. What do I want with dolls and tin horses? The driver said you’d have a rifle, and you haven’t. I want to go home.’

      Trinidad stepped into the breach. He shook Cherokee’s hand in warm greeting.

      ‘I’m sorry, Cherokee,’ he explained. ‘There never was a kid in Yellowhammer. We tried to rustle a bunch of ’em for your swaree, but this sardine was all we could catch. He’s an atheist, and he don’t believe in Santa Claus. It’s a shame for you to be out all this truck. But me and the Judge was sure we could round up a wagonful of candidates for your gimcracks.’

      ‘That’s all right,’ said Cherokee gravely. ‘The expense don’t amount to nothin’ worth mentionin’. We can dump the stuff down a shaft or throw it away. I don’t know what I was thinkin’ about; but it never occurred to my cogitations that there wasn’t any kids in Yellowhammer.’

      Meanwhile the company had relaxed into a hollow but praiseworthy imitation of a pleasure gathering.

      Bobby had retreated to a distant chair, and was coldly regarding the scene with ennui plastered thick upon him. Cherokee, lingering with his original idea, went over and sat beside him.

      ‘Where do you live, little boy?’ he asked respectfully.

      ‘Granite Junction,’ said Bobby without emphasis.

      The room was warm. Cherokee took off his cap, and then removed his beard and wig.

      ‘Say!’ exclaimed Bobby, with a show of interest, ‘I know your mug, all right.’

      ‘Did you ever see me before?’ asked Cherokee.

      ‘I don’t know; but I’ve seen your picture lots of times.’

      ‘Where?’

      The boy hesitated. ‘On the bureau at home,’ he answered.

      ‘Let’s have your name, if you please, buddy.’

      ‘Robert Lumsden. The picture belongs to my mother. She puts it under her pillow of nights. And once I saw her kiss it. I wouldn’t. But women are that way.’

      Cherokee rose and beckoned to Trinidad.

      ‘Keep this boy by you till I come back,’ he said. ‘I’m goin’ to shed these Christmas duds, and hitch up my sleigh. I’m goin’ to take this kid home.’

      ‘Well, infidel,’ said Trinidad, taking Cherokee’s vacant chair, ‘and so you are too superannuated and effete to yearn for such mockeries as candy and toys, it seems.’

      ‘I don’t like you,’ said Bobby, with acrimony. ‘You said there would be a rifle. A fellow can’t even smoke. I wish I was at home.’