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"And do you mean that you all give one another presents, and keep it secret, and and all that?" "Yes; just little things, you know," answered Doak deprecatingly. "It's the nearest thing to a real Christmas that I've known for seven years," said Ailworth gravely. Satherwaite observed him wonderingly. "By Jove!" he murmured; "seven years!
The crowd applauded merrily. "Dear little boys and girls," began Satherwaite in a quavering voice. "No girls!" cried Doak. "I want the cranberries!" cried Smith; "I love cranberries." "I get the popcorn, then!" That was the sedate Ailworth. "You'll be beastly sick," said Doak, grinning jovially through his glasses. Satherwaite untied the first package from its twig.
He decked the narrative with touches of drollery, and was rewarded with the grins that overspread the faces of his hearers. Ailworth nodded appreciatingly, now and then, and Doak even slapped his knee once and giggled aloud.
The man in the cricket-blazer turned out to be Doak, '03, the man who had won the Jonas Greeve scholarship; a small youth with eaglelike countenance was Somers, he who had debated so brilliantly against Princeton; a much-bewhiskered man was Ailworth, of the Law School; Kranch and Smith, both members of Satherwaite's class, completed the party.
And Somers told of a Christmas he had once spent in a Quebec village; and Ailworth followed him with an account of Christmas morning in a Maine-coast fishing town. Satherwaite was silent.
When Satherwaite backed out the door he still held Doak's pet pipe clenched between his teeth, and Doak, knowing it, said not a word. "Hope you'll come back and see us," called Doyle. "That's right, old man, don't forget us!" shouted Ailworth. And Satherwaite, promising again and again not to, stumbled his way down the dark stairs. Outside, he glanced gratefully up at the lighted panes.
This accounted for the laughter that ensued. "Sammy Doak" received a notebook marked "Mathematics 3a." The point of this allusion was lost to Satherwaite, for Doak was too busy laughing to explain it. And so it went, and the room was in a constant roar of mirth. Doyle was conferring excitedly with Ailworth across the room.
Everyone save Ailworth and Doyle was staring blankly at the fire. Ailworth dropped his eyes gravely; Doyle broke out explosively with: "Do you smoke, Satherwaite?" "Yes, but I'm afraid " he searched his pockets perfunctorily "I haven't my pipe with me." His cigarette case met his searching fingers, but somehow cigarettes did not seem appropriate.
Satherwaite, very red, ran his finger over the edges of the leaves, examined it long, as though he had never seen anything like it before, and placed it in his waistcoat pocket. "I I " he began. "Chop it off!" cried some one joyously. "I'm awfully much obliged to to whoever " "It's from the gang," said Doyle. "With a Merry Christmas," said Ailworth. "Thank you gang," said Satherwaite.
"It isn't that," cried Doyle; "it's only that it's much too fine " "Oh, no, it isn't," said Satherwaite. "Now, then, where's 'Little Alfie Ailworth'?" Small candy canes followed the packages, and the men drew once more around the hearth, munching the pink and white confectionery enjoyingly. Smith insisted upon having the cranberries, and wore them around his neck.
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