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"I've got a sort of a pipe here," said Doak, "if you're not overparticular what you smoke." Satherwaite received the pipe gravely. It was a blackened briar, whose bowl was burned halfway down on one side, from being lighted over the gas, and whose mouthpiece, gnawed away in long usage, had been reshaped with a knife. Satherwaite examined it with interest, rubbing the bowl gently on his knee.
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.
Great Scott! just because he had some money and went with some other fellows who also had money, he was to be promptly labeled "snob," and treated with polite tolerance only. By Jove, he would stay, if only to punish them for their narrowness! "You're sure I shan't be intruding, Doyle?" he asked. Doyle gasped in amazement. Satherwaite removed his coat.
"I'm sorry," said Doyle, "but I'm afraid I haven't an extra one. Any of you fellows got a pipe that's not working?" Murmured regrets followed. Doak, who sat next to Satherwaite, put a hand in his coat pocket, and viewed the intruder doubtingly from around the corners of his glasses. "It doesn't matter a bit," remarked Satherwaite heartily.
Doyle, tall, lank and near-sighted, arose and moved forward, with outstretched hand. He was plainly embarrassed, as was every other occupant of the study, Satherwaite included. The laughter and talk had subsided. Doyle's guests politely removed their gaze from the newcomer, and returned their pipes to their lips. But the newcomer was intruding, and knew it, and he was consequently embarrassed.
A gong clanged softly, and a car, well-nigh untenanted, slid by beneath them, its windows, frosted halfway up, flooding the snow with mellow light. Some one beside Satherwaite murmured gently: "Good old Christmas!" The spell was broken, Satherwaite sighed why, he hardly knew and turned away from the window.
"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.
Embarrassment, like boredom, was a novel sensation to him, and he speedily decided that he did not fancy it. He held out Doyle's book. "I brought this back, old man. I don't know how I came to forget it. I'm awfully sorry, you know; it was so very decent of you to lend it to me. Awfully sorry, really." Doyle murmured that it didn't matter, not a particle; and wouldn't Satherwaite sit down?
But what caught and held Satherwaite's gaze was a tiny Christmas tree, scarcely three feet high, which adorned the center of the desk. Its branches held toy candles, as yet unlighted, and were festooned with strings of crimson cranberries and colored popcorn, while here and there a small package dangled amidst the greenery. "How are you, Satherwaite?"
The distribution went on, but presently, when all the rest were crowding about Somers, Satherwaite whipped a package from his pocket and, writing on it hurriedly, was apparently in the act of taking it from the tree, when the others turned again. "Little Harry Doyle," he read gravely. Doyle viewed the package in amazement. He had dressed the tree himself. "Open it up, old man!"
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