It was too late to select. Mr. and Mrs. Budlong with their lengthy
list in hand sprinted up one aisle and down another, pointing,
prodding, rarely pausing to say "How much?" but monotonously chanting:
"Gimme this! Gimme that! Gimme two of these! Gimme six of them!
Gimme that! Gimme this! Gimme them!"

They bought glaring garden jars and ghastly vases, scarf pins that
would disturb the peace, silly bisque figurines for mantels and
what-nots, combs and brushes that would raise the hair on end instead
of allaying it, oxidized silverized lead pencils, button hooks, tooth
brushes, nail files, cuticle knives, pin cushions, ink stands, paper
weights, picture frames, bits of lace and intimate white things with
ribbons in them--Mr. Budlong turned away while she priced these.

Strouther and Streckfuss were in a panic of joy at the situation. They
managed in the excitement to work off a number of old horrors that had
been refused for years and years--ancient, dust-stained landmarks on
the shelves. Mr. Strouther showed the things, Mr. Streckfuss wrote the
list of purchases,--he made many mistakes in prices, but strangely
never to his own damage; and the entire staff of assistants followed,
taking down, and wrapping up, and rushing parcels to the door, where
they were bundled onto a wagon.

Mr. Budlong should have been a medieval general. He pillaged that
store with the thoroughness of the Crusaders looting Constantinople.

The town clock was striking midnight as the Budlongs dragged themselves
home. There was much yet to be done. Parcels must be opened, price
tags removed, gifts done up in pink tissue paper and gold twine, cards
must be inscribed and inserted and the parcels rewrapped and addressed.