"Merry ------" said Mr. Budlong, reaching for a rock. But even the
stones were frozen to the ground and the driver escaped. As Mr.
Budlong closed his front door, a thread of crimson spun out along the
East as if somebody were going to wrap the whole world up in a red
string. He did not want it. He yawned at it.

An hour or so later, Ulie awoke and sat up with a start. To his
intense confusion, he bumped the top of his little skull on the bottom
of his little bed.

He was calling for help when he realized that he had fallen asleep in
his ambush. He peered forth to see if he had snared Santa Claus.

The figure-4 trap was erect and intact, but empty. He crawled out and
ran to the row of stockings he had hung on the mantelpiece as a decoy.

The stockings were empty.

With a shriek of disappointed rage, Ulie dashed into his parents' room
to protest.

Their bed was empty.

He ran through the house, stumbled down stairs and into the back
parlor. His father was snoring on a mattress of Yuletide parcels. His
mother was curled up on a divan under the smoking piano lamp. Her
hands were clutching strands of gold cord and her hair was pillowed in
pink tissue paper. She was burbling in her sleep.