"Roscoe Detwiller, if you're goin' to praise that woman in the
presence of your own lawful wife, I'll never speak to you the longest
day I live." "Who's praisin' her? I was just sayin'--"

"Why, Roscoe Detwiller, you did, too! And I should think you'd be
ashamed of yourself."

"Say, what ails you? Why, I was roastin' her to beat the band."

"And to think that on Christmas day of all days I should live to hear
my own husband that I've loved and cherished and worked my fingers to
the bone and never got any thanks and other women keepin' two and
three hired girls, and after him denyin' his own children things to
get expensive presents for a shameless creature like that Budlong
woman--"

All over Carthage on Christmas afternoons couples were similarly at
loggerheads over Mrs. Budlong's annual triumph.

Now of course Mrs. Budlong did not get all those presents without
giving presents. Not in Carthage! It might have been possible to
bamboozle these people one Christmas, but never another. Mrs.
Budlong gave heaps of presents. Christmas was an industry with her,
an ambition; Christmas was her career. It had long ago lost its
religious significance for her, as for nearly everybody else in
Carthage. Even Mr. Frankenstein (the Pantatorium magnate) is one of
the most ardent advertisers of Christmas bargains, while Isidore
Strouther and Esau Streckfuss are "almost persuaded" every December.
They might be entirely persuaded if it were not for the scenes they