revolt from the right, one must suffer. For the old man was one of the few
last of a race of giants who were to believe always in the Printed Word.




CHAPTER III

THE CULT OF THE CANDY CANE


When the littler boy looked fairly into the frosty gray of that Christmas
morning, the trailed banner of his faith was snatched once more aloft;
and in the breast of his complacent brother there swelled the conviction
that one does ill to flaunt one's skepticism, when the rewards of belief
are substantial and imminent. For before them was an array of gifts such
as neither had ever looked upon before, save as forbidden treasure of the
few persons whose immense wealth enables them to keep toy-shops.

The tale of the princely Saint was now authenticated delightfully. That
which had made him seem unreal in moments of spiritual laxity--the
impenetrable secrecy of his private life--was now seen to enhance manyfold
his wondrous givings. Here was a charm which could never have sat the
display before them had it been dryly bought in their presence from one of
the millionaire toy-shop keepers. For a wondering moment they looked from
their beds, sputtering, gibbering, gasping, with cautious calls one to
the other. Then having proved speech to be no disenchantment they shouted
and laughed crazily. There followed a scramble from the beds and a swift
return from the cold, each bearing such of the priceless bits as had
lain nearest. And while these were fondled or shot or blown upon or