To Uncle Noah this nightly question had become a sacred institution, a
stimulus to imaginative powers highly developed in his quaint dialogues
with the Colonel. He forgot the doomed Job. It was Christmas Eve, and
his creative gift took festive wings.

"Well, sah," he beamed, "we has a little chicken gumbo, some fried
chicken jus' the right golden brown, sah, creamed potatoes, hot
biscuits with currant jelly--er--sliced ham and baked potatoes."

Colonel Fairfax thoughtfully considered the appetizing prospect in
accordance with the rules of the game. What mattered it that the
luscious edibles existed only in the brain of the loyal old darky? The
little pretense gave to each a delightful thrill--surely an adequate
extenuation of the harmless diversion. As usual Colonel Fairfax found
the key to the situation in the closing items of Uncle Noah's list.

"It all sounds delicious, Uncle Noah," he observed graciously, "but I
have a touch of my old enemy the dyspepsia today. I think I shall have
sliced ham and baked potatoes. That, I think, will do for us both."

Mrs. Fairfax agreed, her kindly eyes fixed upon Uncle Noah's attentive
face.

"And, sah," Uncle Noah began--it was Christmas Eve and this game must
be perfectly played--"shall I attend to de distribution of gifts in de
negroes' quarters, sah?"

"Yes," agreed the Colonel, "see that no one is slighted!"