fed on poison oak, and et by catamounts 364 days in the year; but on
Christmas Day they insists on enjoyin' the exclusive mortification of
their company. This here young biped, ma'am, is all that washes out of
our two days' manoeuvres."

"Oh, the sweet little boy!" cooed Miss Erma, trailing her De Vere
robes to centre of stage.

"Aw, shut up," said Bobby, with a scowl. "Who's a kid? You ain't, you
bet."

"Fresh brat!" breathed Miss Erma, beneath her enamelled smile.

"We done the best we could," said Trinidad. "It's tough on Cherokee,
but it can't be helped."

Then the door opened and Cherokee entered in the conventional dress of
Saint Nick. A white rippling beard and flowing hair covered his face
almost to his dark and shining eyes. Over his shoulder he carried a
pack.

No one stirred as he came in. Even the Spangler Sisters ceased their
coquettish poses and stared curiously at the tall figure. Bobby stood
with his hands in his pockets gazing gloomily at the effeminate and
childish tree. Cherokee put down his pack and looked wonderingly about
the room. Perhaps he fancied that a bevy of eager children were being
herded somewhere, to be loosed upon his entrance. He went up to Bobby
and extended his red-mittened hand.

"Merry Christmas, little boy," said Cherokee. "Anything on the tree