IX


"That's a bargain and here's my hand on it," cried Dick. "Now, what do
you say to letting me be Santa Claus? Come on in and let's look at
John Trimble. He'd make a splendid Job or Jeremiah, but I wouldn't let
him spoil a Christmas festival!"

"Do let Dick take the part, father,"--and Mrs. Todd's tone was most
ingratiating. "John's terrible dull and bashful anyway, an' mebbe he'd
have a pain he couldn't stan' jest when he's givin' out the presents.
An' Dick is always so amusin'."

Deacon Todd led the way into the improvised dressing-room. He had
removed John's gala costume in order to apply the mustard faithfully
and he lay in a crumpled heap in the corner. The plaster itself
adorned a stool near by.

"Now, John! John! That plaster won't do you no good on the stool. It
ain't the stool that needs drawin'; it's your stomach," argued Mrs.
Todd.

"I'm drawed pretty nigh to death a'ready," moaned John. "I'm rore,
that's what I am,--rore! An' I won't be Santa Claus neither. I want to
go home."

"Wrop him up and get him into your sleigh, father, and take him home;
then come right back. Bed's the place for him. Keep that hot
flat-iron on his stomach, if he'd rather have it than the mustard.