"Better rub a little furder down. Wot's Chrismiss, anyway? Wot's it all
about?"

"O, it's a day."

This exhaustive definition was apparently satisfactory, for there was a
silent interval of rubbing. Presently Johnny again:

"Mar sez that everywhere else but yer everybody gives things to
everybody Chrismiss, and then she jist waded inter you. She sez thar's
a man they call Sandy Claws, not a white man, you know, but a kind o'
Chinemin, comes down the chimbley night afore Chrismiss and gives things
to chillern,--boys like me. Puts 'em in their butes! Thet's what she
tried to play upon me. Easy now, pop, whar are you rubbin' to,--thet's
a mile from the place. She jest made that up, didn't she, jest to
aggrewate me and you? Don't rub thar. . . . Why, dad!"

In the great quiet that seemed to have fallen upon the house the sigh
of the near pines and the drip of leaves without was very distinct.
Johnny's voice, too, was lowered as he went on, "Don't you take on now,
fur I'm gettin' all right fast. Wot's the boys doin' out thar?"

The Old Man partly opened the door and peered through. His guests were
sitting there sociably enough, and there were a few silver coins and a
lean buckskin purse on the table. "Bettin' on suthin,--some little game
or 'nother. They're all right," he replied to Johnny, and recommenced
his rubbing.

"I'd like to take a hand and win some money," said Johnny, reflectively,
after a pause.