Then the cook came out and beat a tattoo on the bottom of a dish-pan.
Baptiste answered with a yell: but though keenly hungry, no man would
demean himself to do other than walk with apparent reluctance to his
place at the table. At the further end of the camp was a big fireplace,
and from the door to the fireplace extended the long board tables,
covered with platters of turkey not too scientifically carved, dishes
of potatoes, bowls of apple sauce, plates of butter, pies, and smaller
dishes distributed at regular intervals. Two lanterns hanging from the
roof, and a row of candles stuck into the wall on either side by means
of slit sticks, cast a dim, weird light over the scene.

There was a moment's silence, and at a nod from Graeme Mr. Craig rose
and said, 'I don't know how you feel about it, men, but to me this looks
good enough to be thankful for.'

'Fire ahead, sir,' called out a voice quite respectfully, and the
minister bent his head and said-- 'For Christ the Lord who came to save
us, for all the love and goodness we have known, and for these Thy gifts
to us this Christmas night, our Father, make us thankful. Amen.'

'Bon, dat's fuss rate,' said Baptiste. 'Seems lak dat's make me hit
(eat) more better for sure,' and then no word was spoken for quarter of
an hour. The occasion was far too solemn and moments too precious for
anything so empty as words. But when the white piles of bread and the
brown piles of turkey had for a second time vanished, and after the
last pie had disappeared, there came a pause and hush of expectancy,
whereupon the cook and cookee, each bearing aloft a huge, blazing
pudding, came forth.

'Hooray!' yelled Blaney, 'up wid yez!' and grabbing the cook by the