"I wish it was night," she said. "I hate Christmas afternoon! Mother
is asleep; it's too early for callers. I believe I'll go down to
the Cabbage Patch."

Aunt Chloe stuck out her lip and rolled her eyes in deprecation.

"Don' you do it, honey. What you wanter be foolin' 'round wif dat
po' white trash fer? Why don' you set heah by de fiah an' bleach yer
han's fer de party to-might?"

"Bother the old party!" said Lucy, impatiently. She had begun
disobeying Aunt Chloe when she was a very little girl.

Fifteen minutes later she was tramping through the snow, her cheeks
glowing and her spirits rising. The Wiggses, while always
interesting, had of late acquired a new significance. Since seeing
them in the theater lobby with Robert Redding she had found it
necessary to make several visits to the Cabbage Patch, and the chief
topic of conversation had been Mr. Bob: how he had taken them to the
show; had made Billy his office-boy; had sent them a barrel of
apples, and was coming to see them some day. To which deluge of
information Lucy had listened with outward calmness and inward
thrills.

To-day, as she entered the Wiggses' gate a shout greeted her. Billy
let himself down from the chicken-coop roof, and ran forward.

"Them Roman candles wasn't no good!" he cried. "One of 'em busted
too soon, and 'most blowed my hand off."