“You wait,” said Baldy; “I’m comin’ to that. Cherokee strikes a three-foot vein up in the Mariposas that assays a trip to Europe to the ton, and he closes it out to a syndicate outfit for a hundred thousand hasty dollars in cash. Then he buys himself a baby sealskin overcoat and a red sleigh, and what do you think he takes it in his head to do next?” “Chuck-a-luck,” said Texas, whose ideas of recreation were the gamester’s. “Come and Kiss Me, Ma Honey,” sang Shorty, who carried tintypes in his pocket and wore a red necktie while working on his claim. “Bought a saloon?” suggested Thirsty Rogers. “Cherokee took me to a room,” continued Baldy, “and showed me. He’s got that room full of drums and dolls and skates and bags of candy and jumping-jacks and toy lambs and whistles and such infantile truck. And what do you think he’s goin’ to do with them inefficacious knick-knacks? Don’t surmise none—Cherokee told me. He’s goin’ to lead ’em up in his red sleigh and—wait a minute, don’t order no drinks yet— he’s goin’ to drive down here to Yellowhammer and give the kids—the kids of this here town—the biggest Christmas tree and the biggest cryin’ doll and Little Giant Boys’ Tool Chest blowout that was ever seen west of the Cape Hatteras.” Two minutes of absolute silence ticked away in the wake of Baldy’s words. It was broken by the House, who, happily conceiving the moment to be ripe for extending hospitality, sent a dozen whisky glasses spinning down the bar, with the slower travelling bottle bringing up the rear. “Didn’t you tell him?” asked the miner called Trinidad. “Well, no,” answered Baldy, pensively; “I never exactly seen my way to. “You see, Cherokee had this Christmas mess already bought and paid for; and he was all flattered up with self-esteem over his idea; and we had in a way flew the flume with that fizzy wine I speak of; so I never let on.” “I cannot refrain from a certain amount of surprise,” said the Judge, as he hung his ivory-handled cane on the bar, “that our friend Cherokee should possess such an erroneous conception of—ah—his, as it were, own town.” “Oh, it ain’t the eighth wonder of the terrestrial world,” said Baldy. “Cherokee’s been gone from Yellowhammer over seven months. Lots of things could happen in that time. How’s he to know that there ain’t a single kid in this town, and so far as emigration is concerned, none expected?” “Come to think of it,” remarked California Ed, “it’s funny some ain’t drifted in. Town ain’t settled enough yet for to bring in the rubber-ring brigade, I reckon.”