The shavings flew. The clock ticked loudly in the quiet. Outside a winter blizzard was sweeping in white fury from the hills. Stump crouched silently in a corner, his head upon his paws. And Abner Sawyer, returning to his work in helpless indecision, felt his privacy and his dignity forever compromised by a boy and a dog. He knew of course that a small boy, scantily clad, should not be planing furiously on the bench beside him at midnight with a sociable gleam in his eye--yet--something--a terrible conviction perhaps that if he spoke at all his voice would be hoarse and uncertain and his poise threatened by the paralyzing sense of apology which welled strangely up within him in Jimsy's presence, tied his tongue. The minutes ticked loudly on and the shavings flew.... And Jimsy would misinterpret whatever he said in terms of sentimentality. He always did.... The clock struck one.... Abner Sawyer rose. [Illustration] "James--Jimsy," he said, and his voice was hoarse and uncertain as he knew it would be, "you must go to bed." Jimsy looked up sympathetically. "Got a cold?" "No." "Frog in your throat?" "No." Jimsy resigned his plane with a sigh. "Golly," he laughed, "we'd catch it, wouldn't we--me and you--if Aunt Judith knew!" Then he glanced at Stump and said nothing at all. And quite suddenly conscience told Abner Sawyer that he could not accept without giving. Jimsy had helped him willingly and he had accepted--why he could not for the life of him remember, save that it had something to do with his throat and his poise. It did entail obligation of a sort, however, and he was a just man. Abner Sawyer did not look at Stump. He blew out the light. In silence the two passed out and closed the door. The episodic irregularities of the evening beginning with the Lindon _Evening News_ had reached unheard of climax. A mongrel dog was asleep in the warmth of the sanctum. Abner Sawyer had a strangling sense of another link to his biscuit-riven chain and passed his hand over his forehead in a dazed and weary way. "Abner," said Aunt Judith nervously at breakfast, "you--you don't think this once we--could have--a--a Christmas tree for Jimsy?" [Illustration] "Certainly not!" said Mr. Sawyer coldly. Aunt Judith's hand trembled a little as she poured the coffee and the first citizen waited so long for her usual reply that he thought impatiently it would never come. It came at last--quietly. [Illustration] "Just as you--say, Abner." But the final word was lost in an outraged yell from somewhere near the woodpile. "It--it must be Jimsy," said Aunt Judith hurriedly. "He--he was up so early I gave him his breakfast. He's shoveling the snow from the walks--"