"I have just corrupted the noble soul of the only truly unselfish individual we have met to date in these mountains. I might add that corruption comes high hereabouts. City prices prevail." He took her in his arms and kissed her. "Let us now give thanks for deliverance from a great peril. We ought to do more than just give thanks. How about a little Christmas gift from each to the other?" "But we decided that this year we'd spend that money up here." She winced. "Circumstances warrant a redecision. Besides, I'm thinking of useful presents--presents which will bring joy to both of us. A couple of those lovely light green railroad tickets back to New York! You give me one; I'll give you one." "Oh, Clem!" She hugged him. "Oh, Felice!" He hugged her. "Where's that time-table? I saw a folder around here the other day. If we caught a morning train out of the junction tomorrow we might get in in time for the Baxters' party tomorrow night. Everybody we know--and like--will be there." "But you know it's a costume party--fancy dress. And we haven't any costumes." Airily he gestured away her quavering objections. "Say, do you know one thing?" he said. "This place is incomplete. It needs a motto. If I had time to spare I'd write one out and stick it up as a souvenir of our visit. I'd write on it the words 'E Pluribus Your'n,' meaning: 'It's all for you, dear Rousseau, the Bugbees have had enough.'... Now then, if I could just find that time card? Oh, there it is, yonder behind the clock. We can put in the rest of the night packing, and bright and early tomor--" He broke off, listening. From without came the advancing sound of slushy foot-treads in a considerable number. The tramping drew nearer and ended just outside. Masculine voices were uplifted in song: "Hark-k, the herald angels sing, Glor-y to the--" "That ain't right--wrong key!" they heard a dominating voice cutting in to check the vocal flow. "Git set fur a fresh start." "My Christmas minstrels," said Mrs. Bugbee. "Our little band of strikers," murmured Mr. Bugbee. He hurried to the mantel, plucked something from it, then leaped nimbly thence to a front window and crouched behind its curtains, his posture tense. "Here's where I also join the last-straw club," said Mr. Bugbee softly to nobody in particular. Once again the unseen troubadours essayed the opening measures of their serenade: "Hark-k the herald angels sing, Glor-y to the new-born king, Peace on earth--" Mr. Bugbee snatched a sash up and made a movement as of hurling a heavy object into the drizzling night. It was a heavy object, too, judging by the yelp of pain which followed its outward flight. "I'll peace-on-earth you!" he said, closing the window. A confusion of noises betokening a retreat died away in the distance. "Did you throw something?" asked Mrs. Bugbee.