The Old Man arose hurriedly and disappeared in the closet. Presently he reappeared. “His rheumatiz is coming on agin bad,” he explained, “and he wants rubbin'.” He lifted the demijohn of whiskey from the table and shook it. It was empty. Dick Bullen put down his tin cup with an embarrassed laugh. So did the others. The Old Man examined their contents and said hopefully, “I reckon that's enough; he don't need much. You hold on all o' you for a spell, and I'll be back”; and vanished in the closet with an old flannel shirt and the whiskey. The door closed but imperfectly, and the following dialogue was distinctly audible:-- “Now, Sonny, whar does she ache worst?” “Sometimes over yar and sometimes under yer; but it's most powerful from yer to yer. Rub yer, dad.” A silence seemed to indicate a brisk rubbing. Then Johnny: “Hevin' a good time out yer, dad?” “Yes, sonny.” “To-morrer's Chrismiss, ain't it?” “Yes, Sonny. How does she feel now?” “Better rub a little furder down. Wot's Chrismiss, anyway? Wot's it all about?” “O, it's a day.” This exhaustive definition was apparently satisfactory, for there was a silent interval of rubbing. Presently Johnny again: “Mar sez that everywhere else but yer everybody gives things to everybody Chrismiss, and then she jist waded inter you. She sez thar's a man they call Sandy Claws, not a white man, you know, but a kind o' Chinemin, comes down the chimbley night afore Chrismiss and gives things to chillern,--boys like me. Puts 'em in their butes! Thet's what she tried to play upon me. Easy now, pop, whar are you rubbin' to,--thet's a mile from the place. She jest made that up, didn't she, jest to aggrewate me and you? Don't rub thar. . . . Why, dad!” In the great quiet that seemed to have fallen upon the house the sigh of the near pines and the drip of leaves without was very distinct. Johnny's voice, too, was lowered as he went on, “Don't you take on now, fur I'm gettin' all right fast. Wot's the boys doin' out thar?” The Old Man partly opened the door and peered through. His guests were sitting there sociably enough, and there were a few silver coins and a lean buckskin purse on the table. “Bettin' on suthin,--some little game or 'nother. They're all right,” he replied to Johnny, and recommenced his rubbing. “I'd like to take a hand and win some money,” said Johnny, reflectively, after a pause. The Old Man glibly repeated what was evidently a familiar formula, that if Johnny would wait until he struck it rich in the tunnel he'd have lots of money, etc., etc. “Yes,” said Johnny, “but you don't. And whether you strike it or I win it, it's about the same. It's all luck. But it's mighty cur'o's about Chrismiss,--ain't it? Why do they call it Chrismiss?” Perhaps from some instinctive deference to the overhearing of his guests, or from some vague sense of incongruity, the Old Man's reply was so low as to be inaudible beyond the room.