‘An’ no one gone, Dan’l.’ ‘Ne’er a wan, Tom, thank God.’ ‘How quirk ’a do hould hisself, to be sure,’ said old Tom Clemmer after a pause, and none doubted who he meant. ‘Ah! an’ how ’a do brisk along still! Another year o’ him by—’tis another blessin’. Here’s to un, wi’ all our love an’ dooty!’ It was a silent toast, but drunk deep. George Artlett’s glass was lighter than any when he set it down. ‘But ’tain’t been allers so,’ old Clemmer went on ruminatively. ‘How many drawin’s ha’ ye seen, Dan’l, boy an’ man?—threescore belike, and I bean’t fur ahent ye. An’ many’s th’ time as summun’s money ha’ laid on th’ table wi’ only widder or poor-box to claim it; an’ he, poor soul, quiet i’ th’ litten-yard up there. Ay! ’tis a lucky drawin’ wi’ nane but livin’ hands to draw.’ Daniel Dray took up the prize-list and scanned it curiously, his white head thrown back, his spectacles straddling the extreme tip of his nose. ‘An’ what,’ said he, ‘will a single man, onmarried, do wi’ a whole gurt turkey-burd? An’ him wi’ never a wife! ’Tis wicked waste, neighbours! Him an’ th’ parrot, they’ll ha’ nought but turkey-meat i’ th’ house from now to Lady-time.’ Stallwood’s beady black eyes disappeared in a wide smile. ‘I knowed a man once,’ he said, ‘out in Utah State in Murriky, ’twur—as got a brace o’ ostriches at a Christmas drawin’; an’ when it come to carvin’ at dinner-time, th’ pore feller, he got no more ’n half a bite fer hisself because—’ He stopped, suddenly recollecting George Artlett’s lustrating presence, ‘Ah! he wur married, I tell ye, an’ never a wured o’ a lie!’ ‘What’ll ’a do wi’ it, Dan’!?’ The old ferryman leant from his corner eagerly, staring at the wall as though he saw there the picture that rose in his mind. ‘What’ll ’a do wi’ it? Jest think on ’t! Nobbut hisself in a quiet kitchen o’ Christmas morning—his boots on, an’ nane to rate un for spannellin’ about—click-clack from the roastin’ jack, an’ tick-tack from th’ clock, an’ a good cuss now an’ agen from th’ ould parrot, but never a wured o’ wimmin’s wrath. Ah, life!—’tis all jest a gurt beef-club drawin’! Some on us draws peace an’ quiet an’ turkey-burds, an’ some draws—’ His lips closed on his pipe-stem with a snap. A commiserate shake of the head went round the company. ‘An’ here,’ went on old Daniel, still conning the prize-list, ‘here be Jack Farley wi’ bare money an’ fower ounces o’ tobacker—him as doan’t smoke, an’ has sixteen i’ family. Lor’, Jack! how that there deuce-ace do foller ye i’ life!’ Jack Farley sat in the draughtiest seat by the door, his invariable modest choice of station. No one had ever seen him without a smile on his emaciated, sun-blackened face; and now he was smiling more determinedly than ever.