MacShane was looking off across the dance hall. “A little kid!” he muttered, “Well, what do you know about that?” “She’s eleven,” informed Gordon, “An’ she can handle a canoe, or a team of dogs like a man. Good night, boys, I’m goin’ home. See ye tomorrow.” CHAPTER III CHRISTMAS When the door had closed behind Gordon, MacShane drank with the others, and when the glasses were returned to the bar, he asked: “How many more kids is there here in camp?” “No white ones, except Gordon’s,” informed Camillo Bill, “There’s a bunch of Siwashes, mebbe a dozen or two, countin’ the ones in the camp about four miles down river.” “White ones or red, it’s all the same,” answered MacShane, “What’s the matter with this camp? Where’s yer Christmas tree? Yer all dead four ways from yer belt! All you’re thinkin’ about Christmas is to get a bellyful of hootch an’ raise hell! Christmas is, first and foremost, for kids!” He vaulted lightly onto the bar and roared for attention. The card players paused and the dancers stopped in the middle of a waltz. “Come up here, you all!” he called, “An’ get you an earful!” The crowd surged about the bar, for when MacShane had words to say, it was worth their while to listen. He stood looking down into the upturned faces, some laughing, others waiting in eager expectancy for what was coming. For MacShane was not given to theatricals. Had anyone else mounted the bar the act would have received no more than passing notice. But MacShane--. He walked the length of the board, his moccasins leaving tracks upon the polished mahogany. “Tomorrow’s Christmas,” he began. “There’s kids in this camp! Real, regular kids--one white one an’ a lot of Siwashes! What are we goin’ to do about it? Come on, speak up! Are you goin’ to let Christmas pass ’em by like any other day? Not by a damn sight you ain’t! This here camp’s got to start right! This is its first Christmas, an’ she’s goin’ to be a regular Christmas!” Here and there in the crowd men voiced approval. “Now you’re talkin’, MacShane!” cried a girl, in a low cut gown of red silk. “Tell us what to do!” “A Christmas tree!” suggested some one. “What would we put on it?” yelled another, and a babel of voices broke out, hurling questions and answers. MacShane held up his hand for silence: “Where’s McCarty?” he asked. “Right here!” “McCarty, tomorrow mornin’ this dump ain’t a saloon. It’s a town meetin’ house, an’ there’ll be a Christmas tree in the dance hall for kids! We’ll start in at ten, an’ we’ll be through by noon, an’ after that we’ll hit the high spots! How about it?” McCarty caught the spirit: “She’s yours!” he cried. “Go to it!” “So far, so good!” cried MacShane, “An’ now for the program: Who’ll go out an’ get a tree?”