Back to the Golden North hurried the men, bearing their booty in their arms. Depositing it upon the bar, MacShane mounted beside it. “Now girls, it’s up to you! Those that’s handy with needles get busy an’ make up a dozen or so of dolls. An’ rip up these here silk skirts an’ make clothes for ’em. An’ then make some socks an’ bags out of what’s left to hold the candy. A couple of you cook up a batch of candy--here’s sugar an’ chocolate. That’ll keep you all busy. Here you Sourdoughs--some of you borrow needles an’ thread from the girls an’ string these here cranberries. The rest of us has got to whittle out circles, an stars, an’ horses, an’ dogs, an’ men, an’ we’ll dip ’em in paint an’ hang ’em on the tree. They won’t be fit to handle tomorrow, but they’ll shine up bright! Come on up, now--one more drink, an’ we’ll all fly at it. When we git the tree rigged, we’ll go ahead an’ dance till daylight. After that there’s nothin’ goes on here till noon, except it’s for the kids.” Laughing and talking, they crowded the bar, and MacShane who had leaped to the floor, motioned to Horse Face. “Come here an’ open your sack,” he said. Whereupon MacShane shook some coarse gold from his own sack into the other. “You’re on shift tomorrow mornin’ to play tunes for the kids,” he commanded, “an’ make her talk, Horse Face, make her talk!” The men returned with the Christmas tree which was soon braced and wired into place at one end of the dance hall. The dancing girls brought their sewing materials down stairs. Someone rustled a big pine packing case which was promptly knocked to pieces, and the boards distributed among the men, who got out their knives and proceeded to whittle grotesques shapes of men and fearsome beasts, of stars, and crescents, and circles, and hearts, which were fantastically painted and hung, by bits of cord, upon the tree. Cranberries were strung in long ropes that festooned the tree in loops and graceful curves of gleaming red. And the dolls! There were dolls made and dressed that night that would have done credit to an artist, and there were dolls as ugly and distorted as the lines of a heathen god. But the spirit of Christmas was there. Men and women did their best, and laughter reigned supreme. At the piano Horse Face Joe’s untiring fingers swept the keys in crashing volumes of sound that roared and reverberated through the room like volleys of mountain thunder, to sink suddenly into the softest murmurs. Little tinkles and trills of purest melody would almost imperceptibly swell into rich chords and dreamy soul-gripping strains that momentarily stilled the laughter so that men and women, with pressed lips, fixed their eyes upon their work, or lifting them, stared long at blank walls. The mood would change and a galloping, romping air would suddenly crash forth to run its course and blend into the solemn strains of some half forgotten hymn. It was Horse Face Joe’s inspired night. Never before had the like been heard, and never