Little Enright Peets’ joy is as wide as the territory. Despite reemonstrance, he insists on get-tin’ into that gold-embossed saddle an’ givin’ his little hoss a whirl ‘round the camp. Dan rides along to head off stampedes. On the return, little Enright Peets comes down the street like an arrow an’ pulls up short. As Dave searches him out of the saddle, he says: “Paw, that cayouse could beat four kings an’ a ace.” That’s reward enough; Wolfville is never more pleased than the night it opens up to little Enright Peets the beauties which lies hid in Christmas. An’ the feelin’ that we-all has done this, sort o’ glorifies an’ gilds the profound deebauch that en-soos. Tucson Jennie lays it down that it’s shore the star Christmas, since it’s the one when her lost is found an’ the Fates in the guise of Dan presents her with her boy ag’in. I knows of myse’f, gents, that Jennie is shore moved, for she omits utter to lay for Dave with reproaches when, givin’ way to a gen’rous impulse, he issues forth with the rest of the band, an’ relaxes into a picnic that savors of old days. “My friends,” observed the Jolly Doctor, as we were taking our candles preparatory for bed, the hour having turned towards the late, “I shall think on this as an occasion of good company. And to-morrow evening--for this storm will continue to hold us prisoners--you will find unless better offer, I shall recognize my debt to you by attempting a Christmas story myself. I cannot stir your interest as has our friend of camps and trails with his Wolfville chapter, but I shall do what lies in me.” “You will tell us of some Christmas,” hazarded the Sour Gentleman, “that came beneath your notice as a professional man.” “Oh, no; not that,” returned the Jolly Doctor. “This is rather a story of health and robust strength than any sick-bed tale. It is of gloves and fighting men who never saw a doctor. I shall call it ‘The Pitt Street Stringency.’” It was eight of the clock on the second evening when we gathered about the fire-place. The snow was still falling and roads were reported blocked beyond any thought of passage. We were snowbound; folk who should know declared that if a road were broken for our getting out within a week, it was the best we might look for. No one seemed stricken of grief at this prison prospect. As we came about the cheery blaze, every face was easy and content. The Jolly Doctor joined the Red Nosed Gentleman in his burgundy, while the Sour Gentleman and the Old Cattleman qualified for the occasion with a copious account of whiskey, which the aged man of cows called “Nose-paint.” Sioux Sam and I were the only “abstainers”--I had ceased and he had never commenced--but as if to make up, we smoked a double number of cigars. The Jolly Doctor began with the explanation that the incidents he would relate had fallen beneath his notice when as a student he walked the New York hospitals; then, glass in hand, he told us the tale of The Pitt Street Stringency.