“No!” he cried disdainfully, as if he had years ago lost interest in small game, “it’s old Sandy Claus! Cap’n Wiley says he’s got a den somewheres up on the Bald. He’s been down to the Pistopals’ meetin’-house and left ’em a whole pack of things and they’re a-goin’ to hang every last one of ’em on to a tree; and a-Chrisamus all the Pistopal girls and boys is goin’ to pick ’em off for keeps. But he ain’t left nary thing for the Methdises, or the Presaterians or the Red-Baptises or the Yaller-Baptises. Don’t you reckon that’s a low-down trick, gran’daddy? He was down yer last night agin with another pack o’ things for ’em and he come afoot this time for me and Dixie’s tracked him; we’ve done follered his tracks to the ford but we can’t strike his trail on t’other side. Git out, gran’daddy, and help us!” “Yaas, Grover Cleveland, granddad’ll shore do what he kin for you,” the old man kept a serious face and began a clumsy descent, “but what you aim to do when you come on to him? You aim to clean him out?” “No, I ain’t goin’ to tech nary thing ’thout he tells me; but I aim to let on to him that the Red-Baptises and the Yaller-Baptises and the Presaterians is jes’ as good as the Pistopals; and the Methdises is a heap better’n any of ’em (you and me is Methdises, ain’t we gran’daddy?) and I don’t guess he’ll think I’m a storyin’; do you gran’daddy?” “Not if he’s as knowin’ as I take him to be, he won’t.” Gran’daddy mounted the footlog and steadied himself by the hand rail as he crossed, while boy and dog scampered like squirrels ahead of him. On the other side he pretended to identify every print the boy discovered as track of deer, coon, bear, or catamount; there was nothing indefinite that might stand for a possible Santa Claus. “He must have waded a right smart,” there was a disappointed quiver in the shrill treble, “so’s to throw us off the track; you reckon he kept to the branch as far up as the mill, gran’daddy?” “It looks right much like he’s just criss-crossed first one side the branch and then t’other; anyway he’s got the sleight of coverin’ up his tracks. I reckon we’ll have to give it up, Grover Cleveland. Gran’daddy’s powerful rushed for time to-day.” The old man recrossed the log, got into the wagon, and started on his jogging way, the boy a quiet, drooping little figure beside him. “That’s a mighty low-down trick in Old Sandy Claus to take and leave you out, Grover Cleveland. Them Pistopals is the no-countest critters to be found in these yer mountings.” “If I was the boss of all the meetin’-houses I wouldn’t have any but jes’ one, so’s Old Sandy Claus ’ud have to do ’em all alike,” the treble weakened and the boy gazed off into the woods with suspicious intensity.