more than a score of children, stood in the centre of the floor. Near sunset anxious eyes had begun to scan the street for the returning team of the child-providers. At noon that day Cherokee had dashed into town with his new sleigh piled high with bundles and boxes and bales of all sizes and shapes. So intent was he upon the arrangements for his altruistic plans that the dearth of childhood did not receive his notice. No one gave away the humiliating state of Yellowhammer, for the efforts of Trinidad and the Judge were expected to supply the deficiency.
When the sun went down Cherokee, with many winks and arch grins on his seasoned face, went into retirement with the bundle containing the Santa Claus raiment and a pack containing special and undisclosed gifts.
“When the kids are rounded up,” he instructed the volunteer arrangement committee, “light up the candles on the tree and set ’em to playin’ ‘Pussy Wants a Corner’ and ‘King William.’ When they get good and at it, why—old Santa’ll slide in the door. I reckon there’ll be plenty of gifts to go ’round.”
The ladies were flitting about the tree, giving it final touches that were never final. The Spangled Sisters were there in costume as Lady Violet de Vere and Marie, the maid, in their new drama, “The Miner’s Bride.” The theatre did not open until nine, and they were welcome assistants of the Christmas tree committee. Every minute heads would pop out the
