“Come, help me tie up my presents,” he cried. “I haven’t them near ready. You come, too, Connie. Phil can amuse himself by tying them on the tree as we get them done. He is so tall we won’t need a stepladder. Reed Marshall and I trimmed the tree last night. Know Reed? Nice boy. He went out a while ago, but he’ll be back; said he had to go, though I did expect he would help me with these things.”
They all fell to work, and by the time the first guest arrived the last package was tied on the tree. Then the company trooped in, singly, in couples, and in groups till the big studio was gay with bright costumes and lively with chatter.
The fun began when Mr. Barstow mounted the model stand and started to dance an Irish jig, which he did with great agility. Then Mr. Austin’s tall form made its way through the crowd, and, standing by the dancer, this man with the dreamy eyes and solemn face sang an absurd Irish song which nobody could possibly have suspected him of being able to do. The performance brought forth shouts of laughter and wild applause.
Scarcely had these two performers stepped down than some one dashed into the room, turned a handspring upon the model stand, then stood grinning at the company and rolling his eyes comically. He was blackened up and wore the exaggerated dress of a negro minstrel. Presently he burst out into a weird melody with fanciful words and peculiar rhythm; this he followed with a double shuffle. It was all so cleverly done that some could scarce believe it was not a veritable negro before them.
“Where did you get him? Is he a real darkey?” some one asked Mr. Barstow.
“Get him? I didn’t get him; he came. It is that rascal, Reed Marshall. He insisted that he must go when I wanted him to stay. Now I see what he was up to. He said he’d come back and help; he’s doing it. Go to it, boy,” he called out. “Give us a buck and wing. Keep it up.” The order was obeyed, the youth showing such a knowledge of his steps that the applause was loud and long. As soon as it was over the young man made his way to where Mr. Barstow stood with Ellen.
“Well, Uncle Pete,” he said, “I told you I’d be back to help, and here I am. Did I put it over all right?”
“You sure did, son,” returned Mr. Barstow, smiling. “Come here, Reed; I want to present you to Miss Ellen North. She is the daughter of one of my old cronies, just as you are the son of another. Now make yourself agreeable to Ellen while I go hunt up Steve Kendall; he is going to play Santa Claus. You may not recognize Reed when you meet him again, Ellen, but that’s no matter. His get-up doesn’t affect his character at all, nor go so far as to color his speech.”
He went off, and the young man sat down by Ellen on the divan. He looked at her with a smile that resembled a grin because of the dark surroundings of his white teeth.
“We should be friends because we are both children of cronies; you are a cronette and I am a cronine. I shall call you Cronette, henceforth. Isn’t Uncle Pete the jolly little playmate? Have you known him long?”