To keep Christ out and Christmas in?
He had set his words to the tune of “Immortal Babe who this dear day,” and you may question, if you are purists, a cockney rhyme or two; and you may question, if you are Pharisees, his methods. Well, all I can tell you is that women wiped their eyes over the homely theme, and that our Christmas was the sweeter for the lesson it taught.
At the end Mr. Sant jumped up, and taking his rod, pointed to the first object on the screen.
“Now, then!” sniggered Harry, kneading his hands between his knees.
There followed a pause and a general stir, rippled through with a little undercurrent of laughter.
“Go on!” whispered Harry, nudging me.
“Oyster!” I sung out.
Mr. Sant caught sight of us, and nodded and laughed.
“Thank you, Mr. Bowen,” said he. “No, it’s not an oyster!” and he sat down and began trolling out a new carol.
The little ex-bookseller shifted; blushed faintly, I do believe, and turned to me.