Bert grinned. “That’s where Mom’s hoarding her presents,” he explained to Richard Holt. “She doesn’t trust us.”
“I have my reasons,” Mom assured him as she departed.
Sandy washed, Ken dried, and Bert stacked the dishes in their places in the cupboard. Pop and Ken’s father stood on the side lines to give what Pop called their “invaluable advice.” Within half an hour the job was done.
As Ken flipped his dish towel over the rack, he said, “Do you want some paper and ribbon and stuff for wrapping up those packages you brought, Dad? We’ve got plenty.”
“Fine,” his father said. “I was just thinking they didn’t look very festive in the old newspapers I’ve got wadded around them.”
Pop took his pipe out of his mouth. “You know, Dick, we Allens follow the custom of opening presents on Christmas Eve. Hope this isn’t opposed to your own tradition.”
“It suits me fine.” Mr. Holt smiled. “Means we can sleep later on Christmas morning—and work up more strength for the turkey.”
Ken brought out the cardboard box of wrappings he had found in a closet. “Want me to bring the packages down from your room, Dad?” he asked, with a great show of innocence.
“Not on your life,” his father told him. “You can just wait until tomorrow night to see what’s in them.” He started for the stairs himself.
“I’ll give you a hand,” Bert offered, when Richard Holt had returned with the packages.