"Merry Christmas, Jack," called a voice as Jack was rounding the saloon corner; "come on in and have one."
"Guess I'd better get home," was the hesitating reply. It needed little persuasion, however, to get Jack inside, and after a second treat he lost all anxiety to reach home, and was ready for a night's debauch.
During the tea-hour the bar patrons became fewer, and Jack's chances for further drinks were far apart. In response to a request to "chalk up a couple of whiskeys," he received an emphatic "not on your life" from the bar-tender.
There was a momentary conflict within Jack, and then the beast became lord over the man. Going to the corner he brought his parcel from the bench and placed it on the bar. "How much can I draw on for that?" There was a wild determination in the voice. Unwrapping the parcel beneath the bar, the bar-tender at once knew what the contents meant.
"I don't want 'em, Jack: you better get home to your kids." But Jack was insistent, and gradually the other weakened. "Well, it's your property, and if you're going to sell 'em I guess I may as well buy 'em as anybody else. I'll chalk you fifty cents." The articles were worth three times the amount offered, but Jack was being consumed with that hellish thirst that he had developed through many years, and he at once started to use up his credit.
A mile away an anxious wife awaited Jack's return. Cheerfully she had gone about her work until the hour for the evening meal, but with the passing moments the husband's absence caused her fears to increase.
With forced smiles she did her best to bring into the home the gladness that belongs to Christmas Eve, but the heart was heavy, and the little ones saw now and again the tears that could not be suppressed.
Bedtime was prolonged to two hours beyond the customary time, but still there was no sign of the father. Once the mother expressed the fears that were in her heart when she suggested that sometimes Santa Claus did not get to homes when the father was away, at which suggestion there were tearful little eyes and oft-expressed wishes that "daddy" would come home. Bravely the mother gathered the three children around her chair for their good-night sing. Favourite hymns of the Sabbath School were sung, and all the time four pairs of ears were alert for the sound of Jack's return.
It was while Grace's favourite hymn, "I am so glad that our Father in Heaven," was being sung, that footsteps were heard at the door. Instantly the little ones ceased their singing, as Grace joyously shouted, "It's daddy; Santa Claus will come now, won't he, mother?"
For a minute or two before Grace's glad shout two men had stood an the darkness outside the Roande home. After he had been turned out of the "Kelby House," Jack had staggered and stumbled around the streets for some time, and at last lay prostrate in the snow not far from the home of one who had often befriended him. A woman hurrying along the street suddenly saw the dark form on the snow, and with a cry of fear ran to the near-by house. The minister who resided there, at once recognizing poor Jack, dragged him into the house, and after securing a neighbour's sleigh and a driver, started for Jack's home.