But Pete pushed back the chess board, and began to place the men into the box. One by one he lifted them tenderly from the table, and when the last had been safely deposited, he rose to his feet, and standing with his back to the fire, faced his companions. This was his favorite attitude when he wished to express himself most freely. He glanced around the room with a feeling of pride, as a commanding officer might look upon a little squad he was about to lead into action.
"B'ys," he began, cutting a chew from a plug of tobacco, "d'yez know what night this is?"
The men looked up, but said nothing. There was no need for any reply. They knew him well. It was only Pete's manner of beginning something he wished to say. On this occasion, however, they detected a new note in his voice, and a yearning, far-away expression in his eyes, as he stood before them.
"It's Christmas Eve," he continued, rolling the wad of tobacco in his cheek, "an' this is the seventh we've met together. Somehow I feel it'll be the last, fer mighty changes are about to take place. There'll be so many of them green-eyed gold grabbers in here that our job'll be gone. They'll snook into every corner, an' what'll be left fer us? I ain't as young as I uster be, and mebbe—oh, well, it's no use lookin' too fer ahead, but any way I'd like this Christmas Eve to be sorter special, jist to remind me of old times.
"Sixty an' five years, remember, have rolled over this gray head of mine, an' the older I git, the stronger some things come back. When I think of the time when my father an' mother, God bless 'em, uster take me with'm to the leetle parish church way back in New Brunswick, a lump comes inter my throat, an' a feelin' creeps over me that I can't jist describe. I'd give all I possess to be thar agin, lads, dressed in my leetle white frock, an' to hear the bees hummin', an' the birds singin' in the flowers an' trees outside, jinin' in, so I uster think, with the choir. But it was Christmas Day I liked best of all, fer then the church looked so purty with the fresh evergreens; the singin' was so hearty, an' everybody was so happy. Then, some special friends allus come home to dinner with us, an' after that we had games an' singin'. Ah, no, I can't fergit sich days, an'——"
Suddenly Pete paused, and his bronzed face flushed. "Fergive me, lads," he cried; "fergive me! I didn't mean t'bother yeze with all this nonsense, I wanted t' tell somethin' else, but my old tongue got away with me."
There was no need of an apology in that room. The fire in the old sheet-iron stove was the only sound heard in reply, as the flames roared up the six joints of pipe, peppered with countless numbers of holes. Pete's companions, too, were drifting, and for a time nothing was said, as they pulled steadily at their pipes. They were reticent men, these hardy wanderers, and living so much alone, their words were few. But Pete's little speech expressed their own feelings, and visions of the mistletoe, holly, and evergreens, of the big, open, fireplace, with its great log, surrounded by happy, familiar faces, floated before their minds. To one, at least, arose the picture of a little home as he had planned it, with a fair companion to share his joys and sorrows. Forty years had passed since he first rejoiced in that dream—forty years, and now she was a grandmother. But to Pete she had always remained young, the same fair face, lithesome figure, and charm of youth.
Presently he aroused from his reverie, and, going to the corner of the cabin, brought forth a quaint bundle, and laid it upon the table.
"Hello! what's that?" questioned Andy Dickson, between the deliberate puffs of his pipe.
But Pete did not reply, until he had carefully unwrapped an old blanket, and held up before the astonished men a handsome violin.