“From Dave likewise,” said the old man. “And I be dum’ giggered if here ain’t”—he fumbled in the pockets—“a pair of buckskin mitts. Wal, I commence to feel like a walkin’ Christmas tree a’ready.”
“And they’s anuther,” said Jim, eager that the last parcel should not be overlooked.
Avery glanced at the address, held the bundle away from him, then laid it on his knee. “Wal, I ain’t a-goin’ to open thet one to-night.”
Cameron’s face expressed a keen disappointment that was out of keeping with his unusual self-restraint.
“You might open it, Jim, seein’ as it’s addressed to you.”
With studied indifference the teamster untied the string and calmly opened the package. “What’s thet?” he asked, handing a card to Swickey.
“Why, it’s l-i-n-g-e-r-i-e, lingerie,” she replied, with a puzzled expression.
Curious Jim’s countenance expressed modulated scorn for her apparent ignorance. “Now, you spelled it right, but you ain’t said it right,” he remarked sagely. “Thet’s’ loungeree,’ meanin’ shirts and things mostly for wimmen. I was some worried ’bout that word for a spell, and so I ast the school-mam to Tramworth, and she did some blushin’ and tole me. And sure enough it’s shirts,” he exclaimed, taking two heavy flannel garments from the package; “fur me, I reckon by the size. And here’s another leetle bundle fur Jessie and one for the missus. And a pipe.” This latter Cameron examined closely. “Silver trimmin’s, amber stem, and real French brier—and I carried thet clean from Tramworth and never knowed it!”
He immediately whittled a palmful of tobacco and filled the pipe, lighted it with great deliberation and much action of the elbow, and sat back puffing clouds of smoke toward the ceiling.
“Now, who’s putting on style?” said Swickey, and they all laughed.