A chorus of protesting voices interrupted further reminiscences. “Shut up, will yer?” “T’row him out, some one.” “You’ve no call to make our mouths water so.”
“A pudden,” a thin-faced man said dreamily as the din subsided, “I never seed its like. An’ a-fire, you say. What was thet fer?”
“Why, fer the celebration, ijit.”
“Begorra,” another voice broke in, “I’d like to live in the counthry where they’ve the crayther to burn. Did it smell good?”
“Smell good?” again the young fellow laughed. “’Twas better than a gardin full o’ roses when the wind blows soft an’ warm over ’em; ’twas finer an’ more penatratin’ than the o-dick-alone the tenderfoots parfume themselves with. An’ there was the sarse besides, with a dash o’ rum in it to make it slip down easier.”
“Sarse!” The ejaculation was a groan. “My things come plain.”
“Thet’s about the size o’ it fer ev’ry mother’s son of us,” some one began philosophically, then in helpless rage at the turn affairs had taken he finished with a wail: “Hang thet Terry O’Connor. He’d oughter remembered tomorrer’s Christmas—”
“Christmas is like any other day to us,” an elderly chopper interposed grimly. “It’s only meant fer the kids.”
A man near the fire stirred restlessly.
“Back there,” he said, with a sweep of his thumb, “they hang up the stockin’s all in a row—six of ’em!—an’ my woman makes shift to fill ’em, too—”