“Our little band of strikers,” murmured Mr. Bugbee. He hurried to the mantel, plucked something from it, then leaped nimbly thence to a front window and crouched behind its curtains, his posture tense. “Here’s where I also join the last-straw club,” said Mr. Bugbee softly to nobody in particular.
Once again the unseen troubadours essayed the opening measures of their serenade:
“Hark-k the herald angels sing,
Glor-y to the new-born king,
Peace on earth—”
Mr. Bugbee snatched a sash up and made a movement as of hurling a heavy object into the drizzling night. It was a heavy object, too, judging by the yelp of pain which followed its outward flight. “I’ll peace-on-earth you!” he said, closing the window.
A confusion of noises betokening a retreat died away in the distance.
“Did you throw something?” asked Mrs. Bugbee.
“I did,” said Mr. Bugbee. “What’s more, I hit something—something in the nature of a solid ivory dome. My darling, congratulate me not only on my accuracy but on my choice of a missile. I am pleased to inform you that I have just beaned the inspired leader of your coterie of private Christmas choristers with a heavy plaster image of dear old Santa Claus.... Let me have a look at this schedule.... Ah, here it is. We can catch a through train at ten-five and—by Jove, look, that’s luck!—it will put us into Grand Central in ample time to make the Baxters’ Christmas party.”
“But we’ve nothing to go in—it’s fancy dress. I told you that five minutes ago,” protested Mrs. Bugbee.
“Don’t worry,” said Mr. Bugbee. “We’ll go just as we are—as a couple of All-Day Suckers!”