"Still—you realize the—ah—situation, Jack," I put in.
"Well," said he, with a laugh, "Christmas is coming, and when the fever is on—I—well, I catch it. I want to give, give, give, and give I shall."
"But you are imperilling—" I cried.
"I know, I know," he interrupted, gently. "God knows I know, but it is the fever of the hour. You can't stave off an epidemic. It's not my fault; it's the fault of the times."
"Nonsense," I retorted. "Can't you stand up against the times?"
"I can," said he, complacently lighting a cigar. "But I sha'n't. We'll all go to ruin together. The man who tries to stand up against the spirit of the times is an ass. I lack the requisite number of legs for that."
"Well," I put in, "I wish you a merry Christmas—"
"I shall have it," said he, cheerily. "The children—"
"And the New Year?" I interrupted.
"It isn't here yet," said Chetwood. "And I never cross a bridge until I come to it. Take another cigar."