THE CHAIN IS LOCKED
Like a rainbow blur fled the Sawyer Christmas, punctuated with the yells and bangs of boyhood. From dawn to bed it was a triumph.
"Jimsy," said the first citizen at dusk, "has it—has it been what you'd call a—a walloper-thump—"
"Thump-walloper," corrected Jimsy.
"Thump-walloper of a day?"
Jimsy's reply was ecstatic.
"I 'mos' always forget," he added ruefully. "Aunt Judith said I mustn't call ye Uncle Ab. Which d'ye like best, Uncle Ab? Mister Sawyer or Uncle Ab?"
"I—I think," said the first citizen with a gulp, "that I like Uncle Ab a little better."
"So do I," said Jimsy.
With a wind-beaten flutter of wings, Jimsy's Christmas fled at midnight. Dawn grayed bleakly over the Sawyer home, and there came an hour when Peggy waited to carry Jimsy to the station. Nervous and irritable—why he did not know save that time was crowding and he must deliver Jimsy to the minister in time for the 8.32, Abner Sawyer strode resolutely to the kitchen door. But he did not summon Jimsy. Instead he turned a little white.