“I know it,” laughed Polly; “don't that cotton wool look just like bits of fur, Ben?”
“Yes,” said Ben, “and when the flour's shaken over me it'll be Santa himself.”
“We've got to put back the hair into mamsie's cushion the first thing to-morrow,” whispered Polly anxiously, “and we mustn't forget it, Bensie.”
“I want to keep the wig awfully,” said Ben. “You did make that just magnificent, Polly!”
“If you could see yourself,” giggled Polly; “did you put it in the straw bed? and are you sure you pulled the ticking over it smooth?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Ben, “sure's my name's Ben Pepper! if you'll only keep them from seeing me when I'm in it till we're ready—that's all I ask.”
“Well,” said Polly a little relieved, “but I hope Joe won't look.”
“Come on! they're a-comin'!” whispered Ben; “quick!”
“Polly!” rang a voice dangerously near; so near that Polly, speeding over the stairs to intercept it, nearly fell on her nose.
“Where you been?” asked one.