“Col’est Chrisermas Eve in years,” the Tinsmith responded.
The Loafer pushed himself off the counter onto an empty crate that stood below him. He leaned forward and almost embraced the stove in his effort to toast his hands.
“This, I’ve heard tell,” he said, “is the one night in all the year ’hen the cattle talks jest like men.”
“Some sais it’s Holly E’en,” ventured the Miller.
“No, it ain’t. It’s Chrisermas,” the Loafer replied emphatically. He leaned back, placed his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat and glared about the circle in defiance.
The brief silence that followed was broken by the School Teacher.
“Superstition! Mere superstition!”
“That’s what I sais,” cried the Storekeeper. He was leaning over the counter munching a candy lion. “What ’ud a mule talk about ’hen he only had a chancet oncet a year?”
A thin, meaning smile crept over the Loafer’s face and he bent forward, thrusting his long chin in the direction of the venturesome merchant.