“Ma’am,” said Trinidad with a sigh, “prospectin’ for kids at Christmas time is like huntin’ in a limestone for silver. This parental business is one that I haven’t no chance to comprehend. It seems that fathers and mothers are willin’ for their offsprings to be drownded, stole, fed on poison oak, and et by catamounts 364 days in the year; but on Christmas Day they insists on enjoyin’ the exclusive mortification of their company. This here young biped, ma’am, is all that washes out of our two days’ manoeuvres.”
“Oh, the sweet little boy!” cooed Miss Erma, trailing her De Vere robes to centre of stage.
“Aw, shut up,” said Bobby, with a scowl. “Who’s a kid? You ain’t, you bet.”
“Fresh brat!” breathed Miss Erma, beneath her enamelled smile.
“We done the best we could,” said Trinidad. “It’s tough on Cherokee, but it can’t be helped.”
Then the door opened and Cherokee entered in the conventional dress of Saint Nick. A white rippling beard and flowing hair covered his face almost to his dark and shining eyes. Over his shoulder he carried a pack.
No one stirred as he came in. Even the Spangler Sisters ceased their coquettish poses and stared curiously at the tall figure. Bobby stood with his hands in his pockets gazing gloomily at the effeminate and childish tree. Cherokee put down his pack and looked wonderingly about the room. Perhaps he fancied that a bevy of eager children were being herded somewhere, to be loosed upon his entrance. He went up to Bobby and extended his red-mittened hand.
“Merry Christmas, little boy,” said Cherokee. “Anything on the tree you want they’ll get it down for you. Won’t you shake hands with Santa Claus?”
“There ain’t any Santa Claus,” whined the boy. “You’ve got old false billy goat’s whiskers on your face. I ain’t no kid. What do I want with dolls and tin horses? The driver said you’d have a rifle, and you haven’t. I want to go home.”
Trinidad stepped into the breach. He shook Cherokee’s hand in warm greeting.