Wilder drew forth half a bottle of milk, an open tin of potted ham and several portions of bread.
“The sardines,” he said, “are for our Christmas dinner.”
“Don’t let’s overeat,” said Tootles seriously, trying to coax forth a smile. “Flick, the stomach must be empty when the brain is full.”
They sat down at the table, facing each other.
“What! No finger-bowls?” said Tootles facetiously, drumming a march on the table.
“Art, it’s no use,” said Wilder, shaking his head. “It’s a bum night. Damn Christmas anyhow!”
“Ah, but wait until Santa Claus comes,” said Tootles brightly.
At this moment, as though in answer, there came two sharp raps on the door that set the glass to rattling.
“Who’s that?” said Wilder, startled at the coincidence.
“Santa Claus,” said Tootles. “Well, come in if you’re good looking.”