“No peace on earth, no good-will to men,” said Flick, seeing the idea and almost moved to tears.
“Son, we never thought—did we?—never thought of that.”
“Never,” said Flick.
“We must.”
“Absolutely,” said Flick, who had been struck by the word, and he frowned and asked, “What should we think?”
“We should think—” began King O’Leary, and stopped, lost in conjecture. He repeated: “We should think,” and turned, looking to Flick for relief. “I say, what was the thing—the thing I told you we should think about?”
Wilder, thus appealed to, shook his head mournfully, and Tootles had visions of crowning the last two hours’ labors with the blissful prospect of getting them safely into the studio and to bed, when, as luck would have it, King O’Leary’s foot came in contact with a milk bottle. The rolling sound revived his memory.
“We must cheer—bring cheer—bring presents,” said King O’Leary, getting at length to his thought. “Every one must have presents—Christmas presents.”
Tootles here interposed hastily, with the irritation of the sober pilot who sees the harbor of rest escaping.
“To-morrow. Good idea! To-morrow we’ll get presents for them all—fine—but to-morrow! Now bedtime.”