“The one I saw you wearing several times. It was a moonstone, wasn’t it?”
“That? Arn didn’t give me that. My mother did. Arn gave me a book. Forget the name of it now. It was pretty punk. I hate folks to give me books for Christmas, don’t you?”
“No, I like them,” replied Toby. There was, he thought, no reason why he should be so delighted at discovering that Arnold had not given Frank that scarf-pin, but delighted he was nevertheless, and his pleasure made him quite cordial and friendly toward Frank. “That was a dandy pin, and I was sure Arn had given it to you.”
“Well, he didn’t,” returned the other indifferently. “He gave me a silly book.” He chuckled. “He didn’t get anything on me, though, at that, for I gave him a half-dozen handkerchiefs! I’d rather get a book than handkerchiefs, eh?”
“A good deal rather!” laughed Toby. “Useful things like handkerchiefs and stockings and gloves are mighty nice to have, but you always feel as though folks ought to give you things that aren’t useful at Christmas, don’t you?”
“Absolutely! What did Arn give you, Toby?”
“A pair of gold cuff-links.”
“Fine!” Frank glanced down at Toby’s wrists. “Got ’em on?”
“No, I—they’re too dressy to wear every day.”
Frank grinned. “So peeved you won’t even wear his present, eh? Sic him, Prince! I dare say whatever the row is, it’s Arn’s fault. He’s a stubborn brute. I’ve known him for five or six years, I guess, and I know his tricks. Arn isn’t a bad sort, of course, but he’s mighty cranky sometimes. Well, he will get over it, Toby. Let him alone, eh?”