"With a Merry Christmas," said Ailworth.
"Thank you—gang," said Satherwaite.
The distribution went on, but presently, when all the rest were crowding about Somers, Satherwaite whipped a package from his pocket and, writing on it hurriedly, was apparently in the act of taking it from the tree, when the others turned again.
"Little Harry Doyle," he read gravely.
Doyle viewed the package in amazement. He had dressed the tree himself.
"Open it up, old man!"
When he saw the gun-metal paper knife, he glanced quickly at Satherwaite. He was very red in the face. Satherwaite smiled back imperturbably. The knife went from hand to hand, awakening enthusiastic admiration.
"But, I say, old man, who gave—?" began Smith.
"I'm awfully much obliged, Satherwaite," said Doyle, "but, really, I couldn't think of taking—"
"Chop it off!" echoed Satherwaite. "Look here, Doyle, it isn't the sort of thing I'd give you from choice; it's a useless sort of toy, but I just happened to have it with me; bought it in the square on the way to give to some one, I didn't know who, and so, if you don't mind, I wish you'd accept it, you know. It'll do to put on the table or—open cans with. If you'd rather not take it, why, chuck it out of the window!"