[CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE—THE TRADE-RAT’S CHRISTMAS-GIFT]
Trade-rats haven’t as much idee of real music as coyotes have. Ninety-one verses of that infernal cow-song, sung in Horace’s nose-tenor, was enough to drive bed-bugs out of a lumber-camp; but that night the trade-rat worked harder than ever. We had hid our stuff an’ fastened it down, an’ used every sort of legitimate means to circumvent the cuss; but he beat us to it every time, an’ switched our stuff around scandalous.
“Merry Christmas!” yelled Spider Kelley, holdin’ up a rusty sardine can.
The trade-rat had remembered us all in some the same way, but we recalled what day it was an’ took it in good part; until, all of a sudden, ol’ Tank gave a whoop, an’ held up a brown buck-skin bag. We crowded around an’ wanted him to open it up an’ see what was inside; but he said it most probably belonged to Olaf or Kit or the Friar; so we toted it into the cabin an’ asked the one who could identify it to step out an’ claim his diamonds.
Then we had a surprise—not one o’ the bunch could identify the bag! We stood around an’ looked at the bag for as much as five minutes, tryin’ to figure out how the deuce even a trade-rat could spring stuff on us none of us had ever seen before.
“This is a real trade, sure enough,” sez Horace.
“I tell ya what this is,” sez I. “This is a Christmas-gift for the Friar. Go on an’ open it, Friar.”
The’ was some soft, Injun-tanned fawn-skin inside, wrappin’ up a couple o’ papers, an’ two photographs, and an old faded letter. “I don’t think we have the right to look at these,” sez the Friar.
“How’ll we ever find out who they belong to, then?” asked Horace. “Look at the letter anyway.”
It was in a blank envelope, an’ it began, “My dear son,” and ended, “Your lovin’ mother.” The letter was just the same as all mothers write to their sons, I reckon: full of heartache, an’ tenderness, an’ good advice, an’ scoldin’; but nothin’ to identify nobody by; so we said ’at the Friar should read the papers. One of ’em was an honorable discharge from the army; but all the names an’ dates an’ localities had been crossed out. It was what they call an “Excellent” discharge, which is the best they give, an’ you could tell by the thumb print ’at this part had been read the most by whoever had treasured it.