In any case I won’t trouble my head about what Uncle did with my cigars. I dislike men very much sometimes.
Dinner came at four and Mumsie had the table looking like a dream, such a sparkle of glass and silver, setting off the roses and carnations nicely. And the holly and mistletoe, which over-shadowed the lamp, and the bon-bons,—the crackers lying on each napkin! Oh, it was delicious! I may say heavenly.
Mumsie was at her brightest, looking the picture of Christmas geniality. Uncle, too, was particularly kind as he welcomed us to the feast. Someway, I was impressed that all and everything were for me. All Uncle’s pleasantries were addressed to me or for my benefit. I believe Uncle is becoming fond of me.
His good nature seemed also to affect Mr. Bang, who told us stories of his own, wild life, and incidents in the lives of others; and in his calm way he can be very humorous. Then he told of the many strange circumstances under which he had eaten his Christmas dinner—in camps, in towns and cities, in hotels, in homes, in log cabins, even under canvas. And then I noticed his mouth draw into a smile, as he fixed his eyes on his wine glass which he kept absently turning.
“What have you in your mind, Jack?” asked Mumsie.
“I was thinking of the only Christmas dinner I ever ate away from friends or acquaintances and how in this case, I met poor Tom Dahlmun. It was in Dawson City, Christmas, 1900—”
“Tell us of it,” demanded Uncle.
“You never told us how you came to go to the Klondike,” said Mumsie; “Please tell us about it.”
“To tell you how I came to go to the Klondike and my adventures in getting there would be a longer story than you would care to listen to,” he protested.
“Do, do tell us all about it,” I cried eagerly.