thing, 
for Aunt Judith Sawyer or his throat would burst. So, finding 
one leg at liberty, he furtively kicked the leg of the stove and 
hurt his toe, even as his eyes fell upon a depleted stock of kind¬ 
lings in the wood-box. 
“Well, then,” he burst out in a glow of good-will, “lemme — 
lemme take Uncle Ab’s job to-night, an’ get the wood." 
Aunt Judith's horrified glance made him redden un¬ 
comfortably. 
“jimsy,” she whispered hurriedly, “you—you must 
never—never call Mr. Sawyer — 
Uncle Ab. Nobody does — ” 
“But,” mumbled the boy, 
said folks call ye Aunt Ju¬ 
dith, an’ an’—” 
“It—it's different,” fal¬ 
tered Aunt Judith. “I — 
I'm nobody in particular, 
and I—I always get the 
wood myself.” She opened 
the door and pointed to a 
wood-pile glimmering out 
of the darkness, with a rim 
of snow. “The kindlings 
are split and piled in the 
shed. And, hurry, child. 
The wind's sharp.” 
Jimsy set forth with a 
noisy whistle. Then pres¬ 
ently he appeared with an 
armful of kindlings, his “James," decided Mr. Sawyer 
eyes shining. Holding the 
door ajar, he coaxed into 
the warmth of Aunt Judith’s kitchen a shivering dog, little and 
lame and thin. 
“Aunt Judith,” he shrilled, dropping his kindlings into the box 
with a clatter, “Look! He was out there under 
the wood-pile, shiverin', an’ he won't go away. 
He’s a stray, too, like I was afore Mom Dorgan 
give me a bed with her kids.” He patted the 
dog's head. “Gee, watch him duck, poor mut! 
That's ’cause he's been walloped so much. Aunt 
Judith,” he blurted, his eyes ablaze with pleading, 
“can't ye maybe jus’ let him sleep behind the 
stove? I — I feel awful sorry fur him.” 
“No — no — no!” said Aunt Judith, in distress, 
“1 can't — I can’t, indeed. Mr. Sawyer — ” 
“James!” 
Aunt Judith and Jimsy jumped. The first citizen stood in the 
doorway, the Lindon Evening hews in his hand — still unread. 
Nor could he have explained why save that a boy’s absence may, 
queerly enough, be as clamorous as his presence. With the bis¬ 
cuit still upon his mind, Abner Sawyer felt impelled to discipline. 
“Put the dog out!" 
Jimsy stood his ground. He was used to that. And Abner 
Sawyer wondered, with a feeling of intense annoyance, what 
there was about this ragged, noisy child that injected drama into 
incident. There was a tenseness in the silence of the trio and the 
cringing dog. 
“Aw! hav a heart!” pleaded Jimsy, finally, and there was faith 
and optimism in his steady glance. 
Abner Sawyer cleared his throat, and looked away. “I am 
fully equipped with the organ you mention," he said, drily. “Put 
the dog out.” 
“Jimsy reluctantly obeyed, and, as the door closed upon the 
shivering waif, Jimsy’s face, sharpened by disappointment, 
seemed suddenly thinner and less boyish. Then, bent upon 
making the best of things, he reached for his cap. “Well,” he 
said, casually, “guess I'll go out an' look the burg over.” 
It was queer how jimsy’s conversation seemed to bristle with 
verbal shocks. Aunt Judith gasped. Mr. Sawyer fixed a stern 
eye upon the clock. 
‘‘It is eight o’clock,” he said, in what seemed to Jimsy’s puz¬ 
zled comprehension a midnight tone of voice,” you 
will go to bed.” 
Dumbfounded, Jimsy 
bed.’ 
ioned 
with forbidding dignity, 
biscuit” 
you may have just one more 
followed Aunt Judith up to 
Here, in a great, old-fash- 
bedroom, he forgot every- 
in an eager contemplation of 
a whirling, feathery back¬ 
ground to his window. 
“Aunt Judith,” he called, 
excitedly, “it's snowin’! 
Gee! that’s Christmasy, 
ain’t it ? I don’t mind the 
snow at all, s’long’s I got a 
bed cinched.” His eager 
face fell. “Wisht Stump 
had a bed,” he finished, 
wistfully. 
“Stump?” 
“I jus’ called him Stump, 
Aunt Judith, ’ cause he 
didn't have no tail.” Aunt 
Judith’s eyes were sympa¬ 
thetic. 
But an embarrassing 
difficulty arose about Jim¬ 
sy’s bed attire which drove 
Stump for a time from his mind. It was solved by a night-shirt 
of first-citizen primness which trailed upon the carpet and made 
him snigger self-consciously behind his hand until he heard 
Aunt Judith’s step again beyond the door, when he vaulted into 
bed, shivering luxuriously in the chillness of unaccustomed linen. 
And then Aunt Judith blew out the lamp and tucked him in with 
hands so tremulous and gentle that his throat troubled him again, 
and he lay very still until, meeting her eyes, he suddenlv buried 
his face in the pillow, with a gulp and a sob, and clung to her 
hand. Aunt Judith, shaking, caught him wildly in her arms, 
cried very hard, and kissed him good-night. Jimsy, Stump and 
Aunt Judith Sawyer knew variously the meaning of starvation. 
Ill 
The house grew very still. Jimsy, awaking after a time, with 
the start of unfamiliar surroundings, heard the rattle of wind and 
snow against his window. A tree brushed monotonously against 
the panes — then, through the sounds of winter storm, came an 
unmistakable whimper and a howl. The boy sat up. . . . 
Stump! . . . Huddled, likely, against the door in an agony 
of faith. Jimsy thought of a winter night before Mom Dorgan 
had taken him in, and shivered. The howl came again. Rising, 
Jimsy opened his door on a crack, and peered cautiously through 
it. The hallway was dimly alight from a lamp, set, for safety’s 
sake, within a pewter bowl. The house of Sawyer slept. Gather¬ 
ing his train in his hand, Jimsy hurried through the hall and down 
the stairs to the lower floor, quite dark now save for barred 
patches of 
window-framing 
ghostlv land- 
A gust of wind and snow whirled in 
as he unbarred the kitchen door—then some¬ 
thing with an ingratiating waggle pushed 
gladly against his feet. Five seconds later 
Jimsy and Stump were on their way upstairs. 
Excitement exacted its toll. Jimsy halted 
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