When all three of us--Old Man Wright and Bonnie Bell and me--went inside
the door of that big new house we stood there for a minute or so; and at
first I thought we had got into the wrong place--especial since that sad
man looked like he thought so too.
It was all lit up inside and you could see 'way back into the
hall--little carpets of all sorts of colors laying round, and pictures
on the wall, and a fire 'way on beyond somewhere in a grate. I never
seen a hotel furnished better.
Old Man Wright was like a man that's won a elephant on a lottery ticket.
Bonnie Bell looks at him and looks at me like she missed something. On
the whole, I reckon we was the three lonesomest, scaredest, unhappiest
people in all that big town--it was Christmas Eve too!
There was a lot of other people in a row standing down the hall, back of
this sad man. He located us at last and began to help Old Man Wright
take off his overcoat--and me too; but I wouldn't let him. I wasn't
sick or nothing. So we stood there a little while, dressed up and just
come to our new home ranch.
"That will do, William," says Bonnie Bell to the sad man.
"Father," says she, and she leads him to the row of folks in the hall,
"these are all our people that I have engaged. This is Mary, our cook;
and Sarah, the first maid. Annette is going to be my maid."
Well, she went down the line and introduced us to a dozen of 'em, I
reckon. I just barely did know enough not to shake hands. Some of 'em
touched their foreheads and the girls bobbed. They didn't talk none and
they didn't shake hands.
By now Bonnie Bell's maid had her coat over her arm and them two was
starting upstairs.
"I'll be back in a minute, dad," says she. "William will take you and
Curly into your room."
The sad man he walks off down the hall, us following, and we come to a
place right in the center of the house--and he left us there. We stopped
when we went through the door.
What do you know? Bonnie Bell had fitted up that room precisely like the
big room in the old home ranch! All our old things was there--how she
got them I never knew. There was the old table, with the pipes and
papers on it, and tobacco scattered round, and bottles over on the
shelf, and a bridle or so--just the same place all the way through. She
even had the stones of the old fireplace brought on, one nicked, where
Hank Henderson shot the cook once.
"Look-a-here, Curly," says Old Man Wright after a while.
He leads me over to the corner of the room, aside of the fireplace. Dang
me, if there wasn't our two old saddles, wore slick and shiny! Old Man
Wright stands there in his spiketail coat, and he runs his hand down
that old stirrup leather a time or two; and for a little while he can't
say nothing at all--me neither.
"Ain't she some girl, Curly?" says he after a while.
"She's the ace, Colonel," says I.
"Ain't a thing overlooked," says he, thoughtful, walking round the
place, his hands in his pockets.
By and by he come up to half a bottle of corn whisky--the same one that
had stood on the table out on the Circle Arrow. He picks it up and pours
hisself out a drink, thoughtful, and shoves it over to me.
"Every little thing!" says he. "Not a thing left out! It's the same
place. Gawd bless the girl, anyways! I don't think I could of stood it
at all if she hadn't fixed up this room for you and me. I was just going
to stampede."
"Well, Colonel," says I, "here's looking at you! I see we've got a place
where we can come in and unbuckle. It makes it a heap easier. I wasn't
happy none at all before now."
"She done it all herself," says her pa, setting his glass down and
looking round the room once more. "I give her free hand. The architect
had marked this place 'Den,' I reckon. Huh! I don't call it a den--I
call it home, sweet home. If it wasn't for this room," says he, "this
would be one hell of a Christmas, wouldn't it, Curly? But never mind;
we're going to break into this town, or get awful good reasons why."
"You reckon we can, Colonel?" says I.
"Shore, we can!" says he. "We got to! Don't she want it?"
"For instance," says I, "what's the name of our neighbors over next door
to us, you reckon?"
"That's where Old Man Wisner lives," says he, grinning. "Them was the
folks that set over at the table that Henderson pointed out to us
tonight. He's the biggest packer in Chicago, president or something in
about all the banks and everything else--there ain't no better people
than what the Wisners are. And don't we live right next door to 'em? Can
you beat it? That's why the land cost so much.
"Wisner didn't want us to buy this place; he wanted to buy it hisself,
but buy it cheap. It was him or me, and I got it. Still, when I want to
be neighbor to a man I'm going to be a neighbor whether he likes it or
not."
"You reckon they'll like us?" says I.
"They got to," says he.
We was standing up, our glasses in hand, looking out through the door
down the hall to where things was all bright and shiny; and just then we
heard Bonnie Bell come down the stairs and call out:
"Oo-hoo, dad!"
We raises our glasses to her when she come in the door. She had took off
the clothes she wore down at the hotel and had on something light and
loose, silk, better for wearing in the house. The house was all warm,
too, and in our fireplace, the old smoky one, some logs was burning
right cheerful.
It was a new sort of Christmas to us, but we lived it down. The next
morning we all acted as much like kids as we could, which is all there
is to any Christmas. My socks was full of candy, and Old Man Wright he
had a Teddy bear in his--part ways anyhow. Then Bonnie Bell she give him
a new gold watch with bells in it, and me a couple of pins for my
necktie. I never could get 'em in right.
After a while we come down to breakfast. We was in a big room that faced
toward the Wisners' and likewise toward the lake. I reckon you could see
forty miles up and down from where we set eating. It was warm in the
room, though there wasn't much fire, and we all felt comfortable.
You could see out our windows right over the lot of the Wisners'; we
could see into their house same as they could see into ours. There was a
garridge set back toward the lake, same as ours, about on the same line,
and beyond that you could see a boathouse. They had trees in their yard
like ours, but ours was almost as big, though just planted. You could
see where our flower beds was laid out, and the lines of little green
trees all set in close together. On beyond the Wisners' you could see a
whole row of other houses, all big and fine like theirs and ours.
All the whole country was covered with snow that morning. The wind was
still blowing and the lake coming in mighty rough; you could hear the
noise of it through the windows. It looked mighty cold outside and it
was cold. You can freeze to death respectable in Wyoming, but in Chicago
you keep on freezing and don't freeze to death, but wish you would, you
are that cold.
Well, like I said, it was warm in the big room where we et. Bonnie Bell
had a couple of yellow canary birds which was able to set up and sing,
which Old Man Wright said was almost more than he could do hisself.
Breakfast come on a little at a time--you couldn't tell how much of it
there was going to be; but it made good, though it didn't start out
very strong. By and by it got round to ham and aigs, which made us feel
better. I never tasted better coffee; it was better than anything we had
on the Yellow Bull. Ours out there was mostly extract, in pound
packages--beans, I think, maybe.
"How do you like our new house, dad?" says she.
"They can't beat it, Bonnie Bell," says he.
"Dad; dear old dad!" says she. "I'm so glad you like it. I done it all
for you."
"How do you mean?" says he.
"Why, of course, you know what a sacrifice it was for me to come here
and leave the old place! But I seen you wanted it. If I thought it
wasn't all right I believe it would break my heart."
"I know it," says he. "I know what a sacrifice you made when you come
here on my account. If anything comes out wrong for you because of that
sacrifice it shore would break my heart. 'Button, button,' says he,
'who's got the sacrifice?' If you leave it to me I'd say it was Curly,
and not neither of us. Forget it, sis, and have another warfle."
"How do you like the place, Curly?" says she to me.
"I never seen anything like it," says I. "Like enough you paid too much
though. I bet you paid two or three thousand dollars for this land--you
was fooling when you said over two hundred thousand; and there ain't
enough of it to rope a cow on at that. You could have bought several
sections of real land for the same money; and how many cows this here
house cost there can't nobody figure."
About then I heard a noise out in the street. Four or five
people--Dutch, maybe--was playing in a band out there in front of the
Wisners'. A man come out and shooed 'em away. They stood out in front of
our place then and kept on playing. It seems like you can't eat in
Chicago without some one plays music around.
"Here; take 'em out some money, William," says Old Man Wright. "It's
Christmas."
They played some more then, and every morning since. I always hated 'em
and I reckon everybody else did along in there, but there didn't seem to
be no way to run 'em off.
"Well," says Old Man Wright when we finished our breakfast, "what are we
going to do today, sis?" says he. "It's good tracking snow, but there
ain't nothing to track. There ain't no need to see how the hay's holding
out or to wonder if the cows can break through the ice to get at water.
There ain't no horses in the barns. We ain't got a single thing to
do--not even feed the dogs."
Bonnie Bell was reading in the paper which William, the sad man, had put
by our plates. Her eyes got kind of soft and wetlike.
"I'll tell you what we can do, dad," says she. "Look at this list of
poor people here in town that ain't got no Christmas."
"I've got you, sis," says he. "William, go tell the driver to bring the
big car round; and tell the cook to get several baskets, full of
grub--we're going to have a little party."
Well, by and by the chauffore brought the car round in front and we went
out; and William and the others loaded her up with baskets. The
chauffore was looking kind of pale and shaky. He seemed to have
something on his mind.
"I hope you'll excuse me, sir," says he, touching his hat to Old Man
Wright. "I didn't mean to be late; but, you see, it was Christmas
Eve----"
"Why, that's all right," says Old Man Wright to him. "Don't mention
it--Christmas is due to come once a year anyhow."
"I'll not let it occur again," says the chauffore, touching his hat
again.
"What? Christmas?" says he. "You can't help it."
The man looked at him kind of funny. I knew then he'd been celebrating
the night before, and I was right glad he hadn't begun to celebrate
until he'd drove us home, for he was jerky yet.
Christmas is a time when folks ought to be happy. We wasn't happy none
that day. I never seen before what it was to be real poor. Here in this
town, where there is so much money, it seemed like there was hundreds
and thousands of people hadn't saw a square meal in their whole lives.
You couldn't hardly stand it to see 'em--at least I couldn't. We spent
our day that way--our first Christmas in town--trying to feed all the
hungry people there was; and we couldn't. It was the saddest Christmas I
ever had in all my life.
That night Old Man Wright and me didn't stop to put on our regular
eating clothes, as Bonnie Bell said we ought to, and we all set down in
her dining-room for dinner, feeling kind of thoughtful and thinking of
how many people wasn't going to get no such a dinner that night. As for
us, we had plenty; and, believe me, there was something which filled a
long-felt want for Old Man Wright and me. What do you think? Why, ham
shank and greens!
"Sis," says her pa, "you certainly are thoughtful."
We could see out our windows over into the Wisners' windows--it seemed
like they had forgot to pull down their blinds, same as we had. They
didn't seem to be nobody at home, only one young man. He come in all by
hisself, all dressed up, and there was three men waiting on him at the
table. At length I calls attention to this, and Bonnie Bell turns her
head and looks across.
"William," says she, "draw the blinds; and be more careful after this."