When Sally Swezey came to the Progressive Euchre skirmish at Mrs. Budlong’s she noted with joy that her hint had borne fruit.  The prizes were indeed of solid gold.  Mr. Budlong did not learn it till the first of the following month when the bill came in from Jim Henderson’s jewelry store.

As if she had not done enough in forcing solid gold prizes on Mr. Budlong, Sally had to say: 

“I’m just dying to see your back parlor, my dear, this next Christmas afternoon.  It has always been a sight for sore eyes; but this Christmas it will be a perfect wonder, for I do declare everybody in town is going to send you something nice.”

This conviction was already chilling Mrs. Budlong’s marrow.  Of old she would have rejoiced at the golden triumph, but now she could only realize that if everybody in Carthage sent her something nice, it was because everybody in Carthage expected something nicer.  And her Christmas crops were hopelessly backward.  At a time when she should be half done, she could not even begin.  She had not tatted or smeared or hammered a thing.

VI

DESPAIR AND AN IDEA

Days and days went by in a stupor of dull hopelessness.  Thanksgiving came and the Budlong turkey might as well have been a crow.  In desperation she decided to make a tentative exploration of the shops now burgeoning with Christmas splendor; every window a spasm of gewgaws.  Since she had no time to make, she must buy.

The length of her list sent her to the cheaper counters, but she was not permitted to browse among them.  At Strouther and Streckfuss’s, Mr. Strouther came up and said with reeking unctuousness: 

“Vat is Mees Bootlonk doink down here amonkst all this tresh?  Come see our importet novelties.”

And he led her to a region where the minimum price was MBBA-BDJA, which meant that it cost 12.25 and could be safely marked down to 23.75.

She eluded him and got back to the 25-cent realm only to be apprehended by Mr. Streckfuss, who beamed: 

“Ah, nothink is here for a lady like you are.  Only fine kvality suits such a taste you got.”

By almost superfeminine strength she evaded purchasing anything.  She went to other shops only to be haled to the expensive counters.  Storekeepers simply would not discuss cheap things with the millionairess-elect.

She crept home and threw herself on her husband’s mercy.  He had none and she lighted hard.  It was the first of December, and in addition to his monthly rage, Mr. Budlong was working himself up to his regular pre-Christmas frenzy, when he always felt poor and talked poorer to keep the family in check.

His face was a study when he had heard his wife’s state of mind.  Forthwith he delivered the annual address on Christmas folly that one hears from fathers of families all round the world at this time: