XII

AN AMAZING CHRISTMAS

Holiday bargains in Carthage were not brilliant.  After being pawed over for several weeks, they were depressing indeed.  When the Budlongs strode into Strouther and Streckfuss’s, it was nearly ten o’clock at night.  The sales-wretches, mostly pathetic spinsters of both sexes, were gaunt and jaded.  They yawned incessantly and held on to the counters.

Even Messrs. Strouther and Streckfuss had the nap worn off their plushy sleekness.  They were surveying the wreckage, and dolefully realizing that some of the Christmas bills would not be paid by the Fourth of July.

When the Budlongs made their irruption, they were not received cordially.  Word had gone abroad that the Budlongs were buying all their Christmas presents out of town.  They must be, for they bought none in.  This treachery to home industry was bitterly resented.  Then Budlong galvanized everybody with a cry like a flash of lightning: 

“I want to buy nearly everything in the shop.  Get busy.”

It was too late to select.  Mr. and Mrs. Budlong with their lengthy list in hand sprinted up one aisle and down another, pointing, prodding, rarely pausing to say “How much?” but monotonously chanting:  “Gimme this!  Gimme that!  Gimme two of these!  Gimme six of them!  Gimme that!  Gimme this!  Gimme them!”

They bought glaring garden jars and ghastly vases, scarf pins that would disturb the peace, silly bisque figurines for mantels and what-nots, combs and brushes that would raise the hair on end instead of allaying it, oxidized silverized lead pencils, button hooks, tooth brushes, nail files, cuticle knives, pin cushions, ink stands, paper weights, picture frames, bits of lace and intimate white things with ribbons in them—­Mr. Budlong turned away while she priced these.

Strouther and Streckfuss were in a panic of joy at the situation.  They managed in the excitement to work off a number of old horrors that had been refused for years and years—­ancient, dust-stained landmarks on the shelves.  Mr. Strouther showed the things, Mr. Streckfuss wrote the list of purchases,—­he made many mistakes in prices, but strangely never to his own damage; and the entire staff of assistants followed, taking down, and wrapping up, and rushing parcels to the door, where they were bundled onto a wagon.

Mr. Budlong should have been a medieval general.  He pillaged that store with the thoroughness of the Crusaders looting Constantinople.

The town clock was striking midnight as the Budlongs dragged themselves home.  There was much yet to be done.  Parcels must be opened, price tags removed, gifts done up in pink tissue paper and gold twine, cards must be inscribed and inserted and the parcels rewrapped and addressed.  The Strouther and Streckfuss driver had been hired at an exorbitant cost to sit up and deliver the gifts.  The horses had not been consulted.  They leaned on each other and slept, dreaming of oats.