But she got the gifts.  There was no question of that.  By hook or by crook she saw to it that the bazaar under the piano lamp always groaned.

One of the chief engines for keeping up the display was the display itself.  Everybody who knew Mrs. Budlong—­and not to know Mrs. Budlong was to argue oneself unknown—­knew that he or she would be invited to this Christmas triumph.  And being invited rather implied being represented in the tribute.

Hence ensued a curious rivalry in Carthage.  People vied with each other in giving Mrs. Budlong presents; not that they loved Mrs. Budlong more, but that they loved comparisons less.

The rivalry had grown to ridiculous proportions.  But of course Mrs. Budlong did not care how ridiculous it grew; for it could hardly have escaped her shrewd eyes how largely it advantaged her that people should give her presents in order to show other people that some people needn’t think they could show off before other people without having other people show that they could show off, too, as well as other people could.  The pyschology must be correct, for it is incoherent.

Mrs. Budlong herself was never known to break any of the commandments, but in her back parlor her neighbors made flitters of the one against coveting thy neighbor’s and-so-forth and so-on.

It was when Mr. and Mrs. County Road Supervisor Detwiller were walking home from one of these occasions, that Mr. Detwiller was saying:  “Well, ain’t Mizzes Budlong the niftiest little gift-getter that ever held up a train?  How on earth did We happen to get stung?”

“I don’t know, Roscoe.  It’s one of those things you can’t get out of without getting out of town too.  Here we’ve been and gone and skimped our own children to buy something that would show up good in Mrs. Budlong’s back parlor, and when I laid eyes on it in all that clutter—­why, if it didn’t look like something the cat brought in, I’ll eat it!”

Mr. Detwiller had only one consolation—­and he grinned over it: 

“Well, there’s no use cryin’ over spilt gifts.  But did you see how she stuck old Widower Clute for that Japanese porcelain vace—­I notice she called it vahs?”

“Porcelain?” sniffed Mrs. Detwiller.  “Paper musshay!”

“Well, getting even a paper—­what you said—­from old Clute is equal to extracting solid gold from anybody else.  He’s the stingiest man in sev’n states.  He don’t care any more for a two dollar bill than he does for his right eye.  I bet she gave him ether before he let go.”

“Oh, she works all the old bachelors and widowers that way,” said Mrs. Detwiller, with a mixture of contempt and awe.  “Invites ’em to a dinner party or two around Christmas marketing time, and begins to talk about how pretty the shops are and how tempting everything she wants is; says she saw a nimitation bronze clock at Strouther and Streckfuss’s that it almost broke her heart to