Tom started. "Why, good Lord, it--it's Christmas Day, isn't it?" he asked, a little sheepishly.

"It's a bigger day for us," I said to Tom.

He squinted at me in his shrewd manner; and then he got up from the table and wrung my hand.

"Good luck to you both," he said. "Say, Mr. Dubois, I guess we can pitch our tent here to-night--don't you?"

Alfred Dubois was grappling with our hands again; but his onset was less ferocious, because he had to loose us every now and then to slap me on the back and blow his nose.

"If only _la petite Madeleine_ could be here!" he shouted. And I am sure that was his dinner voice I heard.

THE END