“Now, see here, sport,” he began—­a favorite expression of his, “sport”—­with his face abeam, “what’s the use you and me quarreling?  It’s Christmas Eve, ain’t it?  It’s a shame!  Come on, let’s have a drink and then go out to dinner.”

“Well,” I said, rather uncompromisingly, for at times his seemingly extreme success and well-being irritated me, “I’ll have a drink, but as for dinner I have another engagement.”

“Aw, don’t say that.  What’s the use being sore?  You know I always feel the same even if we do quarrel at times.  Cut it out.  Come on.  You know I’m your brother, and you’re mine.  It’s all right with me, Thee.  Let’s make it up, will you?  Put ’er there!  Come on, now.  We’ll go and have a drink, see, something hot—­it’s Christmas Eve, sport.  The old home stuff.”

He smiled winsomely, coaxingly, really tenderly, as only he could smile.  I “gave in.”  But now as we entered the nearest shining bar, a Christmas crowd buzzing within and without (it was the old Fifth Avenue Hotel), a new thought seemed to strike him.

“Seen E——­ lately?” he inquired, mentioning the name of the troubled sister who was having a very hard time indeed.  Her husband had left her and she was struggling over the care of two children.

“No,” I replied, rather shamefacedly, “not in a week or two—­maybe more.”

He clicked his tongue.  He himself had not been near her in a month or more.  His face fell, and he looked very depressed.

“It’s too bad—­a shame really.  We oughtn’t to do this way, you know, sport.  It ain’t right.  What do you say to our going around there,” it was in the upper thirties, “and see how she’s making out?—­take her a few things, eh?  Whaddya say?”

I hadn’t a spare dollar myself, but I knew well enough what he meant by “take a few things” and who would pay for them.

“Well, we’ll have to hurry if we want to get anything now,” I urged, falling in with the idea since it promised peace, plenty and good will all around, and we rushed the drink and departed.  Near at hand was a branch of one of the greatest grocery companies of the city, and near it, too, his then favorite hotel, the Continental.  En route we meditated on the impossibility of delivery, the fact that we would have to carry the things ourselves, but he at last solved that by declaring that he could commandeer negro porters or bootblacks from the Continental.  We entered, and by sheer smiles on his part and some blarney heaped upon a floor-manager, secured a turkey, sweet potatoes, peas, beans, a salad, a strip of bacon, a ham, plum pudding, a basket of luscious fruit and I know not what else—­provender, I am sure, for a dozen meals.  While it was being wrapped and packed in borrowed baskets, soon to be returned, he went across the way to the hotel and came back with three grinning darkies who for the tip they knew they would receive preceded us up Broadway, the nearest path to our destination.  On the way a few additional things were picked up:  holly wreaths, toys, candy, nuts—­and then, really not knowing whether our plan might not mis-carry, we made our way through the side street and to the particular apartment, or, rather, flat-house, door, a most amusing Christmas procession, I fancy, wondering and worrying now whether she would be there.