“We gotta do somethin’ about Shaver’s stockin’s.  Ut ain’t fair fer a kid to wake up an’ think Santy missed ’im.  Ye got some candy, Mary; we kin put candy into ’em; that’s reg’ler.”

Humpy brought in Shaver’s stockings and they were stuffed with the candy and popcorn Mary had provided to adorn their Christmas feast.  Humpy inventoried his belongings, but could think of nothing but a revolver that seemed a suitable gift for Shaver.  This Mary scornfully rejected as improper for one so young.  Whereupon Humpy produced a Mexican silver dollar, a treasured pocket-piece preserved through many tribulations, and dropped it reverently into one of the stockings.  Two brass buttons of unknown history, a mouth-organ Mary had bought for a neighbor boy who assisted at times in the poultry yard, and a silver spectacle case of uncertain antecedents were added.

“We ought t’ ‘a’ colored eggs fer ’im!” said The Hopper with sudden inspiration, after the stockings had been restored to Shaver’s bed.  “Some yaller an’ pink eggs would ‘a’ been the right ticket.”

Mary scoffed at the idea.  Eggs wasn’t proper fer Christmas; eggs was fer Easter.  Humpy added the weight of his personal experience of Christian holidays to this statement.  While a trusty in the Missouri penitentiary with the chicken yard in his keeping, he remembered distinctly that eggs were in demand for purposes of decoration by the warden’s children sometime in the spring; mebbe it was Easter, mebbe it was Decoration Day; Humpy was not sure of anything except that it wasn’t Christmas.

The Hopper was meek under correction.  It having been settled that colored eggs would not be appropriate for Christmas he yielded to their demand that he show some enthusiasm for disposing of his ill-gotten treasures before the police arrived to take the matter out of his hands.

“I guess that Muriel’ll be glad to see me,” he remarked.  “I guess me and her understands each other.  They’s things wot is an’ things wot ain’t; an’ I guess Hop ain’t goin’ to spend no Chris’mas in jail.  It’s the white card an’ poultry an’ eggs fer us; an’ we’re goin’ t’ put in a couple more incubators right away.  I’m thinkin’ some o’ rentin’ that acre across th’ brook back yonder an’ raisin’ turkeys.  They’s mints in turks, ef ye kin keep ’em from gettin’ their feet wet an’ dyin’ o’ pneumonia, which wipes out thousands o’ them birds.  I reckon ye might make some coffee, Mary.”

The Christmas dawn found them at the table, where they were renewing a pledge to play “the white card” when a cry from Shaver brought them to their feet.