“That’s the ticket,” Webber agreed.  “That’s sure the boss racket of them all.”

“We couldn’t git no tree into this shanty,” objected Field.  “This place ain’t big enough to hold a Christmas puddin’.”

“Of course it is,” said the carpenter.  “It’s ten foot ten by eighteen foot six inches, or I can’t do no guessin’.”

“That ’mount of space couldn’t hold jest me, on Christmas,” estimated the teamster.

“And the whole camp sure will want to come,” added another.

“‘Ceptin’ Miss Doc,” suggested Webber.

“‘Ceptin’ Miss Doc,” agreed the previous speaker.

“Then why not have the tree down yonder, into Webber’s shop, same as church?” asked Field.  “We could git the whole camp in there.”

This was acclaimed a thought of genius.

“It suits me down to the ground,” said Jim, with whom all ultimate decision lay, by right of his foster-parenthood of little Skeezucks, “only I don’t see so plain where we’re goin’ to git the tree.  We’re burnin’ all the biggest brush around Borealis, and there ain’t a genuine Christmas-tree in forty miles.”

The truth of this observation fell like a dampened blanket on all the company.

“That’s so,” said Webber.  “That’s just the luck!”

“There’s a bunch of willers and alders by the spring,” suggested a hopeful person.

“You pore, pitiful cuss,” said Field.  “You couldn’t have seen no Christmas-tree in all your infancy.”

“If only I had the time,” drawled Jim, “I’d go across to the Pinyon mountains and git a tree.  Perhaps I can do that yet.”

“If you’d do that, Jim, that would be the biggest present of the lot,” said Webber.  “You wouldn’t have to do nuthin’ more."’

“Wal, I’m goin’ to make a Noah’s ark full of animals, anyway,” said Jim.  “Also a few cars and boats and a big tin horn—­if only I’ve got the activity.”

“But we’ll reckon on you for the tree,” insisted the blacksmith.  “Then, of course, we want a great big Christmas dinner.”

“What are you goin’ to do fer a turkey?” inquired Field.

“And rich brown gravy?” added the carpenter.

“And cranberry sauce and mince-pie?” supplemented Lufkins.

“Well, maybe we could git a rabbit for the turkey,” answered the smith.

“And, by jinks!  I kin make a lemon-pie that tastes like a chunk dropped out of heaven,” volunteered Keno, pulling at his sleeves.

“But what about that rich brown gravy?” queried the carpenter.

“Smoky White can dish up the slickest dough-nuts you ever slapped your lip onto,” informed the modest individual who stroked his chin.

“We can have pertatoes and beans and slapjacks on the side,” a hopeful miner reminded the company.

“You bet.  Don’t you worry; we can trot out a regular banquet,” Field assured them, optimistically.  “S’posen we don’t have turkey and cranberry sauce and a big mince-pie?”