“Yes, but she can’t work ’em off on the boy,” said Jim.  “He ain’t big enough to stand it.”

“No, I don’t suppose he is,” agreed Keno, going to the window, on which he breathed, to melt away the frosty foliage of ice.  “I think there’s some of the boys a-comin’—­yep—­three or four.”

The boots of the men could be heard, as they creaked on the crisply frozen snow, before the visitors arrived at the door.  Keno let them in, and with them an oreole of chill and freshness flavored spicily of winter.  There were three—­the carpenter, Bone, and Lufkins.

“How’s the little shaver?” Bone inquired at once.

“About the same,” said Jim.  “And how’s the tree?”

“All ready,” answered Lufkins.  “Old Webber’s got a bully fire, and iron melting hot, to warm the shop.  The tree looks great.  She’s all lit up, and the doors all shut to make it dark, and you bet she’s a gem—­a gorgeous gem—­ain’t she, fellers?”

The others agreed that it was.

“And the boys are nearly all on deck,” resumed the teamster, “and Webber wanted to know if the morning—­Christmas morning—­ain’t the time for to fetch the boy.”

“Wal, some might think so,” Jim replied, unwilling to concede that the tiny man in the bunk was far too ill to join in the cheer so early in the day.  “But the afternoon is the regular parliamentary time, and, anyway, little Skeezucks ’ain’t had his breakfast, boys, and—­we want to be sure the shop is good and warm.”

“The boys is all waitin’ fer to give three cheers,” said the carpenter, “and we’re goin’ to surprise you with a Christmas song called ’Massa’s in the Cole, Cole Ground.’”

“Shut up!” said Bone; “you’re givin’ it all away.  So you won’t bring him down this mornin’?”

“Well, we’ll tell ’em,” agreed the disappointed Lufkins.  “What time do you think you’ll fetch the little shaver, then, this afternoon?”

“I guess about twelve,” said Jim.

“How’s he feelin’?” inquired the carpenter.

“Wal, he don’t know how to feel on Christmas yet,” answered the miner, evasively.  “He doesn’t know what’s a-comin’.”

“Wait till he sees them blocks,” said the carpenter, with a knowing wink.

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’,” added Lufkins, with the most significant smile, “but you jest wait.”

“Nor me ain’t doin’ any talkin’,” said Bone.

“Well, the boys will all be waitin’,” was the teamster’s last remark, and slowly down the whitened hill they went, to join their fellows at the shop of the smith.

The big, rough men did wait patiently, expectantly, loyally.  Blowing out the candles, to save them for the moment when the tiny child should come, they sat around, or stood about, or wandered back and forth, each togged out in his very best, each with a new touch of Christmas meaning in his heart.