Of course I heard an explanation of it afterward, as we always do about inexplicable things.

The landlady was Mrs. Kannon; and she leased three adjoining houses, which she made into one by cutting arched doorways through the walls.  She sat in the middle house and answered the three bells.

I wonder why I have maundered so slowly through the prologue.  I have it! it was simply to say to you, in the form of introduction rife through the Middle West:  “Shake hands with Mrs. Kannon.”

For, it was in her triple house that the Christmas story happened; and it was there where I picked up the incontrovertible facts from the gossip of many roomers and met Stickney—­and saw the necktie.

Christmas came that year on Thursday, and snow came with it.

Stickney (Harry Clarence Fowler Stickney to whomsoever his full baptismal cognominal burdens may be of interest) reached his address at six-thirty Wednesday afternoon.  “Address” is New Yorkese for “home.”  Stickney roomed at 45 West ’Teenth Street, third floor rear hall room.  He was twenty years and four months old, and he worked in a cameras-of-all-kinds, photographic supplies and films-developed store.  I don’t know what kind of work he did in the store; but you must have seen him.  He is the young man who always comes behind the counter to wait on you and lets you talk for five minutes, telling him what you want.  When you are done, he calls the proprietor at the top of his voice to wait on you, and walks away whistling between his teeth.

I don’t want to bother about describing to you his appearance; but, if you are a man reader, I will say that Stickncy looked precisely like the young chap that you always find sitting in your chair smoking a cigarette after you have missed a shot while playing pool—­not billiards but pool—­when you want to sit down yourself.

There are some to whom Christmas gives no Christmassy essence.  Of course, prosperous people and comfortable people who have homes or flats or rooms with meals, and even people who live in apartment houses with hotel service get something of the Christmas flavor.  They give one another presents with the cost mark scratched off with a penknife; and they hang holly wreaths in the front windows and when they are asked whether they prefer light or dark meat from the turkey they say:  “Both, please,” and giggle and have lots of fun.  And the very poorest people have the best time of it.  The Army gives ’em a dinner, and the 10 A. M. issue of the Night Final edition of the newspaper with the largest circulation in the city leaves a basket at their door full of an apple, a Lake Ronkonkoma squab, a scrambled eggplant and a bunch of Kalamazoo bleached parsley.  The poorer you are the more Christmas does for you.