"Don’t you take on now, for I’m gettin’ all right fast. Wot’s the boys doin’ out thar?"
The Old Man partly opened the door and peered through. His guests were sitting there sociably enough, and there were a few silver coins and a lean buckskin purse on the table. "Bettin’ on suthin’,—some little game or ’nother. They’re all right," he replied to Johnny, and recommenced his rubbing.
"I’d like to take a hand and win some money," said Johnny reflectively, after a pause.
The Old Man glibly repeated what was evidently a familiar formula, that if Johnny would wait until he struck it rich in the tunnel, he’d have lots of money, etc., etc.
"Yes," said Johnny, "but you don’t. And whether you strike it or I win it, it’s about the same. It’s all luck. But it’s mighty cur’o's about Chrismiss,—ain’t it? Why do they call it Chrismiss?"
Perhaps from some instinctive deference to the overhearing of his guests, or from some vague sense of incongruity, the Old Man’s reply was so low as to be inaudible beyond the room.
"Yes," said Johnny, with some slight abatement of interest, "I’ve heerd o’ him before. Thar, that’ll do dad. I don't ache near so bad as I did. Now wrap me tight in this yer blanket. So. Now," he added in a muffled whisper, "sit down yer by me till I go asleep."
