clock in the West Side Boys' Lodging-house ticked out the seconds
of Christmas eve as slowly and methodically as if six fat turkeys were
not sizzling in the basement kitchen against the morrow's spread, and
as if two-score boys were not racking their brains to guess what kind
of pies would go with them. Out on the avenue the shopkeepers were
barring doors and windows, and shouting "Merry Christmas!" to one
another across the street as they hurried to get home. The drays ran
over the pavement with muffled sounds; winter had set in with a heavy
snow-storm. In the big hall the monotonous click of checkers on the
board kept step with the clock. The smothered exclamations of the boys
at some unexpected, bold stroke, and the scratching of a little
fellow's pencil on a slate, trying to figure out how long it was yet
till the big dinner, were the only sounds that broke the quiet of the
room. The superintendent dozed behind his desk.

A door at the end of the hall creaked, and a head with a shock of
weather-beaten hair was stuck cautiously through the opening.

"Tom!" it said in a stage-whisper. "Hi, Tom! Come up an' git on ter de
lay of de Kid."

A bigger boy in a jumper, who had been lounging on two chairs by the
group of checker players, sat up and looked toward the door. Something
in the energetic toss of the head there aroused his instant curiosity,
and he started across the room. After a brief whispered conference the
door closed upon the two, and silence fell once more on the hall.

They had been gone but a little while when they came back in haste.
The big boy shut the door softly behind him and set his back against
it.

"Fellers," he said, "what d'ye t'ink? I'm blamed if de Kid ain't gone
an' hung up his sock fer Chris'mas!"

The checkers dropped, and the pencil ceased scratching on the slate,
in breathless suspense.

"Come up an' see," said Tom, briefly, and led the way.

The whole band followed on tiptoe. At the foot of the stairs their
leader halted.

"Yer don't make no noise," he said, with a menacing gesture. "You,
Savoy!"--to one in a patched shirt and with a mischievous
twinkle,--"you don't come none o' yer monkey-shines. If you scare de
Kid you'll get it in de neck, see!"

With this admonition they stole upstairs. In the last cot of the
double tier of bunks a boy much smaller than the rest slept, snugly
tucked in the blankets. A tangled curl of yellow hair strayed over his
baby face. Hitched to the