“That’s all right, that’s all right,” rejoins the Rev. William Cassock as he stuffs his share of the bills away in an inside pocket, “but in the meantime let us not forget that the same Providence that caused the manna to fall in the desert and sent the ravens down to feed Elisha brought this sucker to the Café Throwout and cast over him the mystic spell of deep, painless sleep. By the way, let me compliment you on a certain detail in your make-up which has attracted my attention. I notice that you wear one of those dude collars, without either cravat or pin. That is in keeping with your part. A jay would be content with such a collar, but one of us would get a cravat and pin first.”
One bright morning about six weeks before Christmas Day the spirit of diligence in well-doing descended like a dove and took complete possession of the brain and soul of Mr. S. S. McClure, the benevolent founder of the thriving literary village of Syndicate, which stands on the banks of the Hackensack River, an enduring monument to his far-seeing philanthropy.
From that moment he seemed to lose interest in the great loom-room, where busy hands made the shuttles fly to and fro as they wove their reminiscences of Abraham Lincoln. At midnight, when the foreman opened the furnace door and the fierce flames lit up the grimy but intellectual faces of the workmen who stood watching the _History of Our War with Spain_, as it was run into the moulds, Mr. McClure was not present. His face was seen no more in the noisy blacksmith-shop, where strong arms forged the hitherto unpublished portraits of American statesmen. Even when a careless workman in the packing-room dropped a railroad story and shivered that fragile bit of literary bric-à-brac into a thousand pieces, the great Master forgot to reprimand him, so busy was he with his own thoughts.
But the literary workmen did not take advantage of the preoccupation of the great Master Mechanic of all modern letters and slight the tasks that had been intrusted to them. On the contrary, they plunged into their tasks with redoubled energy, for well they knew that it was some plan for their happiness that filled the busy mind of the Master, some scheme for the fitting celebration of Christmas Eve, which, next to McClure’s Birthday, is the chief holiday in the literary calendar. And so, into the web and woof of many a _Recollection of Daniel Webster_ and _Later Life of Lincoln_ were woven bright anticipations of the merry Christmas which S. S. McClure was preparing for his trusty employees.