Clement Clarke Moore - Лучшие рождественские рассказы и стихотворения / Best Christmas Stories, Carols and Poems

Meanwhile the company had relaxed into a hollow but praiseworthy imitation of a pleasure gathering.

Bobby had retreated to a distant chair, and was coldly regarding the scene with ennui plastered thick upon him. Cherokee, lingering with his original idea, went over and sat beside him.

‘Where do you live, little boy?’ he asked respectfully.

‘Granite Junction,’ said Bobby without emphasis.

The room was warm. Cherokee took off his cap, and then removed his beard and wig.

‘Say!’ exclaimed Bobby, with a show of interest, ‘I know your mug, all right.’

‘Did you ever see me before?’ asked Cherokee.

‘I don’t know; but I’ve seen your picture lots of times.’

‘Where?’

The boy hesitated. ‘On the bureau at home,’ he answered.

‘Let’s have your name, if you please, buddy.’

‘Robert Lumsden. The picture belongs to my mother. She puts it under her pillow of nights. And once I saw her kiss it. I wouldn’t. But women are that way.’

Cherokee rose and beckoned to Trinidad.

‘Keep this boy by you till I come back,’ he said. ‘I’m goin’ to shed these Christmas duds, and hitch up my sleigh. I’m goin’ to take this kid home.’

‘Well, infidel,’ said Trinidad, taking Cherokee’s vacant chair, ‘and so you are too superannuated and effete to yearn for such mockeries as candy and toys, it seems.’

‘I don’t like you,’ said Bobby, with acrimony. ‘You said there would be a rifle. A fellow can’t even smoke. I wish I was at home.’

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