Budlong turned away while she priced these.
Strouther and Streckfuss were in a panic of joy at the situation. They
managed in the excitement to work off a number of old horrors that had
been refused for years and years--ancient, dust-stained landmarks on
the shelves. Mr. Strouther showed the things, Mr. Streckfuss wrote the
list of purchases,--he made many mistakes in prices, but strangely
never to his own damage; and the entire staff of assistants followed,
taking down, and wrapping up, and rushing parcels to the door, where
they were bundled onto a wagon.
Mr. Budlong should have been a medieval general. He pillaged that
store with the thoroughness of the Crusaders looting Constantinople.
The town clock was striking midnight as the Budlongs dragged themselves
home. There was much yet to be done. Parcels must be opened, price
tags removed, gifts done up in pink tissue paper and gold twine, cards
must be inscribed and inserted and the parcels rewrapped and addressed.
The Strouther and Streckfuss driver had been hired at an exorbitant
cost to sit up and deliver the gifts. The horses had not been
consulted. They leaned on each other and slept, dreaming of oats.
The Budlong parlor was soon a hideous scene. The husband would open a
bundle and sing out, "Who's this big immense pink and purple cuspidor
for?"
"That's a jardineer," Mrs.
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