There was no
wind--indeed, there was a sort of tightness in the air, as if the
supply of freshness had given out. People had headaches--even the
Telephone Boy was cross--and none of the spirit of the time appeared to
enliven the flat children. There appeared to be no stir--no mystery. No
whisperings went on in the corners--or at least, so it seemed to the
sad babies of the Santa Maria.
"It's as plain as a monkey on a hand-organ," said the Telephone Boy to
the attendants at his salon in the basement, "that there ain't to be no
Christmas for we--no, not for we!"
Had not Dorothy produced, at this junction, from the folds of her
fluffy silken skirts several substantial sticks of gum, there is no
saying to what depths of discouragement the flat children would have
fallen!
About six o'clock it seemed as if the children would smother for lack
of air! It was very peculiar. Even the janitor noticed it. He spoke
about it to Kara at the head of the back stairs, and she held her hand
so as to let him see the new silver ring on her fourth finger, and he
let go of the rope on the elevator on which he was standing and dropped
to the bottom of the shaft, so that Kara sent up a wild hallo of alarm.
But the janitor emerged as melancholy and unruffled as ever, only
looking at his watch to see if it had been stopped by the concussion.
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