The young priest delivered his sermon at the local church. It was Christmas, a decidedly busy day for him, both at home and at work. At any rate, he should maintain the sanctity and quality of his sermons. He stooped down, tied his shoelace, checked his watch and paced down to a taxi stand. If he had forty cents, well and good, for they had a deal.
They drove down to Checkers' Avenue. It was a short ride that gave him a chance to glance over boutiques, salons, bookstores and one café. He stepped down, handing over the cash and thumbing his next lift.
This time around, the destination was farther away. His pockets were empty, yet he confidently sauntered in, put a plush rug over his feet, and sauntered out. The Big Ben let out a chime. No one said anything.
He walked in to Cosco Square and shuffled up to the bookstore. When he came out, his mufflers were up and he had a brown packet in his hands. He craned under the hawkers and slipped away to the Barrington's across the road.
At the Barrington's, he seemed to have had a sumptuous high tea, for he appeared astutely pleased, and what else but good food could please a man who was away from home and his family on Christmas?
Then Wilbur Mayott took a horse-carriage to Abblett Avenue. No, there was no need for a fox-fur. He was probably having the warmest Christmas ever, ferrying himself across London and resting assured that his dear ones were content.
I told you they had a deal. They were all working on Christmas and so was he.
They drove down to Checkers' Avenue. It was a short ride that gave him a chance to glance over boutiques, salons, bookstores and one café. He stepped down, handing over the cash and thumbing his next lift.
This time around, the destination was farther away. His pockets were empty, yet he confidently sauntered in, put a plush rug over his feet, and sauntered out. The Big Ben let out a chime. No one said anything.
He walked in to Cosco Square and shuffled up to the bookstore. When he came out, his mufflers were up and he had a brown packet in his hands. He craned under the hawkers and slipped away to the Barrington's across the road.
At the Barrington's, he seemed to have had a sumptuous high tea, for he appeared astutely pleased, and what else but good food could please a man who was away from home and his family on Christmas?
Then Wilbur Mayott took a horse-carriage to Abblett Avenue. No, there was no need for a fox-fur. He was probably having the warmest Christmas ever, ferrying himself across London and resting assured that his dear ones were content.
I told you they had a deal. They were all working on Christmas and so was he.
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