(xx) Vic's Christmas Gift List

Well, sir, the evening meal has been over only a little while, as I've seen opens now. And here in the living room of the small house, halfway up in the next block, we find Mr.

and Mrs. Victor Cook. Vic is established at the library table, competing with himself in a brisk game of salatair. His wife sits nearby, ostensibly glanced into the newspaper. Actually, however, she's reading what scribbled on a piece of scrap paper.

She just happened to spy beside her on the arm of the Davenport. of a sudden she says an expostulating tones. No big big point you're not going to send Christmas presents to all these fellows. All what fellas on this scrap of paper. That is a private scrap of paper. It's laying here on the arm of the Davenport pretty public.

I meant to do it in the garbage bucket and for that. No but goodness. Guys Fuzz, Elle Wily Fap, U.F. Beekley, T.W. Weather Wax, Howard S. Nine. Some of those guys I'm going to send Christmas cards to. No, I'm reading the list of markets. You've got one list of markets and one list of

markets. This is the one market. I feel that I'm quite capable of deciding to whom I wish to send Christmas presents. In fact, I had the same rotten old argument every year. I know we do and it's the most distressing thing. I had intended to handle my own Christmas given this time and make no mention of the

matter around home here. However, I slipped up. Before supper I jotted down a bunch of names on that piece of scrap paper there and carelessly allowed it to come under your eye. Who's got a spas? A warm friend and a good scout. Never heard of him. He's with the consolidated kitchenware company plant 17