the madding throng felt likewise. But the great ones were able to help
themselves; they inspected the shelves, perused the labels of every
antiquated sauce and pickle bottle in stock since the "early days," and
placed the best of these relics of a pre-consolidated era in heaps aside
for Monday's dinner. There were special constables on duty within and
without the store, which was as full as an egg; and when after a while
it was apparent that this congestion retarded business, the hundred
Christians nearest the door were hustled into the street with all the
"good will" in the world. But the relief came too late; the clock
struck nine ere half the multitude were served--or even formally
satisfied that blood is not in turnips. Of the merry season we were wont
to enjoy, the busy throng was the sole reminiscence. Its good things
were absent. But that bitter truth did not make less keen our hunt the
slipper pursuit of Christmas fare.




CHAPTER XI

_Week ending 30th December, 1899_


Christmas Eve--a memorable day in its own way--dawned in due course. It
was not the siege alone, with its attendant inconveniences, that made it
memorable. It was not that the season accentuated the want of _enough_
to eat; nor was it the absence of the time-honoured turkey that tried us
most. There was something else besides, namely, the capers of the sun.
Thermal phenomena are of course not strictly pertinent to my story. But
I feel impelled to digress for a little and warm, as it were, to this