"More later," Stu told him, pocketing the box. "Make manners your watchword in
everything you do, as old baldy would . . . would say." He heard his voice grow
hoarse and felt tears sting his eyes. He suddenly missed Glen, missed Larry,
missed Ralph with his cocked-back hat. Suddenly he missed them all, the ones who
were gone, missed them terribly. Mother Abagail had said they would wade in
blood before it was over, and she had been right. In his heart, Stu Redman
cursed her and blessed her at the same time.
"Stu? Are you okay?"
"Yeah, Tommy, fine." He suddenly hugged Tom fiercely, and Tom hugged him back.
"Merry Christmas, old hoss."
Tom said hesitantly: "Can I sing a song-before we go?"
"Sure, if you want."
Stu rather expected "Jingle Bells" or "Frosty the Snowman" sung in the off-key 
and rather toneless voice of a child. But what came out was a fragment of "The
First Noel," sung in a surprisingly pleasant tenor voice.
"The first Noel," Tom's voice drifted across the white wastes, echoing back
with faint sweetness, "the angels did say... was to certain poor shepherds in
fields as they lay... In fields... as they... lay keeping their sheep... 
on a cold winter's night that was so deep..."
Stu joined in on the chorus, his voice not as good as Tom's but mixing well
enough to suit the two of them, and the old sweet hymn drifted back and forth in
the deep cathedral silence of Christmas morning:
"Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel... Christ is born in Israel... "
"That's the only part of it I can remember," Tom said a little guiltily as
their voices drifted away.
"It was fine," Stu said. The tears were close again. It would not take much to
set him off, and that would upset Tom. He swallowed them back. "We ought to get
going. Daylight's wasting."
"Sure." He looked at Stu, who was taking down his shelter half. "It's the best
Christmas I ever had, Stu."