
by Gordon Snidow
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It was a story of hurry up and wait. During the night a norther had blown in; the temperature had dropped twenty degrees, it had rained, and then the fog had moved in. Breakfast was at the usual time, 3:30 A.M.; but the fog was so thick the jinglers couldn't find the mounts, then one thing after another delayed them. Now cold, with patience at an end, and tempers flaring, they want to know; "What the hell are we waiting for now, Christmas?"
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