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It must have been on about the first of December that I heard him say, as he went over his morning mail, “Goddamn it, how much glory can come to a man in one short lifetime?”

He called me over to his desk. “It isn’t right that all of the honors that pour into these offices every day should be shared only by management,” he said. “It’s to you, the working stiffs, that the honors really belong.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I said uneasily.

“So, in lieu of the raise which you richly deserve, I am going to make you my assistant.”

“Assistant city editor?”

“Bigger than that. My boy, you are now assistant publicity director of the Annual Christmas Outdoor Lighting Contest. Bet you thought I wasn’t even aware of the brilliant, selfless job you’ve been doing for the paper, eh?” He shook my hand. “Well, here’s your answer. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. What do I do?”

“The reason executives die young is that they don’t know how to delegate authority,” said Hackleman. “This should add twenty years to my life, because I hereby delegate to you my full authority as publicity director, just tendered me by the Chamber of Commerce. The door of opportunity is wide open. If your publicity makes this year’s Annual Christmas Outdoor Lighting Contest the biggest, brightest one yet, there’ll be no ceiling on how high you can rise in the world of journalism. Who’s to say you won’t be the next publicity director of National Raisin Week?”

“I’m afraid I’m not very familiar with this particular art form,” I said.

“Nothing to it,” said Hackleman. “The contestants dangle colored electric lights all over the fronts of their houses, and the man whose meter goes around fastest wins. That’s Christmas for you.”

* * *

As a dutiful assistant publicity director, I boned up on the history of the event, and learned that the contest had been held every year, except for the war years, since 1938. The first winner won with a two-story Santa Claus, outlined in lights on the front of his house. The next winner had a great pair of plywood bells, outlined in lights and hung from the eaves, which swung back and forth while a loudspeaker concealed in the shrubbery went ding-dong.

And so it went: each winner bettered the winner of the year before, until no entrant had a prayer of winning without the help of an electrical engineer, and the Power and Light Company had every bit of its equipment dangerously overloaded on the night of the judging, Christmas Eve.

As I said, Hackleman wanted nothing to do with it. But, unfortunately for Hackleman, the publisher of the paper had just been elected president of the Chamber of Commerce, and he was annoyed to learn that one of his employees was squirming out of a civic duty.

The publisher rarely appeared in the city room, but his visits were always memorable—particularly the visit he made two weeks before Christmas to educate Hackleman on his twofold role in the community.

“Hackleman,” he said, “every man on this staff is not only a newspaper man, he’s an active citizen.”

“I vote,” said Hackleman. “I pay my taxes.”

“And there it stops,” said the publisher reproachfully. “For ten years you’ve been city editor, and for ten years you’ve been ducking the civic duties that come to a man in such a position—foisting them off on the nearest reporter.” He pointed at me. “It’s a slap in the face of the community, sending out kids like this to do work that most citizens would consider a great honor.”

“I haven’t got time,” said Hackleman sullenly.

“Make the time. Nobody asks you to spend eighteen hours a day in the office. That’s your idea. It isn’t necessary. Get out with your fellow men once in a while, Hackleman, especially now. It’s the Christmas season, man. Get behind this contest and—”

“What’s Christmas to me?” said Hackleman. “I’m not a religious man and I’m not a family man, and eggnog gives me gastritis, so the hell with Christmas.”

The publisher was stunned. “The hell with Christmas?” he said, hollowly, hoarsely.

“Certainly,” said Hackleman.

“Hackleman,” said the publisher evenly, “I