"Why--why," she whispered, "there's somebody down in the livin'-room!

Who is it?"

"I don't know. There are more than one, for I heard them talking. Who CAN it be?"

Thankful listened again.

"Where's Georgie?" she whispered, after a moment.

"In his room, I suppose. . . . What? You don't think--"

Thankful had tiptoed back to her own room and was returning with the lamp. Together they entered Georgie's bed chamber. But bed and room were empty. Georgie was not there.

CHAPTER XV

Georgie had gone to bed that Christmas Eve with a well-defined plan in his small head. He knew what he intended doing and how he meant to do it. The execution of this plan depended, first of all, upon his not falling asleep, and, as he was much too excited to be in the least sleepy, he found no great difficulty in carrying out this part of his scheme.

He had heard the conversation accompanying Mr. Cobb's unexpected entrance and had waited anxiously to ask concerning the visitor's ident.i.ty. When a.s.sured by his sister that Santa had not arrived ahead of time he settled down again to wait, as patiently as he could, for the "grown-ups" to retire.

So he waited and waited. The clock struck ten and then eleven. Georgie rose, tiptoed to his door and listened. There were no sounds except those of the storm. Then, still on tiptoe, the boy crept along the hall to the front stairs, down these stairs and into the living-room. The fire in the "airtight" stove showed red behind the isingla.s.s panes, and the room was warm and comfortable.

Georgie did not hesitate; his plan was complete to the minutest details.

By the light from the stove he found his way to the sofa which stood against the wall on the side of the room opposite the windows. There was a heavy fringe on the sofa which hung almost to the floor. The youngster lay flat upon the floor and crept under the fringe and beneath the sofa.

There he lay still. Aunt Thankful and Captain Obed and Imogene had said there was a Santa Claus; the boy in South Middleboro had said there was none; Georgie meant to settle the question for himself this very night.

This was his plan: to hide in that living-room and wait until Santa came--if he came at all.

It was lonely and dark and stuffy under the sofa and the beat of the rain and the howling gale outside were scary sounds for a youngster no older than he. But Georgie was plucky and determined beyond his years.

He was tempted to give up and scamper upstairs again, but he fought down the temptation. If no Santa Claus came then he should know the Leary boy was right. If he did come then--well then, his only care must be not to be caught watching.

Twelve o'clock struck; Georgie's eyes were closing. He blinked owl-like under the fringe at the red glow behind the isingla.s.s. His head, pillowed upon his outstretched arms, felt heavy and drowsy. He must keep awake, he MUST. So, in order to achieve this result, he began to count the ticks of the big clock in the corner. One--two--three--and so on up to twenty-two. He lost count then; his eyes closed, opened, and closed again. His thoughts drifted away from the clock, drifted to--to . . .

His eyes opened again. There was a sound in the room, a strange, new sound. No, it was not in the room, it was in the dining-room. He heard it again. Someone in that dining-room was moving cautiously. The door between the rooms was open and he could hear the sound of careful footsteps.

Georgie was frightened, very much frightened. He was seized with a panic desire to scream and rush up-stairs. He did not scream, but he thrust one bare foot from beneath the sofa. Then he hastily drew it in again, for the person in the dining-room, whoever he or she might be, was coming toward the door.

A moment later there was a scratching sound and the living-room was dimly illumined by the flare of a match. The small and trembling watcher beneath the sofa shut his eyes in fright. When he opened them the lamp upon the center table was lighted and Santa Claus himself was standing by the table peering anxiously about.

It was Santa--Georgie made up his mind to that immediately. There was the pack, the pack which the pictured Santa Claus always carried, to prove it, although in this instance the pack was but a small and rather dirty bundle. There were other points of difference between the real Santa and the pictures; for instance, instead of being clothed entirely in furs, this one's apparel seemed to be, for the most part, rags, and soaked and dripping rags at that. But he did wear a fur cap, a mangy one which looked like a drowned cat, and his beard, though ragged like his garments, was all that might be desired. Yes, it was Santa Claus who had come, just as they said he would, although--and Georgie's doubts were so far justified--he had NOT come down the living-room chimney.

Santa was cold, it seemed, for his first move was to go to the stove and stand by it, shivering and warming his hands. During this operation he kept looking fearfully about him and, apparently, listening. Then, to Georgie's chagrin and disappointment, he took up the lamp and tiptoed into the dining-room again. However, he had not gone for good, for his pack was still upon the floor where he had dropped it. And a few minutes later he reappeared, his pockets bulging and in his free hand the remains of half a ham, which Georgie himself had seen Aunt Thankful put away in the pantry.

He replaced the lamp on the table and from his pockets extracted the end of a loaf of bread, several doughnuts and a half-dozen mola.s.ses cookies.

Then he seated himself in a chair by the stove and proceeded to eat, hungrily, voraciously, first the ham and bread and then the doughnuts and cookies. And as he ate he looked and listened, occasionally starting as if in alarm.

At last, when he had eaten everything but the ham bone, he rose to his feet and turned his attention to the pack upon the floor. This was what Georgie had been waiting for, and as Santa fumbled with the pack, his back to the sofa, the boy parted the fringe and peered at him with eager expectation.

The pack, according to every story Georgie had been told, should have been bulging with presents; but if the latter were there they were under more old clothes, even worse than those the Christmas saint was wearing.

Santa Claus hurriedly pawed over the upper layer and then took out a little package wrapped in tissue paper. Untying the string, he exposed a small pasteboard box and from this box he lifted some cotton and then--a ring.

It was a magnificent ring, so Georgie thought. It had a big green stone in the center and the rest was gold, or what looked like gold. Santa seemed to think well of it, too, for he held it to the lamplight and moved it back and forth, watching the shine of the green stone. Then he put the ring down, tore a corner from the piece of tissue paper, rummaged the stump of a pencil out of his rags, and, humping himself over the table, seemed to be writing.

It took him a long time and was plainly hard work, for he groaned occasionally and kept putting the point of the pencil into his mouth.

Georgie's curiosity grew stronger each second. Unconscious of what he was doing, he parted the fringe still more and thrust out his head for a better view. The top of his head struck the edge of the sofa with a dull thump.

Santa Claus jumped as if someone had stuck a pin into him and turned.

That portion of his face not covered by the scraggly beard was as white as mud and dirt would permit.

"Who--who be YOU?" he demanded in a frightened whisper.

Georgie was white and frightened also, but he manfully crept out from beneath the sofa.

"Who be you?" repeated Santa.

"I--I'm Georgie," stammered the boy.

"Georgie! Georgie who?"

"Georgie Hobbs. The--the boy that lives here."

"Lives--lives HERE?"

"Yes." It seemed strange that the person reputed to know all the children in the world did not recognize him at sight.

Apparently he did not, however, for after an instant of silent and shaky inspection he said:

"You mean to say you live here--in this house? Who do you live with?"

"Mrs. Barnes, her that owns the house."

Santa gasped audibly. "You--you live with HER?" he demanded. "Good Lord!

She--she ain't married again, is she?"

"Married! No--no, sir, she ain't married."

"Then--then--See here, boy; what's your name--your whole name?"

"George Ellis Hobbs. I'm Mr. Hobbs's boy, up to South Middleboro, you know. I'm down here stayin' with Aunt Thankful. She--"

"Sshh! sshh! Don't talk so loud. So you're Mr. Hobbs's boy, eh?

What--eh? Oh, yes, yes. You're ma was--was Sarah Cahoon, wa'n't she?"

"Yes, sir. I--I hope you won't be cross because I hid under the sofa.

They said you were coming, but I wasn't sure, and I--I thought I'd hide and see if you did. Please--" the tears rushed to Georgie's eyes at the dreadful thought--"please don't be cross and go away without leaving me anything. I'll never do so again; honest, I won't."

Santa seemed to have heard only the first part of this plea for forgiveness. He put a hand to his forehead.