  Terry and Arden drew closer together, instinctively, for mutual protection. It was uncanny to see this strange, scarlet figure capering about in the little clearing, seen through a screen of fir trees and against a background of gleaming white snow. “The ghost of Patience Howe,” murmured Arden, recalling the story Granny had told—recalling what the men had said about seeing an apparently dead woman, in a red cloak, on a bed in the old Hall. And that figure had mysteriously vanished. Now it was in sight again—at least, some figure was there. There was no mistaking it, for it was too plain to be anything else but a moving elfin thing. “Oh,” whispered Terry, “do you think, Arden, that Harry could have disturbed it?” “Disturbed what?” “This ghost—I mean, perhaps he came upon the place where it hides in the house and it ran out—no, ghosts don’t run, they sort of float, like smoke, don’t they? Oh, Arden, I’m frightened!” Then, fascinated, they watched and saw the red-clad figure seemingly capering about, doing a strange dance in the snow. And suddenly it started toward where they were half hidden by bushes and trees. Coming toward them! “Oh!” screamed Terry. “Come on, Arden!” She turned to run, uttered a sudden cry of pain as she clutched her right ankle and sank down helplessly in the snow. “Terry! What is it?” begged Arden, dropping to her side. “My ankle! I twisted it when I turned to run! Oh, how it hurts! I hope I haven’t broken it!” “I don’t believe you did, my dear! Ankles don’t break as easily as that. Oh, I’m so sorry!” She took some snow up in her hand and pressed it on Terry’s forehead, now wrinkled with pain. It flashed into Arden’s mind that she was going to have trouble getting Terry back to Sim’s house—walking with even a slightly sprained ankle was out of the question. Then, with a feeling of relief, she thought of Harry in the ghost house. She would have to leave Terry there in the snow, however, to go get him to come to the rescue. “I’m so sorry,” Arden murmured. “Poor Terry!” “It was silly of me—making so much trouble. But, oh, Arden—the red ghost! Look, it’s coming right for us!” She was facing in the direction of the strange red figure; Arden had her back toward it. But at Terry’s cry Arden looked around, and then she had to laugh, even with all the trouble they seemed to be in. And a moment later Terry also laughed, in spite of her pain. For it was no red-cloaked ghost of Patience Howe that was bouncing over the snow toward the two girls. It was—Santa Claus! A rotund figure of a jolly little man with a real beard of lovely white hair—no cotton whiskers on this St. Nicholas—came prancing through the underbrush, scattering snow. He was no ghost, the girls were assured of that in a moment, for he addressed them in very human accents. But even with all this reality it was a puzzle. “Well, well, young ladies! I thought I heard somebody scream!” began the little man. “I was over in that clearing, practising, and I saw you behind the trees, and I sort of thought you’d think it queer, and I turned to come and explain. Then I heard a scream and——” “My friend turned suddenly and sprained her ankle,” Arden interposed. “It is very painful—I’m afraid she can’t walk.” “Luckily I can take care of that,” said Santa Claus. “It was partly my fault, I reckon. Gave her a start, naturally—seeing me in this rig. That’s why I came out here to try it on. I knew it would look sort of silly to anybody who didn’t understand. I’m terrible sorry.” “But why are you dressed up this way?” asked Arden. Terry was just about able to stand and, resting with her head on her chum’s shoulder, her face showed she was suffering. Really the ankle was very painful. “It’s easy explained,” said the little man, pulling at his luxuriant beard, a thing he never would have dared to do had he been wearing a masquerade whiskers. “My name is Janson Henshot, I live over at Bayley Corners, and I’m superintendent of the Sunday-school there. Up to this year we always had, for the Sunday-school children, the little ones, you know, a Santa Claus with a false beard. The part was played, off and on, by Jake Heller or Sam Bendon. “But last year one of the little boys gave the beard of Santa Claus a pull when he was handing out the presents, and the beard came off, and it sort of spoiled things. So, when Christmas was talked of this year, somebody said I’d do fine for Santa Claus, as my beard’s real and it’ll stand a lot of pulling and won’t come off!” He demonstrated, laughing. Even Terry smiled now, for she was listening and had opened her eyes. This, truly, was a comical experience, to find a real Santa Claus in a real wood. “So I said I’d be Santa Claus,” went on Mr. Henshot. “All I needed was the uniform, and my wife made this one. Not bad,” and he looked proudly at his red coat and trousers, trimmed with real white rabbit fur, and at his glossy black boots. “It’s perfect!” declared Arden. “Glad you like it! Well, after I got the uniform and I didn’t have to raise any beard, I decided I needed some practice to act right as Santa Claus, me never having played the part before, though I’ve watched the others. So I put the uniform in my old flivver and came out here in the woods to rehearse, as you might say. This is the second time I’ve done it. I act like I think the old fellow would act with a lot of happy children around him—sort of skipping and prancing. Am I keeping you too long? I wanted to get it down right before I went out into that Sunday-school crowd. And that’s what I was doing—rehearsing—when you saw me. Guess you must have thought it sort of odd.” “We—we thought you were a ghost!” murmured Terry. “Ghost! My stars!” “The ghost of Patience Howe, on account of the red,” explained Arden. “Oh—Patience Howe—I see—her as is supposed to have been around Sycamore Hall in the Revolution and hid her horse from the soldiers. Yes, that’s a story around here, but I don’t know—ghosts—no such animals if you ask me!” He laughed heartily. “I suppose you have heard,” suggested Arden, “that the ghost of Patience, in her red cloak, is said to wander around the old Hall at times.” “Oh, yes, I’ve heard that story, but nobody I know ever saw any ghost like that. Though, now you speak of it, I did hear that the contractor who’s tearing down the Hall has been having trouble with his men on account of queer happenings. But I don’t take any stock in ’em. Just rantings of the Negro and Italian laborers, I reckon.” “Some queer things have happened there,” said Arden. “But now what are we going to do? I must get Terry home as soon as possible—a doctor must look at her ankle at once!” “I know—sprained ankles can kick up quite a fuss. But as I’m sort of to blame for this, I’ll do my best to remedy the trouble. I shouldn’t have kept you here so long talking, by golly! I’ve got my flivver parked over near where I was rehearsing. I can run it here—no trouble at all—my flivver’ll go up the side of a barn. And we’ll put your friend in and I’ll run her home in a jiffy, if you want me to.” “I think that will be the best thing to do,” said Arden. “We have a friend in Sycamore Hall——” “You have!” cried Mr. Henshot. “Why, I was told Granny Howe couldn’t prove title to the place and she had to get out and it’s being torn down.” “That’s right,” Arden assented. “But the friend I speak of is just in there temporarily, looking for ghosts.” “My stars!” exclaimed Santa Claus. “Well, I’ll go get my flivver. Be back right quick. Don’t let her step on her ankle. I’m mighty, mighty sorry this happened!” He ran away with surprising speed for such an elderly man, his white beard flying in the wind, and almost before Arden could shift Terry to a little easier position on her shoulder Mr. Henshot was back with his creaking roadster. To Arden’s surprise he still wore his Santa Claus suit. “Aren’t you going to take that off?” she asked, for she knew he had it on over his other clothes. “Got no time!” he said briskly. “We got to get this young lady to a doctor right away. I’ll drive you just as I am. I don’t mind,” he said quickly. “It’s in Pentville, and nobody’ll know me there. I wouldn’t want to drive through Bayley Corners like this, for it would sort of spoil things for the youngsters if they see me ahead of time. But it’s all right in Pentville. Drive you just the way I am!” Terry was feeling too miserable to object, and Arden realized it would be useless. Besides, she knew Terry must have her injured ankle looked to as soon as possible. After all, perhaps no one the girls knew would see them. Terry managed to hobble on one foot and, assisted by Arden and Santa Claus, was placed on the rear seat of the car with her chum to hold her against the rough riding. For it would be rough getting out of the stretch of woods and clearing. “Might as well take this holly you picked,” said Mr. Henshot. “It’ll look right pretty in the car with me dressed like Santa Claus and all this snow coming down. A regular white Christmas!” he chuckled. “Right pretty!” He piled the branches in with the girls, putting some in the empty seat beside him, and slid under the wheel. Then he started the car, driving carefully, after Terry gave a little moan of pain at a sudden jolt. “I’ll have to take a short cut,” he explained, “so we can’t go past the Hall and pick up your ghost-hunting friend. Sorry, but I can’t go that way.” “It’s all right,” said Arden. “He has a car.” She wondered what those who saw the strange outfit would say, but this held only a moment’s interest. Terry’s injury might mean a curtailment of some of the Christmas festivities, besides all poor Terry’s suffering. They were out of the woods at last and on a smoother road, not having passed either Granny’s cottage or the Hall. In a short time they were on the outskirts of Pentville and entered the town by a back road. So not many saw them, and those who did, while they smiled and laughed and pointed, put it down to an advertising stunt. Arden saw no one she knew, Terry saw nothing but Arden’s kind shoulder which she leaned against. But when the auto of the modern Santa Claus drew up at Sim’s house and Moselle answered Mr. Henshot’s ring at the door, she jumped back with fright. “Mercy sakes alive! Whatever is this? A real live——” Moselle was most eloquent when silence seized her. |
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