The Project Gutenberg eBook ofDanny againThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Danny againfurther adventures of "Danny the Detective"Author: Vera C. BarclayRelease date: February 28, 2018 [eBook #56658]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Stephen Hutcheson and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DANNY AGAIN ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Danny againfurther adventures of "Danny the Detective"Author: Vera C. BarclayRelease date: February 28, 2018 [eBook #56658]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Stephen Hutcheson and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive)
Title: Danny again
further adventures of "Danny the Detective"
Author: Vera C. Barclay
Author: Vera C. Barclay
Release date: February 28, 2018 [eBook #56658]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Stephen Hutcheson and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DANNY AGAIN ***
“And then—then he saw the terrible sight; a horse and sleigh was standing across the run”
“And then—then he saw the terrible sight; a horse and sleigh was standing across the run”
DANNY AGAINFURTHER ADVENTURES OF“DANNY THE DETECTIVE”BYVERA C. BARCLAYIllustratedG. P. PUTNAM’S SONSNEW YORK AND LONDONThe Knickerbocker Press1920
FURTHER ADVENTURES OF“DANNY THE DETECTIVE”
BYVERA C. BARCLAY
Illustrated
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONSNEW YORK AND LONDONThe Knickerbocker Press1920
DO YOUR BEST
DedicatedTOTHE “CARDINAL’S OWN” WOLF CUBSWHO HEARD THESE STORIES BEFORE THEY EVER CAME TO BE WRITTEN DOWN
*Reprinted fromThe Wolf Cubby kind permission of Messrs. Pearson.
It all began the morning after a Zepp raid. The village of Dutton had had a very narrow escape. Six bombs had been dropped in the night, but not a single person had been hurt. One sad thing had happened, however, and Danny Moor was the first one to make it known in the village, and the first one to decide how the damage should be put right. The Huns had dropped a bomb thirty yards from the little grey church, and a great piece of metal had smashed to fragments a beautiful stained-glass window. Danny was sad, for the Cubs loved that window very much. It represented the shepherds at Bethlehem on the first Christmas morning, and the Cubs had discovered to their delight that the Child Christ in His Mother’s arms had His two fingers raised, as if in the Cub salute! So they looked upon the little chapel where the window was as their special corner of the church, and it was there that the monthly church parade took place. Now, the window lay in splinters of shimmering glass upon the floor, and the morning sun streamed through a jagged hole where before used to be the little figure of the Holy Child, smiling down upon the Cubs. But as Danny stood looking sadly at the blue sky through the hole, a bright idea came to him, and he made a vow that before long a new window should be put up in the place of the broken one, and that he and the Cubs would pay for it.
After school that morning he got the other Sixers and Seconds to come and hold a special council in the corner of his garden, and then he told them the sad news. “But I’ve vowed we’ll put up a new window,” he said; “will you help?” They all agreed at once, and Fred Codding, practical as usual, began to count the cost. “It’ll cost an awful lot,” he said, “I should think nearly a pound.” “Oh!” said the others. “Well,” continued Fred, “there’s eighteen of us; say we each gave sixpence, that would be 9s. Then my six has got 2s. we saved up for buying a bat—we’ll give that.” “Eleven bob,” said Danny, “good.” “I say,” said Freckles, “what about asking Mr. Fox to give that 5s. the squire gave him for our picnic next Saturday?” “Good idea,” said one of the others, “that’s sixteen bob. I bet we can raise four more somehow.”
So directly school was over that afternoon they dashed down to their chaplain to tell him the splendid good turn they were going to do. He was very pleased. But he said he thought £1 would not do it. He looked up the cost of stained-glass windows in a big book. “I’m afraid it will be £20,” he said. The Cubs did not gasp nor show what they felt.
“All right, sir,” said Danny. “We’ll get £20, somehow—won’t we, boys?—’cos we’ve promised to.”
They were rather silent as they walked home. And yet they felt sure something would turn up to enable them to keep their promise. As they parted they promised each other to think out a good idea, and never to give up till they had earned enough money for the window.
. . . . . . . .
The next day Danny had a bright idea. It was this: that the Pack should start wastepaper collecting. “I’ve been doing sums all the morning,” said Danny, “and I’ve found out that we could get £20 in seven months if we worked hard. Of course it would take all our Saturdays.”
“I suppose you are going round with your baby’s pram,” said Freckles. Danny punched his head for him, and then explained proudly that the Scoutmaster had promised the use of the trek cart. At that the Pack gave a howl of delight, and the waste-paper scheme was passed unanimously by the council. The £20 began to seem more possible now; and the Pack meant to do its best.
. . . . . . . .
It was a month later that something happened which set Danny’s detective’s heart beating fast with hope and excitement. The Pack had been slaving hard at waste paper, and had already collected and sold £3 worth. Danny, tired with the day’s work, was leaning against his garden gate in the cool of the evening when his old friend, the village policeman, sauntered up.
“Hello, Danny the Detective,” he said, “come and have a look at my old sow—she’s got a litter of ten little ’uns, born this morning.” Danny loved baby pigs, and so he went with Mr. Bates at once. But as soon as Mr. Bates had him in his own yard, and out of earshot of other people, he forgot about the pigs, and turned to Danny with a solemn look on his face. “I want a conversation with you, private-like,” he said. “I’m going to tell you something, if you’ll promise never to speak a word to any other folks about it.” “I promise on my honour as a Wolf Cub,” said Danny. “Go ahead, guv’nor.” “Well,” said Mr. Bates, “you done good work with them German spies last autumn. You’ve got a proper detective’s brain, you have. I want you just to keep your eyes on Mr. Bulky, him what goes round tuning up the rich folks’ pianers. I don’t say as how I have anything at all against him at present, but I don’t like the looks of him. Don’t you say a word, but just you keep your eyes open, and poke about, careful-like, round his place, and let me know if you find out something. I’m afraid to say anything at the police station, for fear he finds out he’s being watched. So I says to myself, ‘I’ll put Danny the Detective on his tracks.’”
Mr. Bulky was a man with a fat, pale face and shifty little eyes. He bicycled about all over the neighbourhood with a small black bag, and tuned the pianos in the big houses. When he was not out tuning pianos he would always be found either playing pieces by Mendelssohn in his front parlour, or attending to his famous prize fowls. These he was very proud of, and would often travel to distant parts of the country with a hen in a basket to exhibit her at some poultry show. He even went to the Continent, sometimes, to buy poultry and pigeons. No one in Dutton liked him. He had lived there only about five years. His sister, a very stout person, called Miss Bulky, kept house for him. He had a large cottage on the outskirts of Dutton. And now Mr. Bates, the policeman, suspected him, and had put Danny on his track! Danny, of course, was delighted. For one thing, it was an honour to have a policeman ask his help like that. But most of all he was pleased because he had begun to thirst for another adventure, and he was afraid, having had such a glorious one before, it could never be his luck to have another. “Poke about his place careful-like,” the policeman had said. But Danny found it no easy job. If you crept up at the back of the house, all the horrid hens in the long runs began cackling (like the geese on the Capitol), and if you went up by the front, a beastly mongrel suddenly leapt out of his kennel with a yell, and made a row like several dog fights. This brought Miss Bulky out of the house, looking as fearsome as “Mrs. Bung,” of the Happy Family Cards.
So Danny had to content himself with making sketches of Mr. Bulky’s footmarks and bicycle tracks, and taking notes as to what time he went out and what time he came in.
. . . . . . . .
It was a glorious Saturday in June. A team of Cubs had worked hard all the morning and collected more sacks of waste paper than usual. They had also made a more than usually ghastly mess with it in Pack headquarters. And they had, I am sorry to say, played “trench warfare” and “bayonet charges” with last week’s load. They were just going home, at 1 o’clock, to get dinner and a wash, before starting out for a long-promised expedition to the river, when Mr. Fox, the Cubmaster, arrived on the scene. “My word,” he said, “what a frightful mess! It’s a pity you’ve done that, because the paper has all to be sorted and packed this afternoon, ready to be called for very early on Monday morning. I had hoped you would have got on with it this morning. Now I’m afraid I shall have to tell off three boys for the job this afternoon.”
“But, sir, we are going to the river this afternoon,” they said.
“Yes,” said Mr. Fox, “that’s just why it was a pity you were such little asses as to upset the sacks already packed, and not have got on with to-day’s sorting. Three boys must stay behind and do the work, and when they have done, they can follow on.”
Someone murmured something sulky about its not being fair. Someone else said he would do it to-morrow. “No,” said Mr. Fox, “to-morrow’s Sunday, remember.” “Who’s got to stay, sir?” asked Danny, thinking how cool the river would be this afternoon, and how nice tea in the old punt would be after a swim.
Mr. Fox looked at the team. “Well,” he said, “judging by the filthy condition of your face, young Danny, I should think you’d done a lot of rolling about in the ‘trenches’ yourself. You might have known better, being a Sixer. You must be one. Then this Second, here, is the next dirtiest; you’ve had your play, so it’s only fair you should have the clearing up. And Ginger hasn’t had a fatigue for a long time! I shall expect the waste paper properly packed, and all the newspaper sorted from it and tied in bundles, and this hut quite clean and ready for Sunday.”
In a chastened mood the team went home to dinner. They knew Mr. Fox was in the right, so there was nothing to grumble about.
At 2 o’clock the Pack went off, towels round necks, and a cheery whistle to keep everyone in step. Three sorrowful Cubs watched them go, and then turned into the hut to face a hot and dirty job.
Thicker and thicker flew the dust. “Talk about germs,” said Danny; “it’s all very well to teach us hygiene, and then ask us to swallow germs by the pound.”
“Waste paper!” said Ginger, “I call it just dust-bins.”
“There are more sacks than usual this week,” said Danny.
“Yes,” replied Philip, the Second of the Blacks. “We got one from old Bulky’s. They won’t generally give us any paper, but we saw his servant carrying it down to the rubbish heap. She said she had orders to burn every scrap herself. But we got her to give it to us.”
“Oh,” said Danny, thoughtfully.
“I vote we don’t open any of those sacks,” said Ginger. “Mr. Fox won’t ever know they weren’t sorted. It would save heaps of time.”
“It wouldn’t be fair,” said Danny. “He’s trusted us to do it—we must do it properly. Besides, we get more money if it’s properly sorted, and we want that twenty quid for the window.” And so an argument began. Everybody was hot when it started, but they got hotter and hotter. Ginger said he would not do a stroke of work unless Danny agreed not to sort the sacks that were not open. Philip was so offensive that Danny had to smack his head for him. And so it happened that these two young slackers departed for home and tea, and Danny found himself faced with the entire job alone. At first he thought he would chuck it up and go home, too. Then he decided not to “give in to himself.” And finally he remembered that every minute he worked he was serving the Holy Child, by earning money for the window, and he began to take a delight in getting as hot as possible, and almost relished the mouthfuls of dust he had to swallow. He battled with the sacks with the ardour of a Crusader fighting for the great cause, and suffered the discomfort in the spirit of a martyr. And when he came to the last sack, he was truly rewarded.
. . . . . . . .
It was long past tea time, for sorting the paper unaided was a long job. But Danny was determined he would not leave the hut until he had completely finished the job, and got the place swept clean and the room arranged for Sunday. It would be a surprise for the boys and Mr. Fox to-morrow morning, for he knew the Pack would not be coming back to headquarters that evening, but would dismiss in the village and go straight home. He was nearly tired out by the time he got to the last sack. Untying the string, he emptied the dusty contents on the floor, and picked out the newspaper, waste paper, and cardboard. He was about to shovel back the waste paper when his eyes fell on a scrap of a torn letter covered with curious writing that was certainly not English; the very characters were different. Picking it up, he looked at it carefully. Yes, they were the same funny characters as those on many of the letters that had been found in the possession of the German spies he had caught last autumn. “A German letter!” he said, “in one of our sacks! Of course ... Philip said they had got a sack from old Bulky. This is a clue; or rather it will be a strong piece of evidence if I can find the whole letter.” Eagerly he bent down and began searching about in the pile of waste paper. But it was at that moment that he heard the outer gate click and steps coming along the path. Glancing through the window, he saw to his dismay that it was the very last person in the world he wanted to see just then. It was Mr. Bulky!
When Danny saw Mr. Bulky coming down the path, he thought quick as lightning, and decided what to do, at once. Stepping out of the door, he slammed it after him, so that it locked itself. (The key was in his pocket.) Then he pretended he was off home, and, putting on his cap, began walking down the path towards Mr. Bulky.
“Evening, sir,” he said as he passed. “Hullo, boy,” said Mr. Bulky. “Why did you come to my house this morning and take away my waste paper? I told you I would not give it to you. You must give me back my sack at once. Do you hear?” He scowled angrily.
“I am sorry, sir,” said Danny. “I am afraid I can’t, this evening. I shall have to get leave from our Cubmaster. I am sure he will say yes, and I will bring it back to you on Monday morning.”
“No,” said the man, “you shall give it to me now.”
He walked towards the door and tried to open it. Whilst his back was turned, Danny took the key from his pocket and flung it into a patch of young potato plants.
“Give me the key,” said the man, turning round.
“I haven’t got it on me,” said Danny.
“Little liar,” said the man, and turned out Danny’s pockets. Then he swore hard, and gave Danny’s ear a nasty twist. “I promise to bring you back the sack on Monday,” said Danny. “Very well,” growled Mr. Bulky, and he walked out of the gate. Danny followed him out, and then ran down the road in the opposite direction till he was out of sight round the corner. Then he got through a gap in the hedge and ran back under cover of it. When he had made sure that Mr. Bulky was well on his way home he got back into the garden and found the key. It was after six, and he still had a long job before him, so he went back to tea.
. . . . . . . .
It was past seven when Danny once more set to work. Taking up every scrap of paper he examined it carefully. Before long he had found another scrap covered with the same writing. He put it in a box with the first. It was a slow job, but gradually he found more and more pieces. They fitted together like a jig-saw puzzle. Luckily they were only written on one side.
“I know what I’ll do,” said Danny to himself, “I’ll stick them on a sheet of white paper, and then when I have them all it will make a complete letter, and I can take it to Mr. Bates, as evidence against old Bulky.”
It was getting dark, so he lit the lamp and drew the curtains across the window. Going into the Sixers’ room he took the paste pot off Mr. Fox’s desk, and also a sheet of foolscap paper. Then, squatting on the ground by the sack of paper, he laid all the precious pieces out, fitting them together. Another half-hour’s search had revealed the rest of the scraps, and with a wriggle of delight Danny added the last piece. It made a long letter—nearly the size of the foolscap sheet. It was dated and signed, and Danny felt sure it was in German. Taking the paste brush, he pasted them all down, making a very neat job of it.
“Now I must clear up,” he said to himself as he knelt up admiring his work. “It must be jolly late.”
“His eyes met a pair of watching eyes fixed on him through the crack of the curtains”
“His eyes met a pair of watching eyes fixed on him through the crack of the curtains”
He glanced up at the curtained windows to see if any light showed through the cracks, or if it was quite dark, and his heart seemed to stop, and then go on at a furious pace. His eyes had met full a pair of watching eyes fixed on him through the cracks of the curtains. The glimpse he had caught of the eyes and white face filled him with fear—but he was a born Scout, a true wolf of the jungle. He dropped his eyes again immediately to the letter, and pretended he had seen nothing. Not by a tremor did he give away that he knew he was being watched. Taking up the letter he fixed his eyes on it as if he were trying to read it, and while his heart beat like a hammer against his sides he thought quickly what he must do.
The man was Mr. Bulky, of course. He had come back to try and break into the hut, and seeing the light had looked through the window. He had watched Danny paste his letter on the paper. He had seen the complete letter. He knew exactly what Danny was up to. Why was he waiting there so quietly? He was waiting for Danny to come out, with the precious letter on him. He would then kidnap him, and take away the letter, and keep him a prisoner, so that he could not give any information to the police. What on earth should he do? The one thing he must be careful about was not to let the man suspect he had seen him. And so, making a very great effort, he managed to compose himself completely, not allowing his hand so much as to tremble, and even managing to raise a cheerful whistle. He folded the letter and put it in the back pocket of his shorts, and then set to work clearing up. This gave him time to think. He shovelled back the paper into the sack. He went into the Sixers’ room and tidied that. He came back and swept the floor. He dared not look at the window, but he felt that the watching eyes were fixed upon him, like those of a tiger crouching in the darkness ready to spring on its prey.
As he worked he thought and thought. The man was guarding the door, and there was no hope of getting out of any of the windows, for he could see them all. In the little inner room there were no windows, it was lighted by a skylight. Of course it would be possible to climb up through this on to the roof, and then drop on to the ground; but the ground was covered with new gravel, and the man would be certain to hear; also there was no way out of the garden except by the gate guarded by Mr. Bulky, for it would be impossible to get over the high fence without making a noise.
The tidying up of the room was finished. If he stayed there much longer the man would begin to suspect that he had been seen. Besides it was getting very late.
Suddenly an intense feeling of horror came over Danny. He was like a rat in a trap. The moments were slipping by; those silent eyes were watching; before long something must happen, and he was too far from any house to be heard if he shouted for help. His heart began to sink, and then, suddenly, just as if his Guardian Angel had whispered in his ear, a splendid idea came to him, which quickly unfolded itself into a scheme by which he felt sure he would be able to escape, himself, and take the spy prisoner, as well.
But if his plan was to succeed it was most important that he should know if Mr. Bulky was alone, or if he had an accomplice. Also, exactly where he was. Going into the Sixers’ room Danny took his boots off, then climbing on to the top of the bookcase, softly opened the skylight, and drew himself up on to the roof. Creeping along the tiles as silently as a cat, he peered down through the darkness. There, sure enough, stood Mr. Bulky, exactly outside the door of the hut. He was alone.
Creeping softly back, Danny let himself down through the skylight once more. Whistling loudly, he went into the big room, just to show that he was there, and, taking up the spare bundles of newspapers, pretended to be putting them away in the other room. This he did simply to put the man off his guard, if he was still watching through the crack in the curtains. Then, while the spy imagined he was packing away the papers in the Sixers’ room, he began to make his arrangements for capturing Mr. Bulky.
First of all he took the two trek cart ropes, and making them into coils slipped them round his arm. Then from the week-end camp cupboard he took the large travelling rug belonging to Mr. Fox. It was heavy and cumbersome, and climbing out of the skylight with it was no easy job, but somehow Danny managed to do it and to get along the roof until once more he was exactly over the head of Mr. Bulky.
The great moment had come. If only the spy did not chance to look up all would be well. Balancing himself carefully, Danny stood up and opened wide the folds of the heavy rug. Then with great care he flung it completely over the figure of the man below, at the same time jumping down himself straight on to the smothered head of the terrified Mr. Bulky, and knocking him down like a ninepin. Hopelessly tangled in the rug, Mr. Bulky’s struggles were of no avail. Danny, kneeling on his chest, quickly wound one of the ropes about his feet, and secured it with a clove-hitch. The other rope he wound round and round the unhappy man’s body and arms, finishing up with a bow-line round his neck, so that his struggles only made matters worse for him. The language of Mr. Bulky was probably very strong, but fortunately his mouth was so full of rug that Danny did not understand a word.
As he stood there in the semi-darkness, Danny could not help laughing. Mr. Bulky looked so exactly like a chrysalis; he curled about just as they do when you hold them in your warm hand, or poke them with your finger. But what to do with the chrysalis was more than he could decide. At last an idea struck him: he would cart him off to the police station in the trek cart!
With some difficulty he managed to put together the cart, and then with much hauling and pushing, and the help of a strong plank, he managed to hoist the bundle that was Mr. Bulky into the cart. Then, whistling a cheerful tune, he trundled it down the road towards Mr. Bates’s house.
Mr. Bates was just helping Mrs. Bates wash up when Danny knocked at his door. He came out in his shirt-sleeves, a large carving fork in his hand. “Hello, Danny,” he said, “what brings you here so late?”
“I have come,” said Danny with a tone of high importance in his voice, “to deliver into your hands a document, written in German, and found in the possession of Mr. Bulky.”
The constable gasped.
“Here it is,” said Danny, handing him the letter.
Mr. Bates examined it carefully. “That’s German, sure enough,” he said, trying to read it aloud, and only succeeding in making a series of noises very much like his old sow. Danny laughed. “Well,” said Mr. Bates, “how did you get this? Old Bulky don’t know you’ve got it, do ’e?”
“Yes,” said Danny, “he knows I have got it. And what’s more, he knows I have brought it to you.”
Mr. Bates said something strong. “That’s done it,” he added. “He’ll be gone away to London by now, and no more shall we see of him. Couldn’t you have managed to let me know quicker?”
Danny was chuckling to himself.
“I knew you’d be disappointed when I told you, so I’ve brought you something in the trek cart to cheer you up.”
Mr. Bates grunted. He did not sound very grateful.
“Come and see,” said Danny. Mr. Bates walked up to the trek cart and looked at the bundle. He gave it a poke with his carving fork, whereupon the bundle emitted a yell of pain and a torrent of German abuse. Mr. Bates, frightened out of his wits, was half across his little garden in one bound.
“What is it?” he asked, wiping the perspiration from his brow.
“Only Mr. Bulky,” said Danny, doubled up with laughter. “You’ve hurt him, I’m afraid, with your fork.”
Mr. Bates, still half afraid of the uncanny bundle in the trek cart, drew near, somewhat gingerly. Then, as the situation dawned on him, he gave vent to a roar of laughter like a bull. He laughed so much that he had to sit down on a seat. At last he got up and went over to the trek cart.
“I think we had better take this ’ere German sausage to the police station, just as it is,” he said. “I don’t fancy opening it myself.”
So together Danny and Mr. Bates trundled the cart the two miles into the little country town, and made over its contents to the inspector who also laughed.
And Danny went home that night feeling that he had done a good day’s work.
. . . . . . . .
The cheque he received for his good work more than paid for the new window in the Cubs’ chapel; and by Danny’s special request an Angel was put into the picture by the artist, because Danny was quite sure it was his Guardian Angel who had whispered to him the suggestion how he could escape, when he had given up hope.
It was to be a particularly jolly Christmas in Danny’s home this year, for his soldier uncle was going to be there, and two or three little cousins. His mother had made some big plum puddings; the house was decorated with holly and mistletoe; and, to put the final touch of perfection, it was snowing, and the boys would be able to make a snow man on Christmas afternoon. Danny was very happy—all seemed perfect. But on the morning of Christmas Eve a letter came by post that altered things. The letter was from Danny’s Uncle Bill. It was a sad letter. It told how Bill and his wife, who had looked forward to a happy Christmas, would have a dull and sad one. Their son, expected home from Germany, could not get leave. They had both been so ill with influenza that Bill had not been able to work, and was therefore terribly hard up; and his wife had been unable to go out and buy anything to make Christmas jolly.
Bill was a woodcutter, and lived in a little tiny old cottage on the edge of a wood, about five miles from Danny’s home. As Danny listened to his mother reading the letter aloud a thought came into his mind. At first he tried to send it away, and not to see it, but a voice within him said, “You’re a Cub, and when good ideas come to you, you ought not to tell them to go away. It is giving in to yourself. If you are selfish, you will not enjoy your Christmas.” So Danny let the thought come back, and presently he told it to his mother.
“Mother,” he said, “will you pack up some nice things in a basket? Then I will start off after breakfast, and walk over to poor Uncle Bill’s. And I’ll decorate up all their house with holly, and go and do shopping for Aunt Bridget, and then I’ll spend Christmas with them, and try and cheer them up and make them forget they’re disappointed ’cos Ted hasn’t come home.”
Danny’s mother was surprised. “You’re a good boy to think of it,” she said. “But have you forgotten the Cubs’ party on Christmas evening?”
“No,” said Danny, “I haven’t forgotten it.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and whistled, to pretend he didn’t mind at all about missing the Christmas party, where all his fellow Cubs would be enjoying themselves. “I’ll be sorry to miss Uncle Jim,” he said. “Tell him so, mother, won’t you? And keep me a bit of plum pudding. But I must go and cheer up poor Uncle Bill.”
And so half an hour later he started off to tramp the long five miles, a kit-bag full of good things slung over his shoulder. The snowflakes fell soft and white, and the feeling of Christmas was in the air. And Danny was very happy—far happier than he had expected to be this Christmas.
. . . . . . . .
As he tramped along the snowy roads he was thinking of the strange story of Uncle Bill, and the bad luck that had seemed to follow him.
Bill’s father had been a man who owned a good deal of property, and a very clever man too, able to earn much money. But from boyhood he had been a miser. His one thought had been to earn gold and then store it away in secret, and count it up and gloat over it; but never spend more than he possibly could help, and never, never give any away. And so he brought up his children in rags, and often they had to go hungry and barefoot. He sold his property, to get more gold, and lived in a miserable little house by a wood. At last his three boys, tired of this wretched life, ran away from home and went to sea. Two of them were drowned, and Bill found himself the only remaining member of his family, with the exception of his sister, Danny’s mother, who had married and left home.
When Bill was twenty-one he received a message saying that his father was dead, and that all the gold he had amassed during his life would now belong to his son. So, feeling he was a very rich man, he married a nice girl from the little Irish seaport where he was staying, and returned home as quickly as possible. But when he reached his native village he learnt the bad news that the miser had died without leaving any will, and had hidden his gold so well that no one could find it. All that poor Bill inherited was a little old cottage and a woodcutter’s ax.
There was nothing for it but to make the best of a bad job, and settle down in the little house and become a woodcutter. And so Bill and his young wife did their best to make a comfortable home of the old place; but it was a hard life, and it was difficult always to be contented when they knew that somewhere thousands of golden sovereigns lay hidden that should have belonged to them. One son was born to them, and now he was nineteen, and had been fighting in France for the last year.
. . . . . . . .
It had been a long tramp, but at last Danny found himself in the wood on the borders of which was Uncle Bill’s cottage. There was plenty of lovely holly covered with berries in this wood; and up in an oak tree Danny saw some mistletoe. So, putting down his bundle and taking out his knife, he climbed the tree and cut down a great bunch of it, and then filled his arms with holly. He looked like the very spirit of Christmas as he stood in the doorway of Uncle Bill’s house, the snow thick on him, his red muffler making a bright patch of colour, his arms full of holly and mistletoe, and a great bulging kit-bag, slung across his back.
The little room of the cottage looked dull and dismal. Only a tiny fire burned feebly in the great open fireplace. Bill and his wife, looking pale and ill, sat one each side, in silence. But Danny’s appearance seemed to work a miracle. He had brought the spirit of youth to the house. Before long they were all laughing. He and Uncle Bill were putting up holly above the pictures, and hanging the mistletoe in the chimney-corner. And Bridget was unpacking the kit-bag. Before long Danny had been out and chopped some logs, so that a fire was roaring and crackling up the chimney, and sending sparks flying like fire-fairies.
“This is something like Christmas,” said Uncle Bill, as they sat down to a good dinner from what Danny had brought, though the plum pudding and mince pies were being kept for Christmas Day.
After dinner Danny started off for the village to buy the things Aunt Bridget needed. By the time he had finished his shopping and was starting back again for the woodcutter’s, the sun had set, in a glory of red, beyond the snowy trees, and blue dusk was quickly closing in.
. . . . . . . .
As Danny passed the last house in the village he was surprised to see a figure standing in the garden. He had noticed this house before, as he passed, and had seen that it stood empty, the windows shuttered, the doors locked, and everything deserted. Coming nearer, he looked curiously at the figure. It was that of a very, very old man, thin and bent, with a long white beard, and long white hair. He was shaking his head and talking to himself in a most sorrowful voice.
“A sorry thing, a sorry thing,” he was saying, “to be gone eighty year old and never a corner to lay your head on Christmas Eve.”
Danny stopped, filled with pity for the aged man.
“Hullo, grandad!” he said, “is there anything I can do for you?”
The old man shook his head mournfully. “Nay, nay,” he said, “I be eighty year old, and I’ve walked nine mile to spend Christmas with me gran’son, and now I come to his house and find it empty. I haven’t got nowhere to lay me head this night, and not a penny to pay for a lodging. It’s dying of cold I’ll be, a-lying in a ditch all night.” And he took out a big red handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe his eyes.
It was too sad to think of this! Somehow a happy Christmas must be provided for this old man, so pathetically like Father Christmas himself! Danny knew the charitable spirit that Uncle Bill always showed, and the warm, generous heart of his Irish aunt, and so he felt sure they would welcome this poor old stranger.
“Come home with me, grandad,” he said, “you’ll find a roaring log fire, and an armchair in the chimney corner, and to-morrow you shall eat Christmas pudding.”
The old man looked almost dazed with surprise. He peered closer at Danny. “Is it a Christmas fairy you are, out of the wood?” he said in a whisper.
This was splendid, to be taken for a fairy! “Yes,” said Danny, laughing; and taking the aged man’s cold, gnarled old hand, he led him through the wood to his uncle’s house.
“Shure,” cried his aunt as she opened the door. “I do believe he’s afther bringing us Faither Christmas himself.”
Danny soon explained, and Bill and Bridget gave the old stranger a warm welcome. “They do say,” exclaimed Bridget, “that if you welcome a stranger on Christmas Eve, he may be an Angel.”
“’Tain’t no Angel as I be,” said the old man, shaking his head. And then he laughed, and he had little, twinkling eyes. “If there be an Angel about, ’tis yourself, or the boy here.”
Every one was hungry that night, and supper was a cheery meal. But after supper came the time Danny longed for. The lamp was put out (to save the oil), and the bright, dancing firelight glowed in the quaint little room, with its crooked beams and uneven floor. In the deep chimney-corner, one on each side, sat Bill and Bridget, and enthroned in the large armchair before the fire sat the ancient stranger, puffing contentedly at a long clay pipe. Danny was curled up on the rabbit-skin rug. “Now,” he said, his eyes dancing with expectation, “now for stories.”
So, to the accompaniment of crackles from the logs, Bill recounted many a strange and thrilling yarn of his sailor days. At last he was silent.
“Grandad,” said Danny, turning to the ancient stranger, “will you tell us a story? A mysterious one. I’m sure there were fairies and hobgoblins when you were a boy, long, long ago. Or, do you know a ghost story?”
The old man nodded his head. “Yes,” he said, “there were fairies, sure enough, when I was a boy. But I was not a good enough boy to see them. But a hobgoblin I did see, once. ’Twas on just such a night as this—Christmas Eve, with snow on the ground,—and ’twas but a stone’s throw from this very house.”