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.
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