He must keep his eye upon the Doctor until six o'clock, and lure him
away from the window.
"Tell me a story," begged Roger--"over here by the fire." And his voice
was so very tremulous and urgent that the hungry Doctor abandoned his
notion of a Christmas cookie, and complied.
To Roger, in a nervous ecstasy of anticipation, the story was a blurred
hodge-podge of phrases and crackling fire, distant noises of clinking
china and hurrying feet, and wild flights of imagination.... Old Asher
must be coming past the red barn now ... and now down the hill ... and
now past the Deacon's pond ... and now--
Sleigh-bells fairly leaped out of the quiet, and Roger jumped and
gulped, aquiver with excitement. The Doctor regarded him with mild
disfavor.
"Bless my soul," he said in surprise, "that was the quietest part of my
story. You're restless."
"Go on!" said Roger hoarsely, and the obliging Doctor, mistaking his
agitation for interest, went on with his tale.
But Roger had heard old Asher driving along by the picket fence and
turning in at the gate-posts, and the story was no more to him than the
noisy crackle of the log. Off somewhere in the region of the kitchen
door he detected a subdued scuffle of many feet.
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