There was a trap at the "Boy and Blunderbuss," but that required fetching. Finally the hulking lad was dispatched. It took him some time, considering the distance was only "about half a mile." When the trap did appear it looked to me uncommonly like an open spring cart. In it I was deposited, with my luggage. The snow was still descending in whirling clouds. Never shall I forget the drive, in that miserable cart, through the storm and those pitch black country lanes. We had been jogging along some time before the driver opened his mouth. "Be you going to stop with they Wilsons?" "I am." "Ah!" There was something in the tone of his "Ah!" which whetted my curiosity, near the end of my tether though I was. "Why do you ask?" "It be about time as someone were to stay with them as were a bit capable like." I did not know what he meant. I did not ask. I was beyond it. I was chilled to the bone, wet, tired, hungry. I had long been wishing that an old-fashioned Christmas had been completely extinct before I had thought of adventuring in quest of one. Better cousin Lucy's notion of the "festive season." We passed through a gate, which I had to get down to open, along some sort of avenue. Suddenly the cart pulled up. "Here we be." That might be so. It was a pity he did not add where "here" was. There was a great shadow, which possibly did duty for a house, but, if so, there was not a light in any of the windows, and there was nothing visible in the shape of a door. The whereabouts of this, however, the driver presently made clear. "There be the door in front of you; you go up three steps, if you can find 'em. There's a knocker, if none of 'em haven't twisted it off. If they have, there's a bell on your right, if it isn't broken." There appeared to be no knocker, though whether it had been "twisted" off was more than I could say. But there was a bell, which creaked with rust, though it was not broken. I heard it tinkle in the distance. No answer; though I allowed a more than decent interval. "Better ring again," suggested the driver. "Hard. Maybe they're up to some of their games, and wants rousing." Was there a chuckle in the fellow's voice? I rang again, and again with all the force I could. The bell reverberated through what seemed like an empty house. "Is there no one in the place?" "They're there right enough. Where's another thing. Maybe on the roof; or in the cellar. If they know you're coming perhaps they hear and don't choose to answer. Better ring again." I sounded another peal. Presently feet were heard advancing along the passage--several pairs it seemed--and a light gleamed through the window over the door. A voice inquired: "Who's there?" "Mr. Christopher, from London." The information was greeted with what sounded uncommonly like a chorus of laughter. There was a rush of retreating feet, an expostulating voice, then darkness again, and silence. "Who lives here? Are the people mad?" "Well--thereabouts."