‘I dunno’, Dan’1,’ he expostulated gently. ‘’Twur a real double-six when ’er an’ me come together all they years ago. An’ th’ chillern, they be good throws, every wan. An’ that there noo little ’un, Dan’l—nauthin’ o’ th’ deuce-ace about him, I tell ye! But them as putts to sea, Dan’l, they must look fer rough weather, time and agen.’ He squared himself and gazed about him as though his weekly carter-wage of fourteen shillings were as many pounds. Then he beat his mug upon the table jovially. ‘An’ now,’ said he, ‘I’ll sing ye “Th’ Mistletoe Bough!”’ It was the beginning of the real entertainment of the evening. Vocal music in the Three Thatchers at ordinary times was accounted a rather disreputable thing—a mere tap-room vulgarism—by the habitual parlour company; but on certain rare nights in the year, of which this was one, every man present was expected to sing. One by one now, in Jack Farley’s wake, followed the rest of the assembly, and every song had a chorus that shook the very roof-beams of the house. No man thought of looking at the clock until, in the midst of a doleful melody from the landlord, old Tom Clemmer suddenly sprang to his one available foot. ‘’Tis th’ cart!’ he cried, and made for the door. In the general stampede after him, I heard Captain Stallwood’s grumbling voice: ‘Ut bean’t right nohow fer people as caan’t use tobacker to draw un away from them as can. I means to ha’ that there fower ounces, Dan’l. An’ Jack Farley—th’ ould swab!—’a must make out as best ’a can wi’ th’ turkey-burd.’ IV ‘Yes, I can see it,’ said the Reverend, ‘plainer than the sun in a midday sky.’ With a taper at the end of a long cane, I had just ignited the last of the candles, and the great Christmas-tree stood up before us, clad, from its bole to its highest twig, in a shimmering garment of light. We two were alone in the schoolroom, but beyond the closed door, we knew, was Mr. Weaverly; and, beyond him again, a sea of expectant faces filling the wide porch, and stretching out half across the street under the still, frost-bound night. Every child that was not whispering excitedly to its neighbour, was crooning to itself with irrepressible joy; and the sound came to us through the solid timber like the sound of a bee-hive just going to swarm. ‘Now open the door,’ said the Reverend, getting into his corner. ‘And if you miss a single thing, I’ll haunt you when I am gone to the end of your miserable life.’ I turned the key in the lock, and retreated hastily. The door flung open. I saw the black form of Mr. Weaverly flicker aside, and expected the whole room to be invaded in a minute by an avalanche of scrambling, vociferating mites. But it did not happen so.