“So I said I’d be Santa Claus,” went on Mr. Henshot. “All I needed was the uniform, and my wife made this one. Not bad,” and he looked proudly at his red coat and trousers, trimmed with real white rabbit fur, and at his glossy black boots.
“It’s perfect!” declared Arden.
“Glad you like it! Well, after I got the uniform and I didn’t have to raise any beard, I decided I needed some practice to act right as Santa Claus, me never having played the part before, though I’ve watched the others. So I put the uniform in my old flivver and came out here in the woods to rehearse, as you might say. This is the second time I’ve done it. I act like I think the old fellow would act with a lot of happy children around him—sort of skipping and prancing. Am I keeping you too long? I wanted to get it down right before I went out into that Sunday-school crowd. And that’s what I was doing—rehearsing—when you saw me. Guess you must have thought it sort of odd.”
“We—we thought you were a ghost!” murmured Terry.
“Ghost! My stars!”
“The ghost of Patience Howe, on account of the red,” explained Arden.
“Oh—Patience Howe—I see—her as is supposed to have been around Sycamore Hall in the Revolution and hid her horse from the soldiers. Yes, that’s a story around here, but I don’t know—ghosts—no such animals if you ask me!” He laughed heartily.
“I suppose you have heard,” suggested Arden, “that the ghost of Patience, in her red cloak, is said to wander around the old Hall at times.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard that story, but nobody I know ever saw any ghost like that. Though, now you speak of it, I did hear that the contractor who’s tearing down the Hall has been having trouble with his men on account of queer happenings. But I don’t take any stock in ’em. Just rantings of the Negro and Italian laborers, I reckon.”
“Some queer things have happened there,” said Arden. “But now what are we going to do? I must get Terry home as soon as possible—a doctor must look at her ankle at once!”