Moselle’s involuntary shout of surprise and alarm brought Dorothy on a run to the front door. She gave one look at Terry and Arden seated in the flivver, surrounded by holly branches, another look at Santa Claus, and then laughingly demanded:
“Where do you play the next performance?”
“It isn’t any play, Dot!” called Arden. “Terry’s hurt!”
“Hurt!” She was serious in a moment.
“It’s only a sprained ankle,” said Terry, trying to speak with vigor. “All my own fault.”
“No, it’s my fault,” insisted Santa Claus.
Moselle, her eyes almost popping from her head, had retired to the back hall, but was still peeking and listening.
“This is Christmas and then some,” said Dorothy. “But whatever happened?”
Explanations were quickly made, amid contrite apologies from Mr. Henshot for his part in Terry’s accident. She was helped into the house and a doctor summoned. Then, having asked several times if he could be of any further service, aside from carrying in the holly branches, which he did, and having been thanked for what he had done, further help being graciously declined, the little man took himself away.
“But first,” he said, with a jolly laugh, “I’ll take off my disguise—all but my whiskers. I need them. And without my red suit there will be no chance for the children of Bayley Corners to recognize me.