"Thanks!" Jake said again. "I don't know where you'll fix it."
"Over the front door, sir, if you ask me," said Sam promptly.
"Oh, no, not there, Sam! It's a bit too public. Over this door if you like." Jake smiled a little and began to open his letter.
"All right, sir. I'll get a nail," said Sam.
He departed, and Jake, with a face grown stern, proceeded to read his letter.
When Sam returned, the letter had disappeared, and Jake was grinding at the fire with the poker with his head down and a deep red flush on his face. Sam noticed nothing. He was too much engrossed with the matter in hand.
Mounted on a wooden chair and whistling softly he applied himself to the task of hanging the mistletoe at the most inviting angle.
"Like a bit for your cap, sir?" he enquired, with an impudent grin, when he had finished.
Jake made no reply.
Sam threw him a glance, and found that he had turned and was standing with his back to the fire, gazing out before him with eyes that shone like two pieces of red quartz.