She turned the knob of the door and pushed it open a tiny bit. There was no light in the room, although the tree was strung with electric bulbs of rainbow hues. Instead of an open fireplace now, as there once had been, there was a gas log under the old mantelpiece. But this was turned off. The steam-heating plant in the cellar warmed the house sufficiently and the logs were used only in the fall and spring before and after Uncle Rufus and Neale started the heater.
Mrs. MacCall’s finger searched for the button on the wall just inside the door which would light all the lamps in the room. And just then she heard a muffled thumping sound, and the bells all rang again!
“Slosh!” ejaculated the housekeeper. “’Tis ghosties, sure enough!”
She did not mean that, of course. She was just puzzled. But she knew, in spite of the darkness, that there was something moving under the Christmas tree where the rug had been turned back for the framework, which held the tree, to stand.
“Who is it?” demanded Aunt Sarah from above.
“I’m nae so sure ’tis not Sammy Pinkney,” grumbled the housekeeper. “He’s always up to something. To be sure! I was right,” she added, for now she had pressed the electric light button and the whole room was ablaze with light.
The thing under the tree jumped again and the bells once more jingled. The housekeeper stepped forward in wonder. Was it another big cat? Or—or——
“For the land’s sake!” gasped Mrs. MacCall. “I knew I was right. Nobody but that dratted Sammy would have brought in a rabbit and tied it to that tree. And there’s a Christmas card tied to the creature’s neck.”
She had to laugh, however. It was not a cat, but a big Belgian hare—the biggest Mike Donlan had in his pen. And the price of it had simply wiped out Sammy’s bank account!
He had scrawled on a mistletoe bepictured card the following: