“Nothing in that, Reverend. Thank the Katcham woman. I had to beat her to it.”
Dick went back to his pipe. He was too happy to sleep. He remembered a remark of Katie’s, made months ago, and he repeated it aloud, “The Lord sure is a wonder!”
For several years now Sabinsport had had a Christmas tree on the square at five P. M. of Christmas eve, with carols and prayers and the free distribution to all the children of large and enticing stockings filled with candies. At six, almost every house in town had lighted candles in its windows. This year they were to have their Christmas tree as usual, but, in deference to Mr. Hoover, the candies and candles were to be saved. At nine o’clock on Christmas night, there was to be a community celebration, the details of which nobody seemed to know, but the program had been hinted at in every quarter of the town in such a mysterious way that the anticipation was high.
Dick and Nancy had been responsible for drawing everybody in. The mines and mills, as well as High Town, had representatives. Every quarter knew that somebody from its ranks was to do something, though what that something was was an entire secret.
Sabinsport had a wonderful place for a great community celebration—the Opera House. When Mulligan and Cowder planned the Opera House they had been in their most optimistic mood. They wanted it big—big enough for conventions and expositions—“a stage on which you could have a circus,” was Jake’s idea. The result was a great, gaudy barn with a stage which would have done for a hippodrome. Financially, the size of the thing had defeated its purpose, but for a great town celebration it was magnificent. It was none too big for the affair in which Dick was interested.
By seven o’clock of Christmas night, the Opera House was packed. At seven-thirty the program began—songs and tableaux and speeches and impersonations. It went without a hitch—swift, compelling, and, oh, so merry. In an hour after it began the house was a happy, cheering crowd, helped not a little in their joyfulness by the presence of scores upon scores of soldiers, guests from the camp, and by the aid which the applause was getting from two boxes filled with officers, the General among them.
The program was almost finished—all but a single number which appeared simply as Music and Tableaux. If the audience had not been so interested, it would have noticed that up to this point there had been but the scantiest of reference to army or navy, to war or country. The very absence of these topics hushed them to silence when suddenly the orchestra broke into “Over There.”
It was like a call, penetrating, stirring. It hushed and thrilled them beyond applause. The hush deepened when suddenly, across the long drop curtain there flashed the words:—
SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE