Danny and Whitefoot felt a sudden queer twitch on the reins—a compelling touch that made them both swerve out of the direction they were taking. It was almost as if their driver meant them to turn around. Much earlier in the day, when they first left Wistar’s, for instance, such a command would not have appeared singular; but coming at a time when the tavern lay so far behind as to be forgotten, when the world seemed a blanket of drift and down and glistening silver, with no house in sight, the action was at least puzzling to their equine minds. They stopped instantly, however, the noise of their bells hushed into silence. Whitefoot turned a wondering face upon his master, and almost immediately Danny looked protestingly around. The man met their gaze half guiltily. Beyond—oh, very far beyond—lay Merle, with its Christmas fun,—Merle, where he must be that night, or his name would be the jibe of the countryside; and back of them—a good twelve miles, perhaps fifteen, they had jogged on at such a steady pace—was that solitary house. If he turned round it must be good-by to Merle; it would be impossible for Danny and Whitefoot to make the journey again without rest. He shifted the reins from one hand to the other.
“Why are we stopping?” asked the child.
He looked at her in some perplexity, then his brow cleared.
“To give the bastes their feed; they’re perishin’ wid hunger, so they are, the saints fergive me,” he answered, in a relieved tone, glad to postpone his decision for a time.
He threw back the robes as he spoke, and sprang out on the ground. Where they had stopped the narrow, lane-like road widened for a considerable space into a plain again and a well, not far distant from the track, now furnished water for the team, after which a bag at the back of the sleigh poured forth grain into the pails; and when these were set before the horses they fell to work as if Terry’s words were in danger of coming true. The child watched the proceedings with wide eyes.
“They’re only just very woolly horses, after all,” she said, with a tinge of disappointment in her voice, “in the books they’re reindeer.”
“Sure, the reindeers is at home savin’ up forninst this night. I cudn’t be dhrivin’ thim in the broad daylight, alanna dear; folks wud think us a thravellin’ circus widout the elefunt. Begorra, ’tis shtarvin’ I am mesilf, an’ I’ll take my Alfred-Davy ye’re in the same boat. We’ll be afther havin’ a snack oursilves an’ a dhrop av somethin’ warmin’. Tumble back into the sleigh, mavourneen, an’ wrap yoursilf up clost till I shpread the tablecloth ag’inst the bankquid.”
The tablecloth, as was speedily disclosed, was nothing more than a very greasy newspaper, which was wrapped around a huge pile of sandwiches, each with a rim of bacon showing darkly between its thick slices of bread, a hunk of cheese, and some fat crackers; but the finest damask under other circumstances would not have seemed half so beautiful in her eyes. And she had no quarrel with the coarse fare. Hunger, after all, is the best sauce for appetite that can be served with any meal, and it is more apt to come in with the plain dishes than with the elaborate ones, as Santa Claus and his little sweetheart proved.
“Faith, I cud ate a nail wid relish if nothin’ else was handy,” he laughed, as he made his first onslaught on the sandwich he was holding, and lessened it by a third, “but this is a dish to set before a king, so tinder an’ tasty as it is. Take a rale thry at it, me darlint; ye do be nibblin’ sech little grand lady bites ye’ll niver be t’rough. ’Tis wan sandwidge I’ve put away already, an’ ye but embarkin’ on the top roof av yours. Here’s the second to kape ye comp’ny, Brown Eyes.” He took an enormous mouthful, and smiled at her, while he was rendered speechless, and she smiled back, mute, too, from a similar reason.
“Did ye iver taste betther?” he made out to ask.