She stood waiting, listening to the bells.
CHAPTER IV
CHRISTMAS EVE AT THORNBY’S
IT was a large, roughly-finished room, lighted for the most part by the great heap of logs that blazed on the hearth, though a lantern fixed against the wall, at the opposite side, in front of a tin reflector, shone bravely, as if to say that it was doing its best despite the fact that no one heeded its efforts. For the occupants of the room, without an exception, were gathered about the camboose, or fireplace, where in the full glow of the leaping flames a number of stockings were hung; not because it was Christmas Eve, but for the more prosaic reason that they must be dried. Every working day showed the same display,—the men, on an average, hanging up two or three pairs apiece. Still they were keeping their Christmas Eve vigil after a fashion, though it was not in the orthodox way, and, notwithstanding its noise, it lacked the real flavor of the blessed season.
“What was that?” Shawe asked suddenly.
“Didn’t hear a blessed thing. Fire ahead, Sandy; ev’ry chap’s got a stunt to do this night, an’ the fust lot’s fell to you. Come, begin—Where’s that lazy raskill Terry? He’d oughter be’n here hours agone.”
“Back at Wistar’s,” a young fellow growled. “Told yer what to expect when yer singled him out to fetch the grub. A sorry Christmas we’ll have. Any meal left in the bar’l, Cooky?”
“’Nough to make pap fer you in the mornin’, kid,” Cooky responded with a grunt, “so don’t be sheddin’ tears—you an’ yer delikit appetite will pull t’rough. ’Tis plum-puddin’ the child was expectin’.”
The young fellow laughed almost good-naturedly.
“Gorry! what’d I give to smell a plum-puddin’ even. There was a Christmas oncet when I’d the taste o’ one. There was turkey before, an’ the bird was a tip-topper, but it don’t live in my mem’ry like the puddin’. That come in with a wreath o’ greens ’bout its brown head, an’ its sides crackin’ open with plums the size o’ Jake’s thumb there. An’ there was clouds o’ incinse risin’ from it, an’ the smell o’ the burnin’ sperits, an’ the blue flames lickin’ each other with joy at the taste they got—’Tis before my eyes this bloomin’ minnit, an’ my ears is deafened with the roars the fellers sent up; you could ha’ heard ’em a mile off—”