“All right, all right. Well, good night. I'll be around tomorrow to wish you and Emily and the second mate a merry Christmas. Good night, Thankful.”
After he had gone Thankful and Emily assisted Georgie in hanging up his stocking and preparing for bed. The boy seemed willing to retire, a most unusual willingness for him. His only worry appeared to be concerning Santa Claus, whom he feared might be delayed in his rounds by the storm.
“He'll be soaked, soppin' wet, won't he?” he asked anxiously.
“Oh, he won't mind. Santa Claus don't mind this kind of weather. He lives up at the North Pole, so folks say.”
“Yes. Won't the chimney soot all stick to him when he's wet? He'll be a sight, won't he?”
“Perhaps so, but he won't mind that, either. Now, you go to bed, Georgie, like a good boy.”
“I'm a-goin'. Say, Aunt Thankful, will the soot come all off on my presents?”
They got him into bed at last and descended to the living-room. The storm was worse than ever. The wind howled and the rain beat. Emily shivered.
“Mercy! What a night!” she exclaimed. “It reminds me of our first night in this house, Auntie.”
“Does; that's a fact. Well, I hope there's nobody prowlin' around lookin' for a place to put their head in, the way we were then. I—what's that?”