“Well,” the doctor drawled, rubbing his nose, “I’ll modify it,” whereupon Martha smiled, “just to ’blige you,” whereupon she blushed.
So he scratched a deal of the letter out; then he sealed it, strode to the stove, opened the door, flung the letter into the flames, slammed the door, and turned with a wondrously sweet smile to the amazed little Jutts.
“There!” he sighed. “I think that will do the trick. We’ll soon know, at any rate.”
We waited, all very still, all with eyes wide open, all gazing fixedly at the door of the stove. Then, all at once—and in the very deepest of the silence—the doctor uttered a startling “Ha!” leaped from his chair with such violence that he overturned it, awkwardly upset Jimmie Jutt’s stool and sent the lad tumbling head over heels (for which he did not stop to apologize); and there was great confusion: in the midst of which the doctor jerked the stove door open, thrust in his arm, and snatched a blazing letter straight from the flames—all before Jimmie and Martha and Sammy Jutt had time to recover from the daze into which the sudden uproar had thrown them.
“There!” cried the doctor, when he had managed to extinguish the blaze. “We’ll just see what’s in this. Better news, I’ll warrant.”
You may be sure that the little Jutts were blinking amazement. There could be no doubt about the authenticity of that communication. And the doctor seemed to know it: for he calmly tore the envelope open, glanced the contents over, and turned to Martha, the broadest of grins wrinkling his face.
“Martha Jutt,” said he, “will you please be good enough to read that.”
And Martha read:
North Pole, Dec. 24, 10:18 p.m.
To Captain Blizzard,