. . . . . . . .
“I was born in this here village,” he said, “and here I married a lass. And here my son was born. And ’twas on his first Christmas he fell ill of the croup. Very near death he was, and my wife begged me to run fast as I could to fetch the doctor. The shortest way was through this here wood, and though I was afeared something terrible of the little people as might come after me in the dark, still for love of the boy I came this way.
“’Twas moonlight, and, as I reached the end of the wood, just about outside of this house, I breathed again with relief. But too soon—for when I got to the Druids’ Oak (you know it, for sure—that big old oak, the last of the wood), I saw a hobgoblin.”
The old man made an impressive pause.
Danny was gazing at him, round-eyed. “What was it like?” he said.
“’Twas dressed all in a black cloak, with a hood over its head, and it had a great bag on its back. It was up in the Druids’ Oak, and just before I got to it, it dropped to the ground, light as a feather, and ran quickly into the shadows. I was half mad with fear, and, calling on the saints to protect me, I ran and never stopped till I reached the doctor’s house. That story is true, by all that’s holy. I swear ’tis true.”
“How big was the hobgoblin?” asked Danny.
“Near as big as you,” said the old man. “I thought they was smaller, so it frightened me the more.
“I told the story to one and another in the village, and some laughed at me, but one or two, very solemn-like, told me they had seen that hobgoblin, too. They said that ’twas very lucky to see it, but one must not talk of it to any man. One man told me that the next day he went by daylight past the same tree, and in the snow found a gold piece, which was just what he was sorely needing. He was sure ’twas the hobgoblin had put it there for him. And sure enough, my baby was cured from croup from that time.”
“Do you think the hobgoblin still lives in the oak?” asked Danny, “and still comes out on Christmas Eve.”