“Yes,” said the ancient stranger, “hobgoblins live for five hundred years. This one is still in the oak as likely as not. And they used to say he always comes out on Christmas Eve.”
“Oh,” cried Danny. “I wish I could see him! Perhaps he would bring luck to Uncle Bill.”
The great log fire was beginning to burn low. The ancient stranger was beginning to nod. The church clock struck ten through the stillness of the clear night, while the earth slept beneath its counterpane of snow.
“Time to turn in,” said Bill. He took the aged stranger and led him to the little room that would have been Danny’s, but which Danny had insisted should be given to the stranger, saying he could sleep very well on the rabbit-skin rug before the fire.
“I think I shall go and look for the hobgoblin,” said Danny.
“’Tis foolishness you are talking, child,” said Bridget. “There do be no hobgoblins in this country. If you must be afther getting good luck for me and your oncle, go to midnight Mass and pray for us! ’Tis more likely ye will get what ye do be wantin’ there than from hobgoblins.”
. . . . . . . .
But when all was still and the stranger was snoring, and the line of yellow light under Bill and Bridget’s door had vanished, Danny got softly up from the skin before the fire, and put on his cap and coat and muffler, took down a lantern from the wall, and put a box of matches in his pocket. Then he unbarred the door, and let himself out into the snowy night. A few minutes later he was standing in the shadows, gazing with awe and expectation at the Druids’ Oak, where it stood, gnarled and ancient, in the moonlight.
For some time he stood there watching, but it was very cold, and he grew impatient. Walking with silent steps over the snow, he went up to the tree, and laid his hand on the rough, knobbly trunk. The night was perfectly still, the moon shone steady and white, and at that moment the church clock struck eleven, slowly and clearly. Danny shuddered. This was the hour for ghosts and hobgoblins to prowl. The next hour—twelve to one o’clock—would be the holy hour, when we remember the birth of the Divine Babe.
The last stroke of eleven had scarcely died away when there was a scraping, scrabbling sound from the very heart of the oak, seemingly coming from beneath Danny’s hand. He started, and his heart seemed to miss a beat, and then race on. Something within him seemed to say “Run, run,” and his legs almost obeyed, but his will was stronger than his instinct, and remembering that he was a Cub and must not give in to himself, he stood his ground, only drawing a little into the shadow. He watched the tree intently—was he at last to see a hobgoblin?