“And to give his bed to an old, lonely stranger,” added the old man.
Danny flushed. “No, no,” he said, “it wasn’t for my sake. But I do think uncle is right about it being a Christmas present. I went to midnight Mass to thank for it.” Aunt Bridget kissed him for the twentieth time, and Bill cleared his throat, which seemed rather husky.
“But what about the hobgoblin, really?” said Danny. “Grandad, here, swears he saw him; and you see it was true about the Druids’ Oak being a wonderful tree.”
Bill went to a big press in the corner of the room.
“I think I know who the hobgoblin was. Come here, son,” he added.
Danny went to him, and behind the door of the cupboard Uncle Bill arrayed him in an old black cloak and hood. “Now, hang a bag over your shoulder, and hurry across the room, bent-up like, and see if grandad don’t think he’s seeing his hobgoblin again,” he said.
Danny obeyed, and the old man started up. “’Tis him, ’tis him!” he said, “the very same.”
They all laughed.
“My father,” said Bill, “was a very small, thin, little old man, not much bigger than Danny. ’Twas him you saw, fetching back his money on Christmas Eve to count it, and enter it in his book.”
The old man was nodding his head slowly.