Chapter XXVII
It was Christmas Eve in Galvey. Outside it was bitingly cold. The wind crashed angrily against the windows, snorting, fuming and making a mighty uproar.
"I guess," mused Scobee, "it wants to come in for awhile to warm its fingers by the fire."
The night was very clear. The trees stood out like bleak sentinels watching over the broad sweep of the fields. The clear-cut moon looked as though it had been nipped by the frost. But there was no snow, nor the slightest suggestion of cloud in the sky.
Hung Long Tom walked over to the window. "No comfort-loving cloud would stay out of doors on such a night," he said whimsically.
"I guess they're all home, tucked
[278]
