It took him a long time and was plainly hard work, for he groaned occasionally and kept putting the point of the pencil into his mouth.  Georgie’s curiosity grew stronger each second.  Unconscious of what he was doing, he parted the fringe still more and thrust out his head for a better view.  The top of his head struck the edge of the sofa with a dull thump.

Santa Claus jumped as if someone had stuck a pin into him and turned.  That portion of his face not covered by the scraggly beard was as white as mud and dirt would permit.

“Who—­who be you?” he demanded in a frightened whisper.

Georgie was white and frightened also, but he manfully crept out from beneath the sofa.

“Who be you?” repeated Santa.

“I—­I’m Georgie,” stammered the boy.

“Georgie!  Georgie who?”

“Georgie Hobbs.  The—­the boy that lives here.”

“Lives—­lives here?”

“Yes.”  It seemed strange that the person reputed to know all the children in the world did not recognize him at sight.

Apparently he did not, however, for after an instant of silent and shaky inspection he said: 

“You mean to say you live here—­in this house?  Who do you live with?”

“Mrs. Barnes, her that owns the house.”

Santa gasped audibly.  “You—­you live with her?” he demanded.  “Good Lord!  She—­she ain’t married again, is she?”

“Married!  No—­no, sir, she ain’t married.”

“Then—­then—­See here, boy; what’s your name—­your whole name?”

“George Ellis Hobbs.  I’m Mr. Hobbs’s boy, up to South Middleboro, you know.  I’m down here stayin’ with Aunt Thankful.  She—­”

“Sshh! sshh!  Don’t talk so loud.  So you’re Mr. Hobbs’s boy, eh?  What—­eh?  Oh, yes, yes.  You’re ma was—­was Sarah Cahoon, wa’n’t she?”

“Yes, sir.  I—­I hope you won’t be cross because I hid under the sofa.  They said you were coming, but I wasn’t sure, and I—­I thought I’d hide and see if you did.  Please—­” the tears rushed to Georgie’s eyes at the dreadful thought—­“please don’t be cross and go away without leaving me anything.  I’ll never do so again; honest, I won’t.”

Santa seemed to have heard only the first part of this plea for forgiveness.  He put a hand to his forehead.

“They said I was comin’!” he repeated.  “They said—­who said so?”

“Why, everybody.  Aunt Thankful and Emily and Imogene and Cap’n Bangs and Mr. Parker and—­all of ’em.  They knew you was comin’ tonight, but I—­”

“They knew it!  Boy, are you crazy?”

Georgie shook his head.

“No, sir.”  Then, as Santa Claus sat staring blankly with open mouth and fingers plucking nervously at what seemed to be the only button on his coat, he added, “Please, sir, did you bring the air-gun?”

“Hey?”

“Did you bring the air-gun I wanted?  They said you probably wouldn’t, but I do want it like everything.  I won’t shoot the hens, honest I won’t.”