"
"Be there anything for me to-night?"
Widow Bascomb knew perfectly well there was not, but she reached for a
small pile of letters in a pigeonhole on her right and glanced over them
rapidly. Her sour visage and rasping voice softened perceptibly as she
smiled on the little old man before her.
"Sorry, Tony, there's nothing for you to-night."
"Thank you, Mis' Bascomb, p'raps it'll come to-morrow," and Tony turned
away with a sigh and moved towards the door.
A group of men were gathered around the stove, smoking and exchanging
the gossip of the town. These greeted him kindly as he passed and he
returned the greetings half absently. Before opening the door, the old
man stopped to give his woolen muffler one more turn around his neck.
"Purty cold snap, this," he remarked to the company in general. "Looks
as if we'd have snow 'fore mornin' and a white Christmas after all.
Good-night, Mis' Bascomb; good-night boys. A merry Christmas to you
all!" and Tony stepped out into the frosty air of the December evening.
He sighed again as he turned up over the hill to the left and started
for home. It had been a long, cold walk down to the village, and it
would be equally long and even colder on the way back, for a sharp wind
was blowing directly in his face. It was a bad night for an old man like
Tony to be abroad and he was almost sorry that he had ventured out.
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