The Christmas Ghost

 

Brandon Lyte stood irresolutely on the broad porch, staring with dark and moody eyes over the white snowscape around him. It struck him as something strange or unnatural. Not that he had never seen such a scene before—this was actually a rather mild snowfall for that area—but something about it struck a strange chord in his mind. Perhaps it was the fact that for the last year or so he had been cut off from all natural phenomena, or perhaps it was something more elemental. Though by no means a person given to imagination, he couldn't escape the feeling that there was something weird and even enchanted about seeing the whole world turning so suddenly to one uniform color. It really seemed like some sort of magical spell, the backdrop for some monstrous or inhuman creature to appear.

And while Brandon stood, turning these unusually melodramatic thoughts over in his mind, he started just slightly. For a moment, his thoughts seemed to have come to life and he saw a strange apparition approaching him. Walking towards him across the snow--walking with apparent unconcern, as if there were not such a thing as snow in the world--was a black figure--a black outline of a person, like a shadow, with strange, multi-colored fire shooting from its head.

A moment later, Brandon's mind cleared and he could see it for what it was--a tall, pale young man, dressed entirely in black, except for a stocking cap of outrageous proportion and combination of colors pushed back on the top of his head.

Brandon--cursing himself inwardly for letting his imagination loose, or using it at all, something he hadn't done for years--watched the figure as it came closer. Though it was more explicable now, in that he could see it was a man, there were still things about it that struck him as odd. Primarily the fact that, though it was well below freezing and everything was covered with at least five inches of snow, the man wore neither coat nor boots nor any other cold-weather attire except the stocking cap. The other strange thing was that the young man was apparently walking towards the very house where Brandon stood watching him. "Good morning," he said, as he stopped just beside the porch.

"Morning," returned Brandon doubtfully. Seeing the other up close he had nothing to add to his original impression, other than that the other man was probably about his own age, maybe a year or so younger, and had a compressed, impassive face, like a man attending the funeral of a distant relative of whom he disapproved.

"And," continued the stranger, "Merry Christmas."

Brandon did not feel merry and was not particular about letting that be clear: "What's so merry about it?"

"The phrase 'Merry Christmas' is to be considered in the nature of an injunction," explained the stranger, "and not as an evaluation. It is a wish or a command to be merry, not a statement that something is already merry."

Brandon took another good look at him. "Who on earth are you, anyhow?"

"I am Simon Straite." And, seeing that this didn't seem to convey much information to the other, he added, "I'm assistant to Brother Henshaw down at the chapel. And you must be Brandon."

"You can tell by the look of worthless cunning on my face?" suggested Brandon, with a bitter laugh.

"I can tell because I've seen your picture enough times. Anyhow, who else would be standing on the Lyte's back porch?"

Brandon looked at Simon out of the corner of his eyes. "I don't see that proves anything." He was rather surprised by this strange visitor and the way he seemed completely at ease, but Brandon was not the kind of person to admit surprise if he could help it, so he spoke in an off-hand manner as if he had known the other for years. "The way the day's been going, I'm surprised everyone isn't standing out on different porches."

"The house doesn't have that many porches," Simon pointed out, lightly leaping up on the porch beside the other. "Is J.J. here?" he asked suddenly, with seeming irrelevancy.

"Big as life and twice as annoying; yes. He and some friend of his." He laughed shortly. "Quite an interesting little microcosm here this Christmas. What," he added, noting Simon's expression, "you didn't expect someone like me to know the word microcosm? Just because I'm a jailbird, you expect me to be stupid?"

"I was just wondering what you meant."

"Well, maybe it's not quite a microcosm, but it is pretty interesting. Mr. and Mrs. Lyte; typical American parents except for being Wesleyan-Methodists, celebrating a typical American Christmas at home. Two children. Brandon Lyte; black sheep of the family just recently out of the penal system for Christmas. Diedrie Lyte; younger daughter, dumb and beautiful. Both children destined to ruin their parents' Christmas. J.J.; rich, good-looking, wild; polar opposite of everyone and so gets on everyone's nerves, except Diedrie, which is why he's here. And then add Isaac; friend of J.J.; successful in a mild sort of a way and stuck in the middle of everything against his will and so trying desperately to keep everything under control. And now add one budding preacher." Brandon had spoken this entire dialog in a bitter voice, his eyes looking off across the snow.

"So you don't like J.J.?" Simon's voice cut rather abruptly into his thoughts and slightly annoyed him as being irrelevant.

"I can't imagine anybody does, except Diedrie."

"Then," said Simon, taking off his cap, "you do have something in common with your parents."

"Yeah. Sure." And then, abruptly, "Have you ever met J.J.?"

"No. I know him slightly by reputation, but I've never met him."

"What kind of reputation?"

"That depends. I have heard two slightly different accounts of him." And there was as Simon spoke a strange, slight crinkling of his face around his eyes. Brandon noticed and wondered if it was supposed to be the aborted beginning of a smile. "Do you want what I've heard from Diedrie or from your parents?"

"Definitely not what Diedrie said." Brandon stepped back and leaned against the wall of the house. "I don't want to say a word against my own sister, but she never had much sense, and J.J. finagled her out of what little she had. But what exactly did Dad and Mom tell you about him?"

Simon tolled the points off on his fingers. "He is rich; at least compared to most of the people around here. He is good looking; in a slightly florid sort of way. He is extravagant; at least, he likes showing off his money, particularly in front of the family. For that matter, he likes doing anything that will shock or surprise people. He is Catholic and he has no particular care to conceal his contempt for the Lyte's religion. And Diedrie is very much in love with him."

"That pretty much sums everything up, then. Except for one thing. You said that Diedrie is in love with him--the way you said that made me think you meant that the opposite isn't true. In other words, that he doesn't really love her--that he's leading her on. But that's the funny part--I don't think he is. I think he really likes her. There's no accounting for taste."

Simon rolled up his cap and stuck it in his pocket. "So they are serious. That's what I couldn't make up my mind about from what I heard."

"Very serious. I expect to hear about an engagement any day. It would be just like J.J. to pop the question right in the middle of Christmas dinner. I'm quite sure he's not going to ask Dad for permission first."

"I suppose that is only to be expected in a society that has lost all consciousness of respect and the meaning of tradition," Simon observed.

"Yeah, or something. Anyhow," continued Brandon, putting his hands behind his head, "you are beginning to get an idea of what it's been like around here all day. First of all, this is only the second day I've been home, and everyone's trying to pretend that I was never gone and that nothing ever happened, which is putting a strain on everyone. Then there's Diedrie and J.J. being affectionate and doing everything they can to annoy everyone. In short, peace on earth, goodwill to all, and ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas. I don't know what we would have done if it hadn't been for Isaac."

Simon, since he had joined Brandon on the porch, had been looking at him with a steady, keen look. For the first time, he turned away, looking out over the snow, as he commented: "The problem is that people always assume that something like 'peace on earth, goodwill to men' is a truism; a truism that isn't even true. It never seems to occur to them that it was the Gospel--it was good news. The angels did not appear to the shepherds just to point out to them that there was peace on earth already--they came to proclaim that it had come. That He had come," he amended after a second. He was silent, and then asked said abruptly: "Isaac. You said he was a friend of J.J. What's he like?"

Brandon shrugged. "Just like other people, I suppose, only with a beard. Not much distinctive about him. He's one of those people who talk as easily as they breathe. Ever since he came, he's kept the conversation going when there was an awkward pause. He's told us all about his work in real estate, about his dreams of being a lawyer, about how fun it is to be able to speak Latin; all that along with his ghost story."

Simon seemed to stiffen suddenly. "Ghost story?" he repeated.

"I suppose as a preacher you don't believe in ghosts."

"Not at all. John Wesley believed in ghosts. The house where he grew up was haunted. I do believe in ghosts. That's why I don't like ghost stories. If there were no ghosts, it wouldn't matter."

"Well, Isaac's story wasn't just a ghost story. It was partly natural and partly super-natural--but the natural part is the part that I don't understand."

"What do you mean?"

"You want to hear it? I think I can repeat it, but I don't suppose you want to stand out here in the cold to listen?"

Simon shrugged. "The temperature never bothers me. But if you'd rather go in--"

"It would have to be a lot colder than this to make me go back into that house if I can help it. Well, as I told you, this friend of J.J., Isaac Cray--he works in a real estate office, even though he wants to become a lawyer. The firm he works for actually once had charge of this house--you know, this house is nearly fifty years old."

"I knew that."

"Well, the man who built the house--Toby Craig--was pretty unpopular around this area. He was a little cranky, but I guess it was more than that. He was always finding ways to get around people and get things out of them. I didn't quite understand exactly what he did, but he was an expert at cheating people, and he had somehow cheated nearly everyone around here. And since, as you and I both know, dishonesty is the unforgivable sin--"

"Dishonesty is not the unforgivable sin," Simon corrected automatically. "The unforgivable sin is blaspheming the Holy Spirit."

"Maybe that's what God won't forgive, but dishonesty is what people won't forgive."

"There is that distinction."

"Anyhow, this Toby Craig was pretty unpopular and more than one person had commented that they wished he were dead, and not a few had even said they wouldn't mind helping the process. He knew it and though he said he wasn't afraid of anybody I guess he did take a lot of precautions. As time went on, and more and more people began to have grudges against him, he began to be more and more cautious, until he ended up completely paranoid. He wasn't worried during the day, but at night--when he was asleep-- Well, he had a room, nearly up in the attic, that he started using for his bedroom. It was a plain room, with only one door; nothing in it but a bed and a heavy bureau. He'd go in there--always checking under the bed, of course--lock the door and then push the bureau in front of the door. He had an old friend--the only man he trusted--who would sleep in a little cot at the bottom of the only stairs leading up to the room."

Simon had turned away and now spoke in a strange voice. "And then he said to his soul, 'Soul, thou hast much goods laid up for many years; take thine ease, eat, drink, and be merry.'"

"Something like that, yes. Well, one night--and, as it happened, it was Christmas Eve--the friend woke up at a little before midnight. He didn't know what had awakened him, but he had come straight awake in a sweat. He thought maybe he had heard a noise. He thought that it might be Toby--because he never went to sleep before midnight. So he went up the stairs and knocked on the door of the little room, calling out and asking if anything was wrong. Toby answered in words something like: 'I'm not sure if anything's wrong or not. There is something odd. Here, I'll unlock the door and you can come in. I want to talk to you.' Just as he said that, a clock downstairs struck midnight. The friend waited for the sound of the bureau being pushed back, but he heard nothing. Minutes passed and still nothing. The friend called and knocked but got no answer. He was pretty well scared, and he started shouting for help. There were a group of people on their way back from a Christmas Eve party who heard him and came in to see what was going on--everyone was pretty curious about things relating to Toby Craig, you see. With the help of some of the men, they were finally able to knock in the door of the room. And when they did, they found Toby lying on his bed, shot through the head. And there was nobody else in the room. And," Brandon added after a minute, "no gun."

Simon had turned again to face him and was scrutinizing his face with a strange look, but he said nothing.

"That's right," Brandon continued, trying meanwhile to figure out the meaning of that strange stare. "Toby Craig was shot dead in a locked room, sometime after he spoke those words to his friend. And the murderer and the weapon had vanished into thin air."

"They were sure it was murder and not, say, suicide?"

"Couldn't have been suicide. Partly because a suicide certainly couldn't make the weapon disappear, and partly because the doctor said that a man couldn't shoot himself at the particular angle the shot was fired. The only thing anybody could ever suggest was that there was a secret entrance of some kind."

"Was there?"

"Well, that brings us to the second part of the story. For a while, the friend lived in the house--this house, remember--but he died less than a year later, and the house stood empty. And then on Christmas Eve--a year later--there was a man who got caught out in the snow, and came into the house for shelter, seeing that it was empty. He was a stranger to this area and had never heard anything about the death of Toby Craig. Well, since he was stuck in a strange house until the weather let up, he decided to do a little exploring. He happened to walk right into that little room upstairs where the murder had been committed. And as he did, the clock downstairs struck midnight. And he heard as plain as anything a voice saying, 'I'm not sure if anything's wrong or not. There is something odd. Here, I'll unlock the door and you can come in. I want to talk to you.'"

"I wonder," said Simon abruptly, "who wound the clock. Fifty years ago, you wouldn't expect they would have an electric one."

"Ghosts, I suppose. That's what most people would say. At least, after the man told his story, everyone began to think that. But the man to whom the house then belonged wouldn't believe it. And the next year, he and three of his friends--just to prove the story wrong--spent Christmas Eve in that room. And they heard the voice too. Exactly at midnight. The man who owned the house was sure there must be some kind of hoax--he thought there must be a secret entrance and that would explain the murder too. But he practically tore down the house and never found one. What do you think of that?"

"And you people have lived here and never heard any of the story?"

"No. Remember, this was a long time ago. Besides, we're not from this area originally--we only moved to this house and this part of the state four or five years ago."

"True." There was a strange wrinkle in Simon's forehead and he looked both puzzled and worried.

"The only thing I can think of," continued Brandon, "is that the friend shot him--even though they were friends--and lied about hearing his voice. After he shot him, he could lock him in the room and throw away the gun. But I don't see how he could have pulled the bureau in front of the door."

"And the ghost's voice?"

"I'll believe in ghosts when I hear them for myself."

"So you don't believe that part of the story?"

"Oh, they may have heard something, but I don't believe it was a ghost. But I guess we'll find out for ourselves."

The wrinkle in Simon's forehead deepened.

"Yes," continued Brandon, in answer to the unspoken question, "that's right. We're all going to sit up tonight in that little room up near the attic and see if we hear a ghost. I think you know this family well enough to know that once Mom gets curious about something, there's no stopping her. Anyhow, anything to keep our minds off the things really going on around here."

"You're doing that instead of opening presents? Wouldn't that be a better way to spend Christmas Eve?"

"No. We always do that Christmas day, after dinner."

Simon seemed to fall into a brown study for a few moment, his face clearly showing worried perplexity. Brandon watched him curiously, wondering what was going on in his mind. Was he trying to solve the problem of that mysterious murder? Or was it merely a preacher's instinct fighting (as Brandon thought) against anything interesting?

Whatever it was, Simon pulled out of it with a slight start. "I suppose," he said abruptly, turning around to the door, "that I had better go in and see your parents. That's what I came for."

"Going to sprinkle holy water over the house before you leave?"

"I hope so," was Simon's unexpected reply. And then, just before he went into the house, he looked over his shoulder and asked, "What is the best way to keep your kitchen free of flies?" And then he vanished, leaving Brandon gaping behind him.

The Lyte's seemed glad to see Simon, and Simon seemed as glad to see them as he ever did—Simon was never especially demonstrative. Isaac Cray had gone already on his way, leaving the Lyte's alone with J.J., and any distraction was welcome. Simon made a few appropriate remarks to people and had made back to him a few appropriate remarks and a few rude ones (these from J.J. who was about as he had imagined him to be). But through it all Simon seemed unusually taciturn and introspective, even for him.

And that strangle wrinkle remained in his forehead, until he had a chance, a few minutes later, to get a word in private with Mrs. Lyte. He was standing beside the Christmas tree, carefully scrutinizing the gifts, and deliberately not looking at J.J. and Diedrie who were standing under the mistletoe on the other side of the room, and deporting themselves in a manner not conducive for the peace of mind of bystanders. Mrs. Lyte, bent also on pretending their non-existence, came up and was about to start a conversation with Simon (a daunting task at the best of times), when he looked up and asked abruptly, but in a low voice,

"I apologize for prying--I know how you feel, and I wouldn't bring it up if it weren't important. What did Brandon go to jail for?"

Mrs. Lyte--a large woman with very round eyes who was usually accounted stupid by people who didn't know her--looked curiously at Simon. There was a trace of hurt in her eyes, but she answered in a quiet, unemotional tone that was a perfect match for Simon's. "Stealing. He stole some money from one of our neighbors. It's a great temptation for a young man--you know that nobody in this area locks their doors."

Simon nodded slowly, and then, as was his habit, changing the subject with a tone of voice which implied that he wasn't, he asked, "And are you really going to sit up and listen for the ghost?" She had already repeated to him the basics of the story Brandon had told him.

"Yes, we are." She spoke louder, and with the 'gushing' tone of voice which was her trademark. "It would be so exciting to hear a ghost on Christmas Eve. Just like the Christmas Carol."

"May I join you?"

"Of course, if you want to. But I didn't think--"

"I have a professional interest in spirits," said Simon with gravity. "Especially evil spirits."

 

And so it fell out that evening at midnight, the senior Lytes, Brandon, Simon, Diedrie, and J.J. stood rather crammed into a small room with yellow wallpaper. It was built at the top of the house, and could easily be imagined as the bedroom of a suspicious miser. The Lyte's had always used it as a storage room, which made it rather cramped, but they made the most of it. Particularly J.J. and Diedrie, for, after all, as J.J. pointed out, you can't wait for a ghost with the lights on.

The walls of the room were heavy and most of the louder noises from the rest of the house were deadened and left room for that most horrible of all things--silence. And behind the silence, the noises that are still quieter than silence; the strange creaks and flutters that will always be heard in absolute stillness. Under the circumstances, it is not odd that more than one person moved nervously in the darkness and seemed to wait with keyed expectancy for whatever was to happen. And was perhaps it was more nervousness than actual defiance which made Brandon say suddenly, "Oh, let's go to bed. Nothing's going to happen."

"Shh!" said several voices at once--for just after Brandon spoke, another noise sounded around them. It was not quite a human voice, but it was more like that than anything else in the world, except possibly a sick accordion being played in a manhole. It seemed like it must be something more than their imaginations, and yet it was hard to say what it was. It had this horrible quality, that it seemed almost, but not quite, articulate, like a man in pain trying to speak without quite succeeding.

It seemed to come and then fade, and then, without warning, the silence was cut by another and very different sound--the voice of Simon Straite speaking loudly and with authority. But though Simon spoke with more than his usual distinction and carefulness, the words seemed meaningless--long, heavy words which dragged downwards through the air. He seemed to repeat one series of words over and over again.

After he stopped, there was again silence and in it no noise at all, except for the sound of someone breathing heavily. And then Simon spoke more quietly and in his normal voice: "I don't think we will be troubled with that spirit again."

 

The strange scene that had been enacted had left most of the spectators tired and confused and they had no strength of mind left even to ask questions. But as Simon was leaving, Brandon cornered him on the back porch of th e house.

"Do you think that was really necessary?" asked Brandon sullenly, glaring at the other.

"I seldom do things I don't think necessary."

"Couldn't you have let them their fun?"

"Fun?" repeated Simon doubtfully.

"Everyone likes a ghost story--everyone but you--and what harm was it doing anyone?"

"Playing with evil spirits always does harm to somebody."

"Don't be silly. Don't tell me you really think that--"

"You heard something, didn't you?"

"It was the water going through the pipes, or something, and we all thought it was a ghost because our imaginations were keyed up. Anyhow, don't tell me you really believe in exorcism. I didn't know Wesleyan-Methodists did that kind of thing."

"Yes, quite often. Mostly in other countries."

"They don't have devils in America?" suggested Brandon, tauntingly.

Simon turned on him sharply. "Of course they do. But do you really think the Devil is going to come down and buy a man's soul like Faust's when he can just send a philosophy professor who will convince him that he doesn't have a soul at all? For all his other faults, at least the Devil is economical."

"But I didn't think you believed in speaking in tongues."

"I wasn't speaking in tongues." And after a minute, he added, "That was Latin."

Brandon raised his eyebrows. "So you really think you can cleanse a demon-possessed house by talking in a dead language?"

"I never said the house was demon-possessed," corrected Simon in his quiet, precise way.

"Then--"

"I said there was an evil spirit. It's not the same thing. There are many kinds of evil spirits. This particular kind can only be driven out by a certain kind of holy water. Salt water."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I suppose since you seem to know everything, you know how the murder was committed all those years ago?"

"I know that," agreed Simon.

Brandon looked at him incredulously. "I suppose it was done by black magic?"

"No. The fact is simple. J.J. isn't a Wesleyan-Methodist."

Brandon blinked, wondering momentarily if the strain of the night had been too much for the other. "What?"

"If J.J. had known very much of either Holiness or humility, then Toby Craig wouldn't have been murdered."

"Look," Brandon took a few steps forwards so that he stood nearly nose to nose with Simon, "if you're making fun of me, I don't like it. And if you're going to say that things in the present can cause things in the past because time is relative, I'm going to slap you upside the head."

"I'm not going to say that." And Simon folded his arms and continued with perfect composure: “What is the best way to keep your kitchen free of flies?"

"What?" Brandon stepped back and raised his eyebrows again.

"Don't let them in. I know, it sounds strange, but I read that once on a hygiene poster."

"Don't let them in?" repeated Brandon. "I don't get it."

"It's the same principle. What's the best way for a murderer to get out of a locked room? Never get it in it in the first place."

Brandon had the strange sense that the whole world was going mad around him, which was strengthened by the fact that at that moment Simon took his bizarre multicolored stocking cap out of his pocket. "You're saying that the murderer was never the room? Then how was the murder committed?"

"It wasn't committed. That," added Simon, twisting the cap in his hands, "is the great problem with the modern world. People are too trusting. What evidence do you have that there ever was such a murder? Just the testimony of one man."

"You're saying that Isaac made up the whole story? How do you know that?"

"I knew from the moment you told me the story that it couldn't be true. First of all, the problem is insoluble. There is no way that murder could have been committed."

"You just mean, you can't see any way. That doesn't mean there wasn't a way."

"Possibly not. There are a great many things I don't know. But there was part of the story that couldn't be true. Supposedly the man who owned the house tore into the walls looking for a secret tunnel--and yet, even though there was a legend of its being haunted, he not only repaired the house but actually repaired the very room that was supposed to be haunted. No man would do that."

Simon turned away slowly and looked out over the dark fields of snow, which looked ten times as strange and otherworldly by starlight as they had earlier by sunlight. "It was really an amazingly safe lie. Your family isn't from this area and so isn't very likely to know anything that happened fifty years ago. I imagine there was some skeleton of facts for him to base it on, things he would know since he works in real estate. Probably the house was once owned by someone named Toby Craig, and it's possible he was even murdered. And the real genius was that if anybody had found out the truth, he could have just said that he must have heard the story wrong, or even have said that he made the whole thing up as a Christmas story."

Brandon nodded slowly, his face striking a balance between an expression of awe and scorn. "That's all makes sense. You think that Isaac made up the story. Maybe he did. But why? And what about that noise we heard? Are you going to say he did it by ventriloquism?"

"No, he did it by walkie-talkie or by cellphone, or some form of modern technology. He's evidently somewhat well off and it would be easy to fix that up. As for why--well, isn't that obvious?"

"Not to me."

Simon leaned on the railing of the porch and turned to face Brandon. As he spoke, it was in the rolling logic of his preaching tone. "I've heard for quite a while about J.J. Everything you said to me and everything I saw here today confirmed what I thought. He is wild--at least by our standards--extravagant, fond of shocking people, and very much in love with your sister. And there is under the Christmas tree a very small present from him to Diedrie. Does that suggest anything to you?"

For once, Brandon stood straight upright. "An engagement ring! That would be J.J.'s style. Because it would drive Mom and Dad up the wall, and knock Diedrie off her feet--especially if it were really flashy. But what does that have to do with the ghost story?"

"Isaac used that story to make sure you would all be upstairs when he slipped in--as your mother said, nobody in this area keeps their door looked--and looked through the presents to steal it. As J.J.'s friend, he probably knew about it. He used his intercom--or whatever it was--to make sure you were occupied. You noticed that it was exactly at the moment when you threatened to leave that the voice came?"

The sky was beginning to cloud over and the stars one by one had vanished. One bright star remained just opposite, and Brandon stared at it as mesmerized as if it had really been the Christmas star; his mouth standing open as if he were a wise man who had truly found the one great lesson of wisdom--the lesson of surprise.

After a minute Simon added, with a shrug, "I didn't want to confront him in front of everyone, so I used the fact that he had learned Latin--as you told me earlier. I know just enough--Clarke and Wesley both use Latin frequently, you know--to tell him that I knew what he was doing. That's what I meant about an evil spirit being cast out by holy water. For greed is really an evil spirit, and the only kind of water in this world that is really holy is the tears of repentance. I don't know that he repented, but at least he didn't steal the ring."

"Of course," said Brandon faintly. "But look here, what--I mean, how would he have explained it when the ring did disappear?"

"I think everyone would have thought it was taken after he left the house, so no one would have suspected him. I'm rather afraid," Simon added, pulling on his cap, "that he expected everyone would suspect you."

"They probably would have," agreed Brandon slowly. "Look here, if you're right--and I think you are--you've done a lot of good here today. But I just want to know one thing. Why on earth do you wear that ridiculous hat?"

"This?" Simon touched the monstrosity, and again his face seemed to crinkle slightly around his eyes. "This was a present from a friend. He says I depress him by wearing black all the time and that I need a little color. I don't personally care for it, but it has been rather appropriate."

"Why?"

"Because--it's a fool's cap. And I suppose I have played the fool today."

And with that, he turned, leaped lightly off the porch, and walked slowly away across the snow.