Humbug Holiday (3 page)

“To steal my money!” said Scrooge, his eyes blazing.

But before Scrooge could hack away at Frankie and me with that scary ruler of his, the outside door blew open and a voice called out cheerfully.

“A merry Christmas, Uncle Ebenezer! God save you!”

Scrooge screeched to a halt as a young man in a long bright coat, his face all in a glow, his cheeks all red, his eyes all sparkling, swept into the office with us.

“Merry Christmas, Uncle!” he boomed again.

Forgetting that Frankie and I were huddling on the floor, Scrooge stomped back to his desk, snarling, “Bah! Humbug!”

Scrooge's nephew laughed as he closed the door behind him. “Christmas, a humbug, Uncle? You don't mean that, I'm sure.”

“I sort of think he does,” I said. “He came at us with a very big ruler just now.”

“I certainly do mean it!” said Scrooge, seating himself again. “Merry Christmas, bah! What reason have you to be merry? You're poor enough.”

“What reason have you to be so glum?” said his nephew. “You're rich enough!”

Scrooge didn't seem to have an answer for that, so he just said, “Bah!” and followed it up with “Humbug!”

Frankie turned to me. “Well, someone's rude.”

“That's enough out of you!” Scrooge growled at her.

But his nephew just laughed, helped us up, then pulled us both into Scrooge's office with him.

The old man narrowed his eyes at Frankie and me, then pursed his lips as if he'd just eaten something sour. “I've got my eye on you two, you know,” he grumbled.

“It's Christmas Eve,” said the nephew, pacing before Scrooge's giant desk. “Don't be angry—”

“What else can I be,” replied his uncle, “when I live in such a world of nincompoops? What's Christmas, but a time for paying bills without money? A time for finding yourself a year poorer? A time for—”

“Presents!” I interrupted. “Christmas is a time for presents. And good food. And bunches of people cramming your house. And presents! And decorations and stuff all around. And did I mention presents—”

The nephew laughed suddenly, but Scrooge's eyes dwindled down to these beady black pinpoints and his fingers reached for the ruler again.

“Okay, keeping quiet now,” I mumbled.

Scrooge turned to his nephew. “If I had my way, every idiot who goes about with ‘Merry Christmas' on his lips should be boiled in his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart!”

“Brutal,” muttered Frankie.

“Uncle!” pleaded the nephew.

“Nephew!” returned the uncle sternly. “Keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine!”

“Ha!” Frankie blurted out. “But you don't keep it.”

Scrooge's eyes flashed. “Let me leave it alone, then!”

But his nephew wouldn't give up. “Uncle, I have always thought of Christmas as a good time, a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time. It is the only time I know when people open their hearts freely to one another. It has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, but I believe that it
has
done me good, and
will
do me good, and I say, God bless it!”

In the front room, Bob Cratchit leaped immediately from his stool and began to applaud. “Hear, hear!”

Scrooge jumped up, too. But he didn't start clapping. “You!” he shouted at Cratchit. “Let me hear another sound from
you
and you'll keep Christmas by losing your job!”

Cratchit shrank back to his desk and went silent.

“Whoa, this guy just gets harsher and harsher,” I said.

Frankie shivered. “No kidding. What a meanie—”

“Don't be angry, Uncle,” the nephew continued. “Come and have dinner with my wife and me tomorrow. We're having a small party—”

“Never,” said Scrooge, waving his nephew away as if he were a fly. “You're wasting my time. Good afternoon.”

“Please come,” pleaded the nephew.

“Good afternoon,” said Scrooge.

“Why can't we be friends?”

“Good afternoon!” said Scrooge.

The nephew shook his head, but kept his smile. “Well, I'll keep my holiday spirit to the last. So … a Merry Christmas, Uncle!”

“Good afternoon!” said Scrooge.

“And a Happy New Year!”

“Good afternoon!”
shouted Scrooge.

His nephew left the room, and we followed him into Cratchit's little cell, while Scrooge slammed his office door—
blam!

“Ah, well,” said the nephew, “I came here on a mission to my Uncle Scrooge, but it seems I've failed. Still, I may wish you all a good Christmas anyway. My name is Fred, by the way.”

“Thanks,” said Frankie, shaking his hand and telling him our names. “Scrooge does seem like a sourpuss.”

Fred nodded. “Ah, yes, but let's not lessen our own spirits this Christmas Eve.” He turned to Cratchit. “How is Mrs. Cratchit and all the small, assorted Cratchits?”

“Very well, sir,” said Bob.

“And the littlest boy, which one is he?”

“Tiny Tim, sir.”

“Cute name,” said Frankie. “So I guess he's small?”

“Quite little, our Tim is,” said Cratchit.

“And how is Tim?” asked the nephew.

“We have hope he's getting better, sir,” said Bob.

I didn't get what the problem was with the boy, but I could tell just by the way that Cratchit said that, that Tim wasn't too well.

The look on Frankie's face told me she caught it, too.

I had a sudden burning desire to read ahead in the book to see if we get to meet Tim, but I didn't want to risk a story meltdown by flipping pages. Besides, my missing backpack might turn up at any second. I needed to be there when it did.

Ding!
The doorbell chimed when Scrooge's nephew left, letting in the cold and, at the same time, two other men.

“Merry Christmas!” one of them piped up.

Blam!
We turned around to see that Scrooge had opened his office door just to slam it again.

“Is it something I said?” asked the man.

“But all you said,” said the other, “was Merry Christmas—”

Blam!

I sighed. “Yep, it was something you said!”

Chapter 5

The two men were dressed in what I guessed were nice business suits of the time, much nicer than Bob Cratchit's. They took off twin top hats and set them on his desk.

While Frankie and I secretly scanned around for traces of my backpack, Bob meekly opened the door to Scrooge's office, and the gentlemen entered.

The first one glanced at a list he was carrying. “Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Scrooge or Mr. Marley?”

“Jacob Marley is dead,” said Scrooge, clutching his ruler again. “What do you want?”

“Yes, well, Mr. Scrooge,” the second gentleman said, “at this festive time of year, a few of us are gathering some money to help the poor. Many thousands of people do not have proper food or shelter, you know.”

What the man said sounded familiar. It was almost exactly what Mr. Wexler had said about the Christmas Banquet. I stopped searching for my backpack and listened at the door.

Scrooge growled. “Are there no prisons?”

The first gentleman sighed. “Oh, plenty of prisons.”

“And the workhouses?” said Scrooge. “They are still open for business, I hope?”

“Yes. But I wish I could say they were not.”

“Good, good!” said Scrooge. “I give money to keep the prisons and workhouses in good order. Those who have no money or a place to live must go there.”

I was shocked. Not only by the things Scrooge said, but by the way he looked when he said them. He had a smile on his lips. A cold, creepy smile.

I realized then that I didn't like him much.

And he was the main character!

“Many can't go to the prisons and workhouses,” said the second gentleman. “And many would rather die.”

“If they would rather die,” said Scrooge, “they should go ahead and do it! There are far too many people as it is. Now, gentlemen, I am busy. You know the way out!”

The two men shook their heads, picked themselves up, and left the office without another word.

“That was horrible!” said Frankie, storming into Scrooge's office. “How could you talk that way?”

“Horrible?” snapped Scrooge, that cruel smile still stuck to his lips. “On the contrary, it was excellent! I don't know who you two are, but you might learn from me how it's done!”

“How what's done?” I asked.

“How you hold on to your money!” said Scrooge. “You see, you can't
share
money. Once you give it away, you don't have it anymore. It's like … like …”

Frankie whirled around to me. “It's like cookies!”

“Yes, cookies!” said Scrooge. “Once you eat one, it's gone. Now, I suggest
you
be gone!”

Blam!
He slammed the door on us again.

“Cookies?” I said. “You had to say that? So you think I'm like Scrooge?”

“You're not as grumpy,” said Frankie. “Or as stingy. But it
is
Christmas. And you didn't share the cookies.”

“It's the chocolate,” I said. “It makes me crazy. Okay. I guess I should have shared my cookies with you, or given them to the school banquet thingy. I don't know. But until we find my backpack, none of that is going to be possible. It's not anywhere in this office. So what happens now?”

Frankie didn't have to answer. The clock did.

Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong!
A deep, resounding bell rang seven times outside. If I know my math, seven chimes on a clock means seven o'clock. Somehow several hours had passed since we entered Scrooge's office. It was now the end of the long workday.

Bob Cratchit snapped down his feather pen, shut the giant book on his desk, and sprang up from his stool.

“We're closing now!” he whispered to us. “I get to go home! It's Christmas Eve!”

“Cratchit!” growled Scrooge as he snuffed the candles on his desk and came out to Bob's office. “You'll want the whole day off tomorrow, I suppose?”

“If it's convenient, sir—”

“It's not convenient!” snapped Scrooge.

Bob quaked. “Christmas comes but once a year, sir.”

“A poor excuse for picking my pocket every twenty-fifth of December,” said Scrooge. “Still, I suppose you must have the whole day off. But be here all the earlier the next morning.”

“Oh, I shall be!”

“You had better,” growled Scrooge. “Or it'll be your last day in this office!” With that, he pulled on a coat so long and black it made him look like a bear, glared at Frankie and me, then stomped off into the street and vanished into the yellow fog.

“I can't believe it,” said Frankie. “Is he the meanest guy in the universe, or just the whole world?”

“Yeah, he's one cheery guy,” I added. “Oh, sorry, I mean—not!”

Bob Cratchit, however, was an actual cheery guy. In fact, he looked like he would just pop with excitement.

“Christmas Eve!” he chirped. “Oh! I can't wait!”

He tossed a thin scarf around his neck, plopped his hat on, and rushed for the door. Then he stopped.

“But, oh! Dear me! What about you two?”

I shrugged. “Hey, we're fine. We've got to go look for something anyway.”

“No, no, it's cold tonight, and you two, well, I'm not sure where you live, but you're certainly not dressed for such a night as this.”

“We'll be okay,” said Frankie. “Really, we've got the book—”

“Here,” he said. He pulled his own scarf off and wound it around Frankie's neck. Then he took an extra one off the coatrack and gave it to me.

“But, now you don't have one,” said Frankie.

“Oh, but I have my family waiting for me. That will keep me quite warm. Wait. I suddenly have a better idea. Why don't you two come home for dinner with me?”

Frankie gave me a look. A glance at the page told us the story didn't follow him. It followed Scrooge.

“Sorry, Mr. Bob,” I said. “Maybe we'll hook up later.”

“I do hope so! Well, until then—Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas!” I said. It felt good saying it.

Bob shut up the office, then ran off down the street, sliding down the slippery walk with a bunch of boys at least twenty times before shooting off around the corner for home.

“Even if he isn't the richest guy on earth, Bob sure seems happy,” said Frankie. “Lots of Christmas spirit.”

“Sure, once he gets out of the office,” I said. “He reminds me of me—on a Friday afternoon at bus time.”

We had a chuckle over that. But even as we did, the fog and darkness got thicker, and the temperature went down even further, and we remembered what we were supposed to be doing.

Following Ebenezer Scrooge. Mr. Nice Guy. Not.

Wrapping Bob Cratchit's thin scarves around us, we passed out of the court where Scrooge and Marley's offices were, when I suddenly got a whiff of something familiar.

“Frankie, I smell cookies—”

“Chocolate cookies!” she said.

We zipped around the corner to see a row of shops, all bright on the inside, full of people, and blazing from the lamps hanging in the frosted windows.

The first was a bakery. The door opened, and a woman and her little girl left with a white bag bulging with warm baked goods and bringing the smell with them into the cold street.

I sniffed it all in, then sighed. “False alarm. Not mom's cookies. But it sure does smell good.”

“Too bad we have no money,” said Frankie, her face orange in the glow from the shop windows. “I am getting a bit hungry.”

At that moment, a gentleman came along and flipped something shiny at us. It clanked on the street at our feet. Frankie picked it up. It was a coin.