Humbug Holiday by Tony Abbott

in my hand when all of a sudden an old-fashioned buckled shoe came out of nowhere and kicked the pack out of my fingers.
    It didn’t skitter across the snowy ground but across a wooden floor and into the shadows of a large room.
    â€œHey!” I yelled. “Who’s kicking?!”
    Scrooge laughed suddenly. “Why, it’s Mr. Fezziwig!”

Chapter 10
    The strange buckled shoe, and another one just like it, clacked across the wooden floor, kicking my backpack with each swinging foot. Whack! Whump!
    â€œDon’t do that!” I said. “I got cookies in there!”
    â€œWhy, it’s old Fezziwig!” said Scrooge, clapping his hands in delight as a plump old man made his way to a high desk at the end of the room, seeming not to know he was kicking a purple backpack with every step.
    â€œFrankie, Devin, look! It’s old Fezziwig, alive again!”
    â€œAlive and kicking my cookies to smithereens!” I yelled. “Frankie, help me—”
    But even as we charged across the floor toward the pack, a strange, skinny hand thrust itself out of the shadows—a pale, white, ghostly hand, just like the one before!—and snatched the bag away. It vanished into nothing.
    Frankie slid to a stop. “Oh, my gosh! That was so weird.”
    â€œTold you!” I cried. “This book is jammed with ghosts and some of them like to steal stuff. Cookie thieves—”
    â€œHa, ha!” Scrooge laughed again. “Frankie, Devin, look. I worked here as a young man. Come quickly!”
    â€œThe backpack will turn up later,” said Frankie, tapping the book. “Then we’ll be ready for it. In the meantime, let’s stick with the story.”
    Grumbling, I turned around to see that we were in what looked like a warehouse, piled high with boxes of all sizes. Yet, it was obviously Christmastime again. Frost covered the windows, and you could hear the cold wind howling outside. But inside, evergreen garlands hung from the walls, and candles blazed cheerily in every corner.
    â€œThis is actually pretty cozy,” Frankie said.
    â€œIt’s wonderful!” said Scrooge. “And now—”
    Da-dong! The clock on the wall chimed the hour.
    Mr. Fezziwig, who was seated atop his high desk, glanced at the clock, grinned, then laid down his pen.
    â€œYo-ho there, Ebenezer! Hilli-ho, Dick! Come!”
    Clambering in from the back came Scrooge’s former self, older and taller than before, looking to be about high-school age. With him was another boy.
    â€œYo-ho, my boys!” said Fezziwig, chortling as he climbed down from his desk to join the boys. “No more work tonight. Christmas Eve, Dick. Christmas, Ebenezer!”
    â€œShall we close the shutters, sir?” asked young Scrooge politely.
    â€œClose the shutters!” said Fezziwig. “Then shove the desks and tables over to the side. Throw more logs on the fire. And bring in the food! It’s Christmas!”
    Scrooge and Dick were a blur of laughing activity. They dashed into the street and closed the shutters. The tables and desks were whisked away in a flash. And platters and bowls and pots and pans heaped with steaming food were brought in with help from the even more plump Mrs. Fezziwig.
    â€œHere comes the DJ,” Frankie said with a chuckle, when a guy as thin as the violin under his arm came in.
    The instant he started sawing at the thing, Mrs. Fezziwig’s toes started tapping. She called in three girls as round as their mother and, stumbling after them, six young men arguing over who would get the first dance.
    Soon, bunches of people flooded out of the back rooms and before you knew it, it was a blazing party.
    â€œThis guy Fezziwig sure knows how to throw a bash,” said Frankie.
    â€œIndeed he does,” said Scrooge, clapping his hands.
    In the blazing light, Frankie read, and I laughed. Then she laughed, and I read. My backpack didn’t turn up in