Humbug Holiday by Tony Abbott Page A

Fezziwig’s warehouse, but it was one awesome party.
    Even though the bash went on for four hours, it zipped by in the book. Four hours of thirty people hopping and spinning and rushing around doing old-time dances. Four hours in six pages, then it was over!
    Da-dong! The clock struck eleven, and the music stopped, and Mr. and Mrs. Fezziwig laughed their way to the door, taking up positions on either side of it. They shook hands with everyone, wished everyone a merry Christmas, and sent them cheerily on their way.
    During the whole thing, old Scrooge acted like a kid in a toy store. He pointed everywhere, remembering this person, that song, his eyes glistening nearly as much as his young self’s.
    After the last person left, the spirit turned to him, the light on its head burning more bright and clear than ever. “Why do you take such delight from the scene? It cost Fezziwig nearly nothing.”
    â€œPah! It isn’t that!” snapped Scrooge. “It isn’t the money. Fezziwig had the power to make us happy, and he did. That joy was as great as if it had cost a fortune.…”
    He stopped.
    â€œWhat is the matter?” asked the ghost.
    â€œNothing,” said Scrooge, frowning. “Except that I should like to be able to say a word to my own clerk, Bob Cratchit, just now. That’s all. Just a word.”
    â€œNot a nasty word, like you were telling him before?” I said. “Because you were sort of harsh, you know.”
    â€œNo, no,” said Scrooge. “A kind word, if he would listen.”
    â€œCome,” said the ghost. “My time grows short!”
    An instant later, we were huddled in the corner of a small room in a house somewhere.
    Before us sat a young woman. In her eyes, which sparkled in the light shining from the Ghost of Christmas Past, there were tears.
    Young Scrooge was there, but older now, and nearly grown up. He was pacing across the room in front of the woman, snorting to himself.
    â€œI don’t understand,” he was saying, “I don’t—”
    â€œEbenezer,” said the woman softly. “You do not love me anymore. Another idol has taken my place in your heart. A golden one. You love money more than you love me.”
    â€œUh-oh,” I whispered. “Love troubles. This isn’t my thing. I’m gonna scout around for you-know-what—”
    â€œStay and listen!” hissed Frankie. “This is important.”
    Young Scrooge grunted under his breath. “I merely want to be rich so that the world will not drag me down. I refuse to be poor! The world is cruel to the poor!”
    â€œEbenezer, you fear the world too much,” said the woman, more tears flooding her eyes. “When you said you loved me, you were another man—”
    â€œBah! I was a boy,” he said impatiently.
    â€œYour own words tell me you were not what you are now,” she said. “Therefore … I release you.”
    She pulled a small ring off her finger.
    â€œOh, this is cruel!” young Scrooge protested, snatching the ring and stomping across the room, standing suddenly side by side with his older self.
    â€œLook at him,” Frankie whispered. “He’s so different now from when he was with his sister, or at Fezziwig’s.”
    Seeing them there together, one in the past, one in the present, it was clear that Frankie had hit on something. The younger Scrooge no longer smiled as he had at Fezziwig’s party. There was an icy glint in his eyes that scared me. He was so much more like the Scrooge who was mean to his nephew. The one who forced the charity guys to go away. The old grouch who yelled at the poor boy singing in the street.
    Already, he loved money more than anything else.
    â€œSo, you release me?” young Scrooge asked sharply. “Even though I shall soon have great wealth?”
    â€œWealth is not love,” said the woman. “Go. I hope you will be happy in