The boy was off like a shot.

“I’ll send it to Bob Cratchit’s!  He sha’n’t know who sends it.  It’s twice the size of Tiny Tim.  Joe Miller never made such a joke as sending it to Bob’s will be!”

The hand in which he wrote the address was not a steady one; but write it he did, somehow, and went down stairs to open the street door, ready for the coming of the poulterer’s man.

It was a Turkey!  He never could have stood upon his legs, that bird.  He would have snapped ’em short off in a minute, like sticks of sealing-wax.

Scrooge dressed himself “all in his best,” and at last got out into the streets.  The people were by this time pouring forth, as he had seen them with the Ghost of Christmas Present; and, walking with his hands behind him, Scrooge regarded every one with a delighted smile.  He looked so irresistibly pleasant, in a word, that three or four good-humored fellows said:  “Good morning, sir!  A merry Christmas to you!” and Scrooge said often afterwards, that, of all the blithe sounds he had ever heard, those were the blithest in his ears.

In the afternoon, he turned his steps towards his nephew’s house.

He passed the door a dozen times, before he had the courage to go up and knock.  But he made a dash, and did it.

“Is your master at home, my dear?” said Scrooge to the girl.  Nice girl!  Very.

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is he, my love?”

“He’s in the dining-room, sir, along with mistress.”

“He knows me,” said Scrooge, with his hand already on the dining-room lock.  “I’ll go in here, my dear.”

“Fred!”

“Why, bless my soul!” cried Fred, “who’s that?”

“It’s I. Your uncle Scrooge.  I have come to dinner.  Will you let me in, Fred?”

Let him in!  It is a mercy he didn’t shake his arm off.  He was at home in five minutes.  Nothing could be heartier.  His niece looked just the same.  So did Topper when he came.  So did the plump sister when she came.  So did every one when they came.  Wonderful party, wonderful games, wonderful unanimity, won-der-ful happiness!

But he was early at the office next morning.  O, he was early there!  If he could only be there first, and catch Bob Cratchit coming late!  That was the thing he had set his heart upon.

And he did it.  The clock struck nine.  No Bob.  A quarter past.  No Bob.  Bob was full eighteen minutes and a half behind his time.  Scrooge sat with his door wide open, that he might see him come into the Tank.

Bob’s hat was off before he opened the door; his comforter too.  He was on his stool in a jiffy; driving away with his pen, as if he were trying to overtake nine o’clock.

“Hallo!” growled Scrooge in his accustomed voice, as near as he could feign it.  “What do you mean by coming here at this time of day?”

“I am very sorry, sir.  I am behind my time.”