Free Humbug Holiday by Tony Abbott

was a little bit of everything to go around: goose, potatoes, beans, stuffing, gravy, apple sauce, and finally the famous Cratchit plum pudding.
    Frankie and I stuffed ourselves so much, we had to get up and walk between courses. While we did, we poked around for my backpack, but it wasn’t there.
    Finally Bob raised his glass and said, “A merry Christmas to us all, including our guests! God bless us!”
    The whole family echoed the toast.
    â€œGod bless us every one!” said Tiny Tim, last of all.
    When he said it, Bob held Tim’s small hand tightly, as if he feared it would be taken from him.
    Scrooge, who had been hovering over the table, finally spoke. “Spirit, tell me about Tiny Tim.”
    The ghost turned. “I see an empty seat by the fireplace. And a crutch without an owner, carefully preserved. If what we see now goes unchanged by the future, the child will die.”
    I felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach.
    â€œGhost, tell us Tim will not die,” said Scrooge.
    â€œIf these shadows remain unchanged, he shall!”
    â€œBut Spirit, no, please tell me—”
    â€œWe move on!” said the ghost sharply.
    Frankie and I barely said our good-byes to the Cratchits, when we were suddenly far outside the city in a dark, lonely valley sunk between high jagged hills.
    â€œWhere are we now?” I asked.
    â€œThis is a place where miners live,” said the spirit. “They work in the dark and dangerous depths of the earth. But they know me here. Listen!”
    There was a faint sound of someone singing.
    â€œThey sing carols to me!” said the spirit. Touching his cloak, we flew across the valley and through the walls of a small hut, where a cheerful bunch of folks were huddled around a glowing fire.
    We clung to the shadows in the corner, which was okay, because there wasn’t really room for anyone else around the fire, and Frankie and I didn’t know all the words to the songs they were singing.
    They finished one old carol, laughed, wished Merry Christmases all around, then sang another.
    It was nice, but before long— whoosh! —we were on our way again. This time, the ghost flew us straight out over the water, far away to a sailing ship that crashed and dipped on the waves.
    â€œEven far out here, they know me,” said the spirit.
    There were a few men on deck, and every one of them hummed a Christmas tune or told a Christmas story.
    â€œThe Christmas spirit is everywhere,” said Frankie. “This is so cool.”
    Actually, not so cool.
    The ship rocked suddenly, and the awesome Cratchit dinner jiggled in my stomach. I groaned. “Big meal—lots of stuffing—about to be unstuffed—Spirit, I don’t do ships—or sea stuff—can we leave—”
    â€œVery well,” he said. “But it means we fly again.”
    â€œAnything but ships!” I said, as the ship rocked again. And away we flew, away through the dark and cold of the night, soaring over the ocean and back over land.
    â€œWe should be able to get our pilots’ licenses after all this flying!” said Frankie, stretching her arms wide and enjoying herself.
    Finally, descending into the thick darkness and biting cold and yellow fog of London once again, we heard the most sudden and unexpected thing.
    Someone, very near us in the darkness, gave out a big, hearty, booming, echoing laugh—“Ha, ha! Ha, ha, ha !”

Chapter 13
    â€œHa, ha!” came the bright laugh again.
    â€œHey, I’m pretty sure we’ve heard that laugh before,” said Frankie. “Who is it?”
    The ghost waved his torch over us, and with a breeze that smelled like roasted turkey, the black air evaporated, and we found ourselves in a bright, gleaming room.
    â€œIsn’t this better than some smelly old boat?” I said.
    All the walls and halls around us were decked with holly, every candle in the place was lit and