Going on, one road crossing another.

Looking… Watching… The boy continued on until, suddenly, he stopped walking and, turning in a tight circle, his head thrown back, his nose in the air, he sniffed deeply…

An aroma! His nose twitching, sniffing the air like a hungry animal, “There!” It’s coming from there.

His stomach rumbling loudly, his mouth watered so badly that he actually had to swallow and wipe the saliva from his chin.

Crossing the road, following the scent he stood in the doorway of a rather marose appearing tavern. The door opening abruptly, Zachariah moved out of the way as a cheaply dressed man and woman came from the tavern.

Seeing the little chimney sweep,  “Aye,  lad.” the lady smiled and lightly, with her forefinger only—not wanting to get her somewhat dirty glove dirtier—touched his shoulder as the man went to the road to hail a passing cab.

Climbing Boy 19: London, England; December 24, 1843

Zachariah watched as, “Whoa!” the driver pulled the plodding horse to a halt, climbed down from his seat and ran around the rear of the small carriage. Opening the door with a slight bow, “Mum! Sir! An’ where might I be takin’ ya?”

Holding the man’s offered elbow for support, the lady stepped onto the runner and into the cab.

Telling the driver their destination, the man followed the woman.

Tipping his cap, “Aye, Sir!” Slamming the door shut, the driver ran back to the front of the cab where he pulled himself up onto the seat and, the reins slapping the horse’s rump, “Giddy’ap!” they were off.

Hesitating a moment, Zachariah came closer to the tavern door again… And within seconds had to back away as it swung open once again.

The man coming out noticed the boy. “Ah, for luck, my little friend.” he said as he vigorously rubbed his left hand across the boy’s shoulder, then, walking away, he picked his teeth with a toothpick with his right hand, while wiping his other hand on the back of his own shabby coat.

Drawn back, holding the door open a bit, inhaling deeply through his nostrils, smelling the combined odors of roasting pork, beef and mutton made the suddenly ravenous boy giddy and, his stomach grumbling, he took another deep breath, as though by merely breathing he’d be able to taste what he smelled and so satisfy his hunger.

“You!”

Grabbed from behind, held by the collar of his coat. “What do you want here?”  Zachariah was lifted off his feet.

 Frightened, the tips of his toes barely touching the ground, turning his head, the boy looked into the face of a thin, elderly man with deep set, dark brown eyes, scraggly eyebrows, a beaked nose and wildly flowing white hair.

An obvious look of contempt showing on the man’s face, “Don’t you have elsewhere to be?” Shaking the boy, “Why’s your kind always hanging about?” Bringing his head closer, breathing his fetid breath in Zachariah’s face, “Every place I go it’s you beggars and filth!” Bending forward, coming even closer, the man’s long nose just an inch from the boy’s. “Why can’t you stay with your own kind? Why must you people always be hanging about?”

“But, Sir,” squirming, attempting to speak.  “I ain’t…”

Tightening his grip on the boy’s collar, the man shook him into silence. “Why must your kind”—annoyed at being interrupted, he repeated—“always be bothering and harassing honest, hard working people?”

Taking his unknown anger out on the unfortunate boy who just happened to be here, in his way.

“I ain’t a beggar, Sir. An’ I works, too…”

Shaking him even harder, “Quiet!”

Jiggling back and forth, slipping off the bump on his forehead and his ears, the top hat covered his

eyes for a second, then slipped off his head and fell to the ground where it rolled to the man’s feet.

The man looked at the little boy’s frightened, pathetic face then down at the dented, bent hat where, seemingly lost in thought, the man stared at it for a long moment then, “Bah!” he said, and released Zachariah.

Losing his balance, almost falling, the boy slumped to his feet.

Straightening his back, dismissing the boy, the man turned away, grabbed the doorknob and angrily pulled the door open letting it slam against the opposite wall where it remained open and, “Bah!” muttering, the man entered the tavern.

The confrontation with the dreadful man having left him cold again, lifting the hat, Zachariah fitted it onto the three points of his head and, as before, by covering his head the sense of warmth returned to the boy.

Everyone he’d met this night—except this man—seemed to, or at least gave the appearance of liking him. Confused, “Why’s ‘e ‘ate me so?” he said to his pocket. “‘e don’t even know me!”

The door to the tavern remaining open, the boy watched as the man walked to a table and sat.

Noticing the man, “Evenin’, Sir!” George, the barman went to his table.

The man did not answer.

The barman, knowing this customer, asked, “Ya, be wantin’ the mutton tonight, Sir?”

Still irritated by his encounter with the ragamuffin outside, his voice harsh, “Yes!

“Aye, Sir!”  Knowing this customer well, knowing that making a stab at friendliness on this night would probably mean no more than the times he’d made an attempt at being friendly in the past. “Will ya be spending this night afore Christmas with your family, Sir?”

“No, George!” the man answered harshly. “If it is any of your business, I’ll be spending ‘this night afore Christmas’ at home, in bed, as all men should.”

“‘owever, Sir.” The barman said, “I do wish ya a good Christmas.”

“Save your ‘good Christmas’ for other gullible fools!”

Expecting none other than this rebuke, “Aye, Sir,” George said.

“One thing more…”

“Aye, Sir?”

“None of your indigestible potatoes tonight, George!”

“Aye, Sir. As ya wish, Mister Scrooge.”

Outside, catching the door, a gust of wind slammed the door shut.

Walking again, the little black-skinned boy again became part of the flowing crowd.

Stopping often to look through shop windows, when spoken to the boy spoke back.

Forgetting the encounter with the man outside of the tavern, Zachariah was with the joyous people once more and, once again had a sense of well-being.

The streaky-black-skinned boy, looking almost like an African, wearing a worn, dirty, undertaker’s long-coat and a twisted and dented top hat, was oblivious to the reasons for the stares of those he passed.

Zachariah smiled at them and they smiled back and he— for the first time in his life—truly enjoyed the good luck touches of the people.

The boy felt that, although they were touching him hoping for good luck, they were in fact giving him much more than they thought he’d given them. After all, what he was really giving them was but an outlet for their superstition, while their touches were making him a part of themselves, a part of their humanity.

Maybe, were it yesterday or the day after tomorrow, they would feel differently. Now, though, on this night, on this night before Christmas while walking by the people who caught his eye were rewarded with Zachariah’s heart-warming smile and somehow, in passing, they felt warmer— felt better than they had a moment earlier—and most thought,  God bless you, lad!… May the Lord bless you, boy.

 “Almost there, Mousy!” Putting his finger into his pocket, he touched his friend. “We’re almost there!

“Ahh.”

Barely visible in the distance, he saw it down the road: the huge replica of a clay pipe that hung by chains above the tobacconist’s shop, and Zachariah knew it was there, just next door… The Confectioner’s Shop.

Of all the wondrous sights of this wondrous night… of all he’d seen, and smelled, this…

This is what he’d hungered for, what he wanted the most… The Confectioner’s Shop!

He had passed it hundreds of times in the past, but always in the tow of Johnson, and as he passed The Confectioner’s Shop Zachariah always looked longingly through the window, then in passing over his shoulder till the shop was out of sight.

The moisture of sweet anticipation flooding the boy’s mouth, “And now I’m here!” Tapping his pocket, “with money to spend!”

Being held by his mother was the young boy’s sleeping time dream. Going into The Confectioner’s Shop—being able to have what he wanted—this was his daytime dream.

But now that he was there, he was also on a direct route to the shack that was no more than a half-mile away.

Almost home! He was almost home!

The realization coming to him: Home! Johnson! The boy shook his head, clearing his mind, and suddenly, as though coming through the fog of a dream, Zachariah remembered Hobbins. He remembered the equipment left alongside the fireplace and the undertaker’s refusal to pay.

To be continued  

Note: on December 24, 1843, Scrooge had his dinner at a morose tavern and later blamed his first apparition on a bit of under done potato.