...Give or Take a Shilling.: Discovery

By Thom Thomas

Book Review
Reviewed by Lit Amri for Readers' Favorite

Written by Thom Thomas, Give or Take a Pebble: The Beginning is the first book in the give or take series and tells the story of Dr. Joshua Krump, a man who survives poverty, tragedies, and deaths to complete his medical education and become a surgeon. A wonderful story derived from Charles Dickens A Christmas Carol.

Fans of Charles Dickens will definitely love this remarkable story. Give or Take a Pebble: The Beginning is built specifically around Tiny Tim, but with surgeon Dr. Joshua Krump as the main protagonist. Krump, for me, is a striving ambitious fellow, ridden by debt and his own personal misery. And just like Krump, I am also fascinated and troubled at the same time by the mature, twelve-year-old Belinda. Thom Thomas has written a vivid tale with beautiful descriptions of the Victorian era. His prose is flawless and the pace of the story is superb. It is clear that extensive research has been done to portray life in the 19th century and the medical practices at that time. This gives an authentic quality to the story and makes it more interesting.

Thom Thomas weaves Joshua Krumps story expertly around Dickenss famous classic, providing an amazing and fascinating read. The ending is excellent, with a suspense that is both exciting and frustrating at the same time. A highly recommended novel and I absolutely look forward to the second book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781493109395

Thom Thomas

The first-time author waited until he was fifty-nine years old before starting this short story. Give or Take a Pebble is the beginning of a three-book saga. Thom has had an ongoing love affair with the Pittsburgh Pirates for the last fifty-one years.

Book preview

1:25 a.m., Thursday, December 26, 1844

Liverpool

" Miss… miss… miss, yer ’ome," said the platform manager, shaking the scrunched-up girl. Still groggy and a bit disoriented by her abrupt awakening, she flashed a grin at the severe-looking man, scrambled to her feet, and grabbed her flour sack. Belinda Cratchit hurried off the train. This was not Smoot Street Station of Camden Town; rather, the sign pronounced Liverpool. Reality returned. Christmas was over; nothing but work awaited her.

Her train had been delayed forty minutes due to drifted tracks outside Birmingham. Not wishing for her driver to be out in the cold any longer than need be, Belinda scurried up and down both sides of the coach-lined street. She squinted against the bitter ice-filled wind as she looked for her ride back to the Hadley house. Thare’s no one ’ere fer me, thought thirteen-year-old Belinda, kicking at the snow. Missus Hadley more than likely gave Gilly orders not to wait. Wifout fail, she’d do that.

Shivering at the thought of walking all the way to the south side, Belinda clutched her coat close to her neck with one of her mittened hands. The other held the flour sack that contained all of her earthly belongings.

Belinda put her shoulder into the wind and trudged southward. It took ice from her breath stinging her face for the girl to pull her scarf over her nose and mouth. A parcel of thoughts kept her company. Gosh, Tim ’as sure ’nough sprung up like a weed. What time is the Boxing Day party? Six p.m. sharp. I s’pose thare be no more ’ope fer me and me sweet Joshua. I think ’eadmaster ’adley’s assistant David ’oward ’as snuck in a peek or two when ’e thought I weren’t lookin’. I won’t be sleepin’ this night—mornin’.

Dinggggg donggggg dinggggg dongggg!

Two o’clock . . . ’ow much farther? Belinda’s fingers, toes, and legs stung, her nipples were so cold they hurt, and ice was forming on the ends of her hair. She turned left at the corner of Rugloe and Temple and couldn’t believe what she saw. Through her snow-laden eyelashes, Belinda saw off in the distance the oil-lit clock face towering over the Mechanics School of Arts—farther than she’d hoped.

Forty-five minutes later, Belinda used her chattering teeth to pull off her mitten and then dug into her pocket for her key. She was able to stop shaking long enough to unlock and push open the door. Inside, Belinda rested with her back against the door until she heard to low hiss of the dying fire. Her back and knee joints ached as she bent down to untie and remove her soaked boots. Belinda smiled at her wiggling toes. She took one step, saw the wet tracks her socks were leaving, shucked them off and stuffed them into her coat pockets before tiptoeing to the nearest rug. After drying her cold feet by dragging them on the dyed wool fibers, Belinda got down on her hands and knees, stretched her tall frame to the wet spot, and wiped it up with her scarf. The missus would ’ave me ’ide ifen she laid eyes on this.

Before shedding her coat, the young housekeeper decided to fix the fire. Not wishing to disturb the bed of white fly ash, Belinda gently placed three split birch logs into the living room’s firebox. While the fire was catching hold, Belinda tiptoed back to the door, grabbed her flour sack, and then scrambled through the house to the kitchen. She ran up the back stairs to her third floor room.

As she sat at the edge of her narrow bed, loneliness washed over Belinda. She gnawed on her fingernails and stared into the darkness. In the twenty-four hours past, she had made a friend, and people had listened and had found her interesting. Her family had celebrated at the sight of her in their doorway and was saddened when she had to leave. The thought that she might not get home for a year—if then—weakened her spirit but not her resolve to make the most of the New Year.

Belinda had to be on duty in less than three hours. She disrobed, cupped her breasts to warm her rigid nipples before she shook out her coat and dress, and found places to hang her wet clothes. She looked longingly at the lumpy, straw-filled pillow then lethargically pulled on her ankle-length gray dress, tied the thigh-length white apron around her hourglass waist, and toweled off and tied her long black hair into a knot before covering it with her work bonnet.

Now in dry clothes, the housekeeper tugged on her socks but carried her boots so she could sop up any water spots she may have left in the hall and on the stairs. With her head down, Belinda paused after each step as she allowed her eyes to dart across the oak steps, the pine flooring of the kitchen and the bare edges in the anteroom. Finally arriving at the living room, Belinda quickly sopped up three tiny puddles in front of the hearth before moving the leather chair to the right of the fireplace closer to the brisk fire, and then, she sat down, extending her socked feet to dry the bottoms. Again, Belinda chomped on her pinky’s nail. In the light of fire, she noticed how raggedy all of her nails looked. She slumped in the chair and wondered, Why didn’t me mum or Martha even ask me ’bout me jagged fingernails? I’d thunk they would ’ave slapped me or said sumpin’. I ’ad never chewed at me ’ands before when I lived thare. Huh?

The Break of Dawn

J oshua Krump’s gawky body lay motionless—not a twitch or slightest blink. His unruly head of hair rested on a rolled up rug. His stocking feet stood flat on a reed mat, and his lanky legs rose to a peak. His long-fingered hands lay palm down at his sides. His sporadic shallow breaths were almost imperceptible. His glassy, gray eyes had been fixed on a pinpoint of bright yellow light for what seemed to be a short period of time, but in reality, the flickering spot shining high above his head had occupied Krump’s undivided attention for two hours. This pitch black, warm, and tranquil setting had quashed his demons, his angels, and his own thoughts—his mind was completely silent.

Minutes later, an eruption tore through the surgeon’s serene surroundings. A wisp of a man with his long black hair braided into a waist-length pigtail ripped through one of the curtains used to wall off the tiny, dirt-floored cubicle and shouted, Yer time is up. Ya must go now! Come on git up! I ’ave a customer waitin’! Let’s go! Git up now! Chop chop!

It wasn’t until the Chinaman put his long finger-nailed, petite hands on the reposed man’s knees and pushed that Krump flapped his eyelids. When he raised his scowled face to get his bearings, the lightweight Yang Fu grabbed Krump’s broad shoulders and wrestled the tall man to his feet. The Chinaman handed Krump his boots and then pointed to a bench in the dark corner of the entrance. Ya kin put these on over thare, said Yang Fu while gathering his patron’s coat and tall beaver hat. He threw the coat on the bench next to Krump and gently placed the hat on top. Krump was still fumbling with his shoelaces when the next addict was escorted to the vacated cubbyhole.

Krump’s demons began their sermons the minute he got up and started moving. Disoriented, he was feeling his way through the darkness when a pair of hands grabbed him just below the elbow and marched Krump to the door.

Dilated eyes had twenty-nine-year-old Joshua Krump stumbling over himself as he made his way out into the dark alley. Some wanker shouted, Look out!

Krump ducked and felt something clip his ear. Krump’s eight hours of opiate use had led to his disorientation. His mind had him imagining he was being attacked by birds. The lanky surgeon kept knocking himself off balance by constantly swatting with his hat at his unruly hair. He tripped and fell into several piles of garbage that littered the path. Though the snow covered most of the refuse, Krump’s hands, knees, and elbows were smudged. Several addicts leaning against the wall of the adjoining building just shook their heads, laughed, or both as they watched him tracing and retracing his steps. Then an enterprising man with one leg offered, I’ll git yer ass to Fairview Avenue and hail ya a cab for the mere cost of ten pence. Whatcha say, guv’nor? The angry and half-frozen gangly man readily agreed.

Minutes later, the doctor flopped onto the snow-covered bench near the snowdrift covered street. He stewed. Krump became more frustrated as he unsuccessfully tried to peel back the events that led him to this lost night of smoking hashish in an opium den.

The crippled addict leaned on his crutch, put two fingers between his lips, and offered a high-pitch whistle. Krump’s head whipped around but was unable to find the direction of the blast. He used both arms to wedge himself out of the backless bench, flogged the snow from the back of his coat, and waited until his legs steadied. Another shrill, this time, Krump located the waving man and then slogged to the corner.

The cabby shivered as he patiently held the door. Krump’s intense drug use had him misjudging the distance of the metal rung. His long right foot rose, and he dove before the gawky man was able to secure his balance to get himself off the curb.

The one-legged man tugged on the back of doctor’s coat. Krump’s most precious stovepipe hat, which was precariously perched on his mound of wild curls, toppled backward toward the dirty snow. The cripple stuck out the padded end of his crutch and snagged the doctor’s trademark out of the air, held it behind his back, and then hissed, Me money… I want the money ya promised me. Where’s the twenty shillings? Don’t be reneging, you bastard. Cabby, don’t let ’im in til ’e pays me. Ya said twenty shillings… ’e said, ’Git me to a cab, and I’ll give ya twenty shillings.’ That’s ’xactly what ya said. Where is it?

The driver cocked a suspicious eye on his passenger-to-be all the while taking in the goings-on. At this early hour, he couldn’t afford to lose a fare.

Krump, still groggy and wishing to rescue his hat from this filthy man, stabbed his hand into his left pocket, took hold of a fistful of coins to coax the one-legged addict into a trade for his beaver fur hat. Thissss issss for my hat and the cab, right… right?

The cripple’s eyes sparkled at the sight of the ample pile of copper and silver coins. He extended the hat, loosened his grip on the brim, and then rushed to cup his hands. His lips curled up into a crooked-tooth grin at the clinking sound of the monies as each coin plopped into his callused hands.

Krump held his hat tight to his chest and finished boarding the coach. Corner of Locust and Westminster, if you’d be so kind.

The one-legged man clucked as the coach pulled away, Nice doin’ business wif ya, guv’nor. If women would part their legs as easy as ya parted wif yer money, I’d never git smoked up. What a chump.

The early morning Boxing Day traffic on London’s narrow, snow-covered streets was more stop than go. The tension in Krump’s neck was beginning to calm by the gentle rock of the coach. The medical craftsman drilled a bony finger into each ear as he tried to clear the voices of the demons out of his aching head long enough to piece together the events that had triggered his willingness to put everything he had worked so hard to earn at risk—his surgical practice, his apothecary shop, his position at Westminster Hospital, his apprentice, and his pioneering reputation.

This was the first time in over six years Krump had reverted to the behavior he had cultivated to cope as a depressed medical student and support the first fruitless years of his practice. Back then, his many demons controlled him, and they played on Krump’s low self-esteem. Though he practiced debauchery with many a well-to-do spinster, it was only for money. The tall and lanky student was lonely and on the brink of depression. He pissed through his ill-gotten gains as quickly as he could get to Yang Fu’s, where he found solace wasting so many nongratifying hours unconsciously groveling on one of the dirt floors of the smoke-filled cubicles.

Each time the coach stopped, Krump would peer out from under his drooping eyelids to see if anything looked familiar, but as soon as the vehicle started to move, he closed his bloodshot eyes and let his mind take over. A jumble of imageries had the surgeon’s eyelids flexed violently as his eyes randomly darted behind them. He couldn’t make sense of any of the pictures until he was assailed by the faded, lifeless, four-leaf clover. The doctor’s body went rigid. His heart choked him, and he began to sweat. Minutes later, the coach jerked to the right and Krump’s eyes blinked open. The chill had him shivering, but his mind was finally clearing.

A week or so ago, Ebenezer Scrooge had paid Krump a visit under the guise of wanting some Christmas presents wrapped. The old man happened to wedge into the conversation the soon-to-be visit home by the thirteen-year-old beauty, Belinda Cratchit. The unlikely matchmaker skillfully wove the Cratchits’ excitement about the upcoming visit of their precious daughter on Christmas Day into the men’s small talk.

Belinda, who was intelligent, tall, well-developed, with the bluest eyes and the blackest hair, had on more than one occasion professed her undying love for the gawky surgeon. Krump had harbored similar feelings. But for all his forward thinking on medicine, he was hopelessly stuck in the Dark Ages when it came to matters of the heart and felt threatened by the precocious young woman’s overtures. He had gone as far as to redirect the girl’s childish feelings to boys more her age.

Early last June, Ms. Cratchit had walked all of the four kilometers from Camden Town to Krump’s office at the corner of Locust and Westminster. She had come to tell Krump she was leaving for a position in Liverpool, but after waiting for an hour and a half, all she felt was contempt. Her voice was strong as she hissed, Well, let me make it easy. I’m leavin’ on the morrow, and I promise ya, Joshua, I’ll be out of yer life forever. If that even matters to ya. I release ya—no, that’s wrong—I release me from ya. You, sir, will regret this day as often as I will celebrate it.

Two weeks later, Tim Cratchit, Belinda’s eight-year-old brother, braved the unfamiliar streets of southeast London. He walked all that way to keep two promises. The first was Dr. Krump’s. Four and a half months earlier, the doctor had promised a severely crippled Tim, who had almost died, that by summer, the boy would be able to walk to his office to pick up his medicine. The second was to Belinda. She had entrusted him to deliver a letter to Krump.

The coach eased forward. As did Krump’s memory.

Krump had thrown the unopened letter into his center desk drawer—the same drawer in which he had stored Belinda’s first letter to him. Unlike the forgotten second letter, Krump often found himself reading and rereading Belinda’s first stab at ending her perceived relationship.

Me deerest Joshua,

I bin given a lot of thought on you as of late. I know you think of me as a child and that I ain’t able to love a man of your stature. So, I’m goin to take your advice. I’ve told Martha that if she finds someone more my age and I will make meself available for his courtship.

Thank you for curing Tim.

Forever yours,

Belinda E. Cratchit

Krump was visibly shaken when his mind brought forth the most recent flood of memories. He shook uncontrollably, his mouth dried up, and he dug his long fingers down through his thick, curly hair into his scalp. He agonized at opportunity lost. He jerked his left hand from his head and plunged it into his left pants pocket—the ring was still there. God, why have you forsaken me?

Yesterday morning’s medical emergency and the icy roads had delayed Krump’s journey to the Smoot Street Station, where he was determined to surprise Belinda as she stepped from the train for her Christmas visit. Krump became dejected when he saw from his coach window the playful Belinda laughing and holding tight to a boy more her age, as they made their way toward Fifteen Bayhan Street—the Cratchit home. And he thought, She’s taking him home to meet her parents.

Rage built within the surgeon the entire ride back to Locust and Westminster. He was sick of this so-called relationship as well as the whole Cratchit clan. Missus Cratchit had always been suspicious of his intentions. Peter, the older brother, couldn’t stand being in the same room as Krump. Martha, the older sister, had no time for him and had told him as much. Mr. Cratchit, a kind roly-poly man, had always considered Krump a friend of his family and had been supportive of Krump up until his visit last spring when he, as much as one could, demanded to know whether the doctor had any intention of courting his daughter. The only member of the family whom he didn’t classify as an insufferable busybody was young Tim, who, as far as the surgeon could tell, not only admired Krump for saving his life but also trusted him to be a good man.

As soon as Krump arrived back from the failed Christmas Day journey to Camden Town, he walked to his apothecary counter, dragged a bottle and a glass from the lower cabinet, and poured himself a stiff drink. After two gulps, he headed to his study to rid his life of the constant reminder of Belinda Cratchit—her letter. In his fit of anger, he pulled the drawer so hard it came off its glide rails. Its contents scattered everywhere on the hardwood floor. The well-worn, crease-torn letter, the object of his search, came to rest against the wall across the hall. When he scurried to retrieve the source of all his pain and suffering, Krump spied a neatly folded piece of paper still held together by a blotch of wax lying just to the right of the door. Of single purpose, Krump snatched up the ill-written note and tore it to shreds—cursing God with each rip. Left with a handful of scraps, the relieved Krump threw them into the air and kicked his way through the debris back to his desk and his drink.

Slouching in his chair, staring blindly over his half-filled glass at the certificates on the wall, Krump suddenly slammed down his glass, jettisoning some of the amber liquid onto a stack of papers between his feet.

He scrambled across the small room, bent over, and pinched the corner of the letter Tim Cratchit had delivered in June. Disgusted with the mess, Krump stretched to get his drink and then walked to the apothecary counter, where he stood mindlessly tapping the edge of the six-month-old letter on the marble surface. Two swigs later, he gained enough courage to crack the seal. A faded green-and-brown leaf of some sort dropped out and onto the stone surface. After a deep breath, Krump squinted and read:

Me deerest Joshua,

Today I’ll be leavin’ dirty old Camden Town wif no regrets cept for ’ow I talked to ya yesterdee. I wasn’t…

Krump released the paper and his glass and used the knuckles of both thumbs to drain the moisture from his eyes. A hard swallow later, he continued:

I wasn’t down to the corner before I knew I’d dun sumpin really wrong. Me stomach hurt, and I cried the whole way home. Joshua, me sweet Joshua, I will always love ya even though I’ll be a long ways away. Please keep the four-leaf clover close as I ’ope it will remind ya of me and will bring ya good luck. Till we see each other agin.

Forever yours,

Belinda E. Cratchit

All the air in Krump’s lungs exhausted as he collapsed across the counter. Plowing the glass ahead of him, it shattered when it hit the floor, spewing chards of thick glass and brandy in all directions.

His shoulders bobbed as the welled-up feelings exploded. An hour later, he read the words again, but instead of hearing the words all he could see this time was Belinda and that boy enjoying each other. He hit bottom. His devils were out screaming a lone angel. After six hours of self-loathing, Krump pulled on his wool coat, his chimney pipe hat, and decided he would celebrate the rest of Christmas night an old fashion way—Yang Fu’s!

By this time, Krump was feeling the effect of his wobbling back and forth as the coach chattered up the cobblestone street. He was almost home. The bells in nearby Westminster’s tower chimed eight times. The doctor tugged, pulled, and slicked his coat in an effort to make himself presentable—knowing Beckman would expect an explanation. Krump felt no obligation to offer any account of his absence to his apprentice.

As Krump was settling up with his driver, he was struck with a moment of clarity and said, "That bastard, I promised that bloody cripple ten p not the twenty shillings the swindler claimed. The doctor turned his head and muttered, Bloody son of a bitch."

* * *

The yellow-toothed runaway who had been befriended by Belinda on the train trip from Liverpool to the Smoot Street Station in Camden Town huddled to eke out a little sleep in the recessed doorway where he had spent a restless night fighting the blustery wind and icy snow.

Git up with ya before I have ta charge ya with trespassing, said the constable as he tapped his nightstick on the stoop. Rudy turned his head. The boy’s bloodshot eyes glared from under his frozen eyelashes at the policeman. Rudy’s size, his hideous yellow teeth framed by his snarling lips, and stained clothing gave the standing man a fright; thus, he took a defensive position. Move along or I’ll have to cuff ya and take ya to the station. The officer then bit down on his whistle and drew his stick back as if it were a cricket bat.

Rudy raised his hands, wedged his back into the corner, and using his legs for leverage, he got to his feet. I meant no ’arm good, sir. I’m new in yer town. Spent Christmas wif the Cratchits. Do ya know them?

The officer shook his head.

This was the first place that looked invitin’ to rest me bones. I’ll be on me way. As the grizzled-looking boy shuffled from the alcove, he pulled something from his pocket. The constable tensed. Rudy extended the package and asked, Would ya be so kind as to direct me to this establishment?

The bearded man blew on his hands, flexed his reddened fingers, then took the brown papered parcel. He squinted to read the printing, handed it back, and nodded. Follow me to the corner.

Constable, ya say it’s eight streets down… make a left and ’nother right? Rudy said through his chattering jaw. The bearded policeman nodded and then strolled across the street. Though starving, Rudy walked a short distance, cleared a spot on a snow covered bench, and plopped down. He ripped away a panel of the brown paper in which Missus Cratchit had wrapped several large chunks of turkey. Then he devoured the meat as if someone were about to take it from him.

* * *

Scrooge held out his right hand. He was using the study of the twitching of his bony index finger as it rested against the quill as a diversion from the thoughts of his very personal loss—the untimely death of his housekeeper Missus Helen Dilber—which brought with it reflections of Jacob Marley’s death of eight years ago. Then Scrooge used the excuse that he was buried in work to avoid attending his partner’s funeral, something now he truly regretted.

So in the quiet of his office on this Boxing Day morning, he was determined not only to host the Dilber funeral, but to write the woman’s obituary to be published in the late newspapers. Yet, Scrooge really knew little to nothing of his charwoman. He poised the ink-laden metal point above the paper. Where was she from? Did she have family? Where did she go to church? Who were her friends? In deep thought, he raised the quill and used the crisp edge of the feather to slowly stroke the length of his long, pointed nose.

Then in disgust of his lack of personal interaction with people whom he had employed but nonetheless deemed them inferior, Scrooge jammed his pen into the inkwell, slapped his desk and then slouched in his chair. His quivering chin remained buried in his chest until he heard the front door squeak.

Happy Boxing Day, Uncle. Why is it so dark and cold in here? The resonance of Fred Stewart’s voice tailed off with a hint of concern.

There was no answer.

Alarmed, Stewart ran through the clerks’ station, jerked open Scrooge’s door, and was stopped in his tracks by what he saw.

Uncle Ebenezer, what’s happened?

After a long moment, the businessman raised and shook his head in disbelief, then it bobbed back to his chest. Fred, still wearing his wool overcoat, moseyed to the front of the desk, plunged into a chair, crossed his legs, and then quietly massaged his upper lip while preparing for the worst. Another long moment passed. Then Scrooge’s raspy voice cracked through the dryness in his throat, I so wish it were a good morning, Fred.

Fred folded forward straining to hear.

Missus Dilber is dead, Scrooge blurted as matter-of-fact.

Fred cocked is head, his eyes narrowed to slits, and the young man stared at his uncle in disbelief, his hands involuntarily rubbing together in front of his face. Your Missus Dilber?

Annoyed by his nephew’s question, Scrooge stormed to his feet. He stood holding on to the arm of his chair until the pain in his leg subsided. His internal monologue spilled out and filled the room. Of course, it is my housekeeper. She fell down the stairs yesterday morning and died shortly thereafter, and I don’t know a damn thing about her. How can a person live and work for another person for over thirty years and the master be so far removed from the situation that he doesn’t know one detail of the woman’s life? I’ve been staring at a blank sheet of paper since half six this morning—not one notation, not one thought. I can’t let her death go as unnoticed as her life. Fred, can you help me?

She died Christmas morning. He carried the burden of his grief all day. Why didn’t he say anything? He didn’t want to spoil Clara’s and my holiday. How can I help him?

Stewart pushed back into the chair, craned his neck, found genuine sorrow in his uncle’s moist, dark eyes, and then said, Have any arrangements been made?

Scrooge shifted two pieces of paper to uncover the invoice from the Cox Funeral Parlor. He handed it to Stewart. After reading through the itemized costs, Fred tossed the sheet of paper back on Scrooge’s desk and said, It’s tomorrow? Uncle, can I get you some tea?

Scrooge’s young partner backed out of the office and removed his coat as he disappeared into the vacant front office. Scrooge limped to and fro beside the desk; his hands were clenched behind his bent back.

Fred returned carrying two cups of tea and suggested, With your permission, I’ll take the information from the Cox invoice and write up an announcement regarding Missus Dilber’s service. After your approval, I’ll hire as many boys as I can to canvas the neighborhoods. They will spread the news by starting in the eastern shantytowns and working their way back to our office.

Scrooge listened, nodded with approval, and sipped the tea before adding, Make sure you have the boys emphasize that there will be a luncheon after the service. Will you do that, Fred?

* * *

Krump was of a single purpose when he charged through the front door. He brushed past a bewildered Beckman, ignored the tall, gray haired man warming himself in the waiting area and didn’t stop until he stood facing the apothecary counter. The shards of glass were gone as was the brandy that had been splotched on the floor in front of the work area. Willem Beckman hesitated to speak as he watched his mentor survey every millimeter of the marble surface. The apprentice whispered, Hmmm… something I can help you find, sir?

Krump turned. His dilated eyes held contempt for the interruption. He shuffled for a closer look. The gangly man, still wearing his wool coat and beaver hat, dropped to his knees, swiveled his head, and then stretched out his hands. The awkward sight made Beckman uncomfortable, and he left to keep the man in the waiting room from wandering into the area.

Satisfied that the object he desired wasn’t on the floor or under the counter, Krump climbed up to his full height and scrambled into his study. It, too, had been put back in order. He bent down, eased the center drawer out, and found the flock of papers he had left jumbled all over the floor last night. They had been tied up with string and stacked in four piles. The haggard surgeon flopped into his chair. Listing to his left side he picked up the far left stack, tapped the desk with it edges before undoing the bow, and then flipped through each piece of paper—not here. Not in the second bundle either, but in the third bunch he spied the letter. Krump tossed the rest of the papers back into the drawer and slid it shut. He wrangled with his chair.

Its screech was so shrill that Beckman ran to see if Krump was all right. He stood out of the doctor’s sightline against the hall wall and well to the right of the open door. Unseen, the apprentice watched as Krump placed the letter onto the leather writing pad. Then he just stared at it. Beckman wrinkled his brow as he was stunned—the surgeon’s always steady hands were visibly shaking. He also noticed the tension in Krump’s face dissolve when he unfolded the letter.

Using his right hand to hold the paper flat, Krump used the tip of his long bony index finger to delicately slide the faded four-leaf clover to the safety of his desktop. Gripping the note in both hands, Krump pushed deep into his chair, held the message against the last button on his overcoat and read:

Me deerest Joshua,

Today I’ll be leavin’ dirty old Camden Town wif no regrets ’cept for how I talked to ya yesterdee. I wasn’t… I wasn’t down to the corner before I knew I’d dun sumpin really wrong. Me stomach hurt, and I cried the whole way home. Joshua, me sweet Joshua, I will always love ya even though I’ll be a long ways away. Please keep the four leaf clover close as it will remind ya of me and will bring ya good luck. Till we see each other agin.

Forever yours,

Belinda E. Cratchit

* * *

Rudy took every street and made every turn the policeman had suggested. And when he made the last left he saw the sign of the establishment Belinda Cratchit had sent him to find. He crinkled his face as he was greeted by a cacophony of smells.

The boy grunted with each step as he trudged through the shin deep drifts of snow. It was still early, just after daybreak, and the snow around the door showed no fresh footprints, so the frozen boy surveyed his surroundings to find some shelter. He did a double take when he observed the steady plume of gray smoke leaching out of the base of the chimney on the building some twenty-five meters back from which he had walked. Excited, he kicked up his feet and leaped for a short distance, then he lugged his tired body the rest of the distance through the deep snow. Reaching the chimney, the sandy haired boy sighed at the height of the snow that was keeping him away from the heat. Rudy wasted no time. He used the side of his foot to dig the heavy snow away from the bricks.

Now exhausted, the red-cheeked Rudy bent over spewing puffs of steam with each of his short, shallow breaths before straightening up and stuffing his hands into his pockets. His back fell against the cold brick wall. His tired legs gave out, and he slid down into a lump. The heated smoke penetrated every fiber of the boy’s clothes and warmed him to the bone. Soon his eyes were drooping, his head began to bob, and he didn’t notice the onset of snow flurries or the person unlocking the building he had come to find. Rudy’s head flopped to the side. He was asleep.

* * *

Fred Stewart, Scrooge’s twenty-year-old nephew, had joined the firm less than a year ago. His energy, confidence, and savvy within the business community had the firm of Scrooge and Stewart once again the talk in and around the Exchange.

Last November, young Fred had executed the deal of the decade—parlaying a small amount of the company’s cash and an insurance settlement into the majority ownership position of the London and Liverpool Railroad—the crown jewel in the Scrooge Empire.

Today, however, Fred was using his talent and compassion to write, write, and write twelve copies of the death announcement for Missus Helen Dilber. Scrooge’s huge clock sounded the hour. Stewart wrapped a scarf around his neck, threw on his coat, and carried the announcements in one hand and his hat in the other as he walked to his uncle’s office and said, I’ll be out for a while. Are you going to be all right? Is there anything I can get you before I go, or shall I bring you something when I come back?

The old man gave his nephew a feeble wave and warbled, A pint of potato soup should shake the chill.

I’ll be back as soon as I can. Fred nodded, flashed a smile and was gone.

* * *

The incessant coughing woke Rudy. His darting eyes searched the surroundings and settled on the short scruffy-looking man who was puffing on a cigarette in front of the business establishment.

With no particular place to go after finishing his errand for Belinda Cratchit, Rudy wasn’t in any hurry to get up from this warm place to complete it. He yawned, tore off his cap and, itched his sweaty scalp.

The smoking man saw the movement, fixed his scowl on the base of the chimney, and waited to see if he was imagining things.

Meanwhile, Rudy dug his right hand in his coat pocket, used his fingers to tear a hole in the greasy paper, and was able to rip off a piece of turkey. He jammed the chunk of meat into his mouth and went for another. After gobbling the last four hunks, he grabbed a handful of snow, packed it into a ball, and then took a bite. The cold on his yellow teeth gave him an immediate headache, but he needed the water to help him swallow the dry meat. His loud burp seemed to echo.

The short man flicked his cigarette stub away and headed toward the sound. He almost turned back when he saw it was only a boy, but then he changed his mind. Are ya squatter?

Startled by the man’s scratchy voice, Rudy spit out his mouthful of snow and hissed, I ain’t no such a thin’. Not that it’s any of yer never mind.

Such an innocent retort had the man laughing until it spawned a coughing spell. While the scruffy man was bent over, Rudy scrambled to his feet and held his clenched fists at his sides.

Ya ain’t from around ’ere are ya? Cause ifin’ ya was… He continued through another cough, Ya’d know ya ’ave nutin’ to afear from Matthew Brady. Burying his gloved hand in his chest then added, ’Ere abouts people just call me Mac.

Mac extended his hand. Reluctantly, Rudy put out his greasy right hand and was surprised by the short man’s bone-crushing grip. He clenched his jaw and attempted to dig his boots into the ground, but he was overpowered. Mac twisted the boy’s arm behind his back and growled, What’s yer business at this ’our of the mornin’, boy?

Rudy squirmed, twisted, and bucked trying to get out of the painful grip but ended up slipping and falling to his knees. Mac fell on the boy’s back. Rudy gasped and screeched, I’m ’ere to drop off a package.

Getting to his feet, Mac said, From Father Christmas?

No. Belinda Cratchit. Ya… ya twit. Each word coming painfully.

Inexplicably, Mac loosened his grip, pushed away from Rudy, came to rest on a pile of snow the boy made earlier, and said, One of Bob Cratchit’s brood, I s’pose?

Rudy didn’t answer. Instead, he lurched to his feet, staggered a couple steps back and kicked snow at his assailant. Mac was too busy rolling a cigarette to pay attention to the boy’s tantrum until one of the frozen clumps knocked the paper and tobacco from his crusty hands. Afraid of the consequences, Rudy ran toward the business sign and the door underneath.

Inside, Rudy scanned every corner and crevice. There were out-of-sight voices, but all the words were muffled. He stayed still in the middle of the room, not wishing to be accused of stealing anything. Footsteps.

A gruff voice pierced the silence, What’s yer business, boy?

Before answering, Rudy’s hand tapped his bulging coat pocket. I wish to see Bertha Frot. I’ve got somethin’ ’ere fer ’er, sir.

The burly man furrowed his ample brow. Ain’t it a mite early, boy? Or did Father Christmas brung ya some courage? I must say yer the youngest. The man wadded up his face and shook his head as he went about cleaning up around the bar. He bellowed, Bertha! There’s a lad out ’ere to see ya!

Rudy tilted up his head. His eyes followed each step crossing the back ceiling. The sounds lightened as the woman made her way down the steps. The boy hadn’t moved; he let her come to him. When Bertha entered the barroom, Rudy’s eyes were fixed on the woman’s jiggling cleavage. He felt his face burning.

Whatcha lookin’ fer, Sonny? The timbre of the woman’s voice reminded Rudy of his mum’s. As Bertha passed through the shadows of the ill-lit room, she rolled down her sleeves. She wasn’t comfortable showing a stranger her discolored scars. The