A Ghost Tale for Christmas Time

by Mary Pope Osborne

  The man’s eyes grew wide. “Why, good heavens, I should say it is! Thank you, gentlemen! Thank you! Thank you! My children thank you! All the good, hardworking people of the world thank you! Shall I come to pick you up later?”

  “Sorry, but we don’t know how long we’ll be here,” said Jack.

  “Well, perhaps I’ll pass by this way now and again,” the driver said. “If I see you, I shall certainly stop. I’m always pleased to carry such fine young gentlemen!” The man bowed. Then he climbed back up onto his bench. “Good day, good sirs!” he called, tipping his hat.

  As the horse and cab clattered away, Jack looked at Annie. “He was nuts,” he said.

  Annie laughed. “I think you gave him a lot more than the regular fare,” she said.

  The gate behind Jack and Annie swung open. Three small children bounded out to the sidewalk, two girls with curly hair and a round-faced boy.

  A woman with a baby followed them out. “Mary! Kate! Charley! Wait for me!”

  “Hurry, Mother!” yelled the little boy.

  “You wait for me, Charley Dickens!” the young mother called. She caught up with the children, and they all vanished around the corner.

  “Charley Dickens?” said Jack, stunned.

  Jack looked at Annie. “She called that kid Charley Dickens,” he said.

  “I heard,” said Annie. “So Charles Dickens must be five or six years old.”

  “Oh, man,” said Jack, groaning. “So Merlin wants us to help another little kid, like we helped Wolfie Mozart?”

  “Seems like it,” said Annie.

  “Wait a minute. That doesn’t make sense. Let’s do the math,” said Jack. “Our book said Charles Dickens was born in 1812.” He pulled out their research book and looked at the first page. “And Queen Victoria became queen in 1837.”

  “The driver said she’s been queen for six years …,” said Annie. “So now it’s 1843. Subtract 1812 from 1843.…”

  Jack squeezed his eyes shut. “And you get … thirty-one!” he said.

  “Good work!” said Annie.

  “So Charles Dickens is thirty-one,” said Jack. “And Charley must be Charles Junior.”

  “Great,” said Annie. “Let’s go meet Charles Senior.”

  Jack put away their book, and he and Annie walked to the front gate. Between the iron bars, they could see a beautiful three-story house with tall windows.

  “Nice place,” said Annie. “It looks like Charles Dickens has already given his gifts to the world.”

  “Yeah, and gotten some back,” said Jack. “So I wonder what his problem is?”

  “We’ll have to figure that out when we meet him,” said Annie. She jangled a bell hanging from the gate.

  A moment later, the front door opened. A stout woman in a white apron came out and walked to the gate. “Yes?” she said through the bars.

  “Is this the Dickens residence?” said Annie.

  “Yes,” said the woman.

  “Ah, excellent!” said Annie. “We’ve come to call on Charles Dickens.”

  “Indeed? Who are you?” asked the woman.

  “We’re Jack and An—” started Annie.

  “Andrew!” finished Jack.

  “Right,” said Annie, clearing her throat and deepening her voice. “We’re Jack and Andrew from Frog Creek. And who are you?”

  “I am Mrs. Tibbs, the housekeeper,” said the woman. “And it is my sad job to tell you that Mr. Dickens can have no visitors today. He is working on his latest book and cannot be disturbed.”

  “Mrs. Tibbs,” said Annie, “may we have just five short minutes of Mr. Dickens’s time, please?”

  “Young man, I am afraid that right now Mr. Dickens needs every minute he can spare for his writing,” said Mrs. Tibbs. “Surely you know how important Mr. Dickens’s work is.”

  “Yes, ma’am, surely we do,” said Jack. “But—”

  “I am terribly sorry, young gentlemen,” said Mrs. Tibbs. “It grieves me to turn you away, but I must. I pray that you will bear no grudge against Mr. Dickens.” With that, Mrs. Tibbs turned and hurried back inside.

  “Well, that didn’t get us very far,” said Jack.

  “Surely it did not,” said Annie.

  “Pardon us, sirs,” someone said.

  Jack and Annie turned around.

  Two boys with dirty clothes and dirty faces were standing behind them. The taller boy wore an old top hat, and the smaller one wore a wool cap that was too big for him. He carried a large, round brush, a broom, and some rags.

  “Oh … hi,” said Jack.

  “We was just needing to ring the bell, sir, if you don’t mind,” the bigger boy said.

  “Sure,” said Jack. “But the housekeeper’s not letting anyone in today. That’s why we’re leaving.”

  “She’ll let us in,” said the smaller boy. “We’ve come to sweep the chimneys.”

  “Really? She’ll let you into the house?” said Annie. “Hold on.” She turned to Jack. “I’ve got an idea!”

  “No you don’t,” said Jack. “See you, guys. Bye.” He tried to move Annie along, but she pulled away.

  “Wait, don’t ring the bell yet,” Annie said to the boys. “Would you be interested in trading places with us for a while?”

  “Annie—” said Jack.

  “Shh,” said Annie.

  The boys looked confused. “Trade places?” asked the bigger boy. “Why?”

  “Actually—” said Jack.

  But Annie jumped in. “Here’s the deal,” she said. “We’ve come a long way. And we really, really want to talk to Mr. Dickens. So … maybe if we go in and clean the chimneys, we’ll have a chance.”

  “We can’t lose our wages,” said the bigger boy.

  “How much do you get paid for this job?” asked Annie.

  “Twopence,” said the smaller boy.

  Annie reached into her pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. She gave them to the boy. “Is that good?”

  Both boys looked at her with wide eyes and nodded eagerly.

  “And you’ll get our coats, too,” said Annie. “If you give us yours.”

  “Whoa, whoa. Excuse me,” Jack said. He pulled Annie aside. “This is not a good plan.”

  “Yes it is,” Annie said. “Remember when we got kicked out of the Big House in Ireland? If we’d had a job, we could have hung around there longer.”

  “But we don’t know how to sweep chimneys,” said Jack.

  “How hard can it be?” said Annie. “It will get us inside the house. Then we can keep an eye out for Mr. Dickens. The next thing you know, we’ve figured out the problem and we’re playing our magic music and Mr. Dickens is giving more gifts to the world. Mission accomplished!”

  Before Jack could protest, Annie turned back to the chimney sweeps. “So do you want to trade your coats for ours? Hats, too?”

  The boys stared at her in wonder. “Them is fine coats, Harry!” said the smaller boy. “And fine hats, too!” He threw down the brush, broom, and rags. He traded his coat for Annie’s velvet coat, and traded his dirty, ragged cap for her new, clean cap.

  “Hey, you’re a girl!” the boy said when he saw Annie’s braids.

  “So what if I am?” Annie asked, tucking her braids under the dirty cap.

  “Forget it, Colin. Rich folks are strange,” Harry said. He pulled off his coat and held it out to Jack. “Here,” he said with a big grin.

  Jack sighed and traded his beautiful velvet coat and wool cap for Harry’s tattered coat and old top hat.

  “And what about your boots?” asked Harry.

  Jack looked down at his shiny leather boots. He looked at Harry’s dirty, old shoes.

  “Come on, Jack,” said Annie. “These guys need them more than we do.”

  Annie pulled off her boots. Colin took off his shoes and handed them to her. Jack sighed again and sat down to take off his boots.

  Colin and Harry stood tall in their new boots and jackets and hats.

  “How �
��bout it, Colin?” said Harry, shaking his head. “In two minutes, we went from rags to riches.”

  Colin let out a wild whoop. Then the two boys linked arms and danced a jig, kicking up their boots. When they stopped dancing, Harry rang the gate bell wildly.

  As the bell clanged, the front door of the house flew open. The housekeeper stuck her head outside. “Stop the noise, you idiots! I’m comin’!” she screeched.

  “Let’s go, Colin, before they change their minds!” said Harry.

  As the two boys ran off in their new velvet coats, Jack heard money jingling. “Oh, no!” he said. “We forgot to empty our pockets!”

  “That’s okay,” said Annie. “I’m sure they need the money more than we do. They were so happy going from rags to riches.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Jack, “and we just went from riches to rags.”

  “Shh! Here comes Mrs. Tibbs!” said Annie. “We’d better smudge our faces with the rags so she won’t recognize us.” She rubbed her face with a dirty rag, then Jack’s. “There! You look like a real chimney sweep now.”

  The housekeeper stomped to the gate and unlocked it. “Don’t break my eardrums next time, you knaves!” she cried.

  Jack and Annie grabbed the brush and broom. They kept their heads down as they headed for the front door. “Not that door, you fools!” yelled Mrs. Tibbs. “Go round to the back!”

  Jack and Annie hurried around to the back door and slipped inside the house. They walked through a small, dark mudroom, then stepped into the large front hallway. Sun slanted through the tall windows. Everything seemed to be made of carved wood or marble. A wide staircase curved up to the second floor.

  “Get to work, sweeps!” barked the housekeeper. “Do the regular!”

  Mrs. Tibbs left them and clomped down the back stairs. Jack heard pots clattering below. He realized the kitchen must be in the cellar. The rest of the house was quiet, as if it were waiting for the mother and children to return.

  “I wonder where Mr. Dickens is writing,” Annie whispered.

  “He must be working quietly somewhere in the house,” said Jack.

  Mrs. Tibbs came bustling up the back stairs and burst into the front hallway. “I told you to get to work!” she said. “If I don’t see you working in two minutes, I’ll throw you out on your ears!” The housekeeper then disappeared up the wide staircase to the second floor.

  “I guess we’d better get to work,” said Jack.

  “So where do we start?” said Annie.

  “Let’s check out the fireplaces on this floor,” said Jack.

  Jack and Annie crept into a dining room that overlooked a garden. A fire crackled in the hearth.

  “She can’t expect us to clean that chimney,” said Jack, “unless she wants us to burn to death.”

  Jack and Annie went back through the front hall and into a room filled with leather-bound books.

  There was no fire in the large fireplace, but the room was bright and warm. It had big windows, a rich-colored plush carpet, and mirrors that reflected the light from outside. A vase of fresh flowers sat on a desk facing one of the windows.

  “Oh, man, I love this room,” said Jack, staring at all the books.

  “Yeah, and look—there’s a desk with a feather pen and paper,” said Annie. “I’ll bet this is where Mr. Dickens does his writing. I wonder where he is.”

  “Maybe he’s taking a break,” said Jack.

  “Maybe he’ll come in here soon,” said Annie. “Let’s start cleaning the chimney.”

  “Okay,” said Jack. “But first we have to figure out how.” He unbuckled the green bag and pulled out their research book. He looked in the index and found chimney sweeps. He turned to the right page and read aloud:

  In Victorian England, young boys worked as chimney sweeps, cleaning the soot made by coal fires. It was not only a dirty job, but a dangerous one as well.

  “Great.” Jack closed the book. “Good work, Annie. You made us give up our nice clothes and all our money, and you landed us a dirty, dangerous job.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Annie. “We shoveled coal, washed dishes, and hauled bananas with Louis Armstrong. We can do this.”

  “Yeah, but how do we do it? The book doesn’t tell us,” said Jack.

  “Well, we’ve got a brush, a broom, and rags,” said Annie. “Let’s start by using them. Remember, we’re just waiting to run into Charles Dickens. Then we’ll chat with him and play our music and—”

  “Okay, okay,” said Jack. He put the book away.

  Jack and Annie stepped into the hearth. Annie got down on her hands and knees and began scrubbing the stones with the brush. Jack pushed his broom up the chimney and tried to sweep the soot off the bricks. A pile of soft black powder fell on his head. It got in his eyes and mouth.

  “Oh, no!” whispered Jack, puffing and blowing. As he squeezed his eyes shut, he felt Annie yank his sleeve.

  “Don’t …,” he said. “I—”

  “Shh!” whispered Annie. “He’s here!”

  Jack opened his watery eyes. He saw a small, slender man standing in the hallway outside the door. The man had wavy brown hair. He wore a dark coat and pants. He was reading some papers and muttering to himself.

  “Mr. Dickens,” whispered Annie.

  Before Jack could say anything, the man shouted, “Let no one enter my study, Mrs. Tibbs! Under penalty of death!” And he came into his study and slammed the door.

  Penalty of death? thought Jack. He’s got to be kidding! But he and Annie crouched down in the fireplace.

  Mr. Dickens didn’t notice them or Jack’s green velvet bag sitting on the carpet. As he crossed the room, he kept looking at his papers and muttering to himself. He sat down at the desk, facing the window. He picked up the feather pen, dipped it into an ink pot, and began to write.

  Suddenly Mr. Dickens leapt out of his chair and rushed to one of the mirrors. He put his hands around his neck and cried, “AGHHH!” He struggled and made a horrible face as if someone were choking him.

  Then the writer hurried back to his desk and scrawled a few more lines. He stopped and read what he’d written. “Good, good!” he said.

  Then Mr. Dickens leapt up again and rushed back to the mirror. This time he rapped his head with his knuckles. He looked furious. “Bah-bah-bah!” he shouted.

  Jack and Annie watched, fascinated.

  Again Mr. Dickens hurried back to his desk and wrote. He stopped and read what he’d written. Then he crumpled the paper and threw it across the room. He covered his face with his hands and murmured, “I can’t, I can’t!” He was still for a long moment.

  “Excuse me. Are you okay?” Annie asked in a soft voice.

  Mr. Dickens gasped and whirled around. He saw Jack’s green velvet bag on the carpet. “What’s that? Who’s here?” Then he saw Jack and Annie huddled in the fireplace. He jumped out of his chair.

  “Chimney sweeps?” he cried. “Why—why are you in my study?”

  “Sorry, we’re just working on the chimney,” said Annie.

  Mr. Dickens groaned. “I—I can’t bear it,” he said. “I have to get out. I have to leave.…” He rushed across the room and threw open the door.

  The housekeeper was sweeping in the hallway. “What’s wrong, Mr. Dickens?” she asked.

  “I’m finished for today, Mrs. Tibbs,” said Mr. Dickens. “They—they …” He pointed back into his study.

  Mrs. Tibbs saw Jack and Annie. “Oh! What are you doing in there?” she cried. “Mr. Dickens, I’m sorry! They—”

  “Never—never mind. I’m going out,” said Mr. Dickens. “Tell Mrs. Dickens I don’t know when I’ll be back.” He grabbed his hat and walking stick. Then he hurried out the front door.

  “Mr. Dickens, don’t go!” cried Mrs. Tibbs. But the door closed before she could stop him.

  Mrs. Tibbs whirled around and charged into the room. “What are you doing in here, filthy brats?” she shrieked. “You know you’re to start with the back rooms! Not h
is study! Never his study!” She waved her broom at them, as if she was trying to sweep them away. “Out! Out! Out!”

  Jack grabbed his green bag. Then he and Annie fled from Mrs. Tibbs and her broom. They hurried out the front door.

  Mrs. Tibbs followed them to the iron gate. “Poor Mr. Dickens! You’ve ruined his day!” she cried. “I hope that makes you happy!”

  “No, it doesn’t,” said Annie.

  “All of England is waiting for his next story!” cried Mrs. Tibbs.

  Oh, brother, thought Jack.

  Mrs. Tibbs yanked open the gate. As Jack and Annie tried to slip past her, she grabbed Jack by his jacket. She looked at him closely. “Why, you’re not Harry!” She turned and looked at Annie. “And you’re not Colin! What have you done with my regular sweeps?” she cried.

  “Nothing! They’re fine!” said Jack.

  “You better not have hurt them, you scamps!” she said, pushing Jack and then Annie out onto the sidewalk.

  “They’re fine! We promise! We’re sorry!” said Annie.

  “There’s no forgiveness for all the harm you’ve done today!” the housekeeper said, looking as if she might burst into tears. Then she pushed the iron gate shut. It slammed with a loud clang!

  “Oh, man,” said Jack, dazed. “She was nuts. Everyone here is nuts, including Mr. Dickens.”

  “It’s all my fault,” said Annie. “I shouldn’t have—”

  “No, no, don’t worry,” said Jack. “We just have to catch him and try to fix things.”

  “He couldn’t have gone far,” said Annie. She and Jack glanced up and down the busy street. The afternoon sun had disappeared. Dark clouds filled the sky.

  “Look, there he is!” said Annie, pointing.

  Jack saw Mr. Dickens weaving through the horse-and-carriage traffic. He was signaling to a cabdriver with his walking stick.

  “Mr. Dickens!” cried Annie. She started into the street, but Jack grabbed her just in time. Another horse and cab clattered by, barely missing them.

  “He’s getting away!” said Annie.

  “I know,” said Jack. “But we don’t want to get run over!”