The boy was off like a shot. He must have had a steady hand at a trigger who could have got a shot off half as fast.
‘I’ll send it to Bob Cratchit’s,’ whispered Scrooge, rubbing his hands, and splitting with a laugh. ‘He shan’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 downstairs to open the street-door, ready for the coming of the poulterer’s man. As he stood there, waiting his arrival, the knocker caught his eye.
‘I shall love it as long as I live!’ cried Scrooge, patting it with his hand. ‘I scarcely ever looked at it before. What an honest expression it has in its face! It’s a wonderful knocker!—Here’s the turkey. Hallo! Whoop! How are you! Merry Christmas!’
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.
‘Why, it’s impossible to carry that to Camden Town,’ said Scrooge. ‘You must have a cab.’
The chuckle with which he said this, and the chuckle with which he paid for the turkey, and the chuckle with which he paid for the cab, and the chuckle with which he recompensed the boy, were only to be exceeded by
