He was starting up the stairs, on which the ragged carpet
threatened to send less agile persons than Mrs. Atterson's
boarders headlong to the bottom at every downward trip, when the
clang of the gong in the dining-room announced the usual cold
spread which the landlady thought due to her household on the
first day of the week.

Hiram hesitated, decided that he would skip the meal, and started
up again. But just then Fred Crackit lounged out of the parlor,
with Mr. Peebles following him. Dyspeptic as he was, Mr. Peebles
never missed a meal himself, and Crackit said:

"Come on, Hi-Low-Jack! Aren't you coming down to the usual feast
of reason and flow of soul?"

Crackit thought he was a natural humorist, and he had to keep
up his reputation at all times and seasons. He was rather a
dissipated-looking man of thirty years or so, given to gay
waistcoats and wonderfully knit ties. A brilliant as large as
a hazel-nut--and which, in some lights, really sparkled like a
diamond--adorned the tie he wore this evening.

"I don't believe I want any supper," responded Hiram, pleasantly.

"What's the matter? Got some inside information as to what
Mother Atterson has laid out for us? You're pretty thick with
the old girl, Hi."

"That's not a nice way to speak of her, Mr. Crackit," said Hi, in
a low voice.