Christmas was over.
From that moment of the passing of Boxing Day it was simply the counting of the minutes to "Dick Whittington." Six days from Boxing Day.

Say you slept from eight to seven--eleven hours; that left thirteen hours; six thirteen hours was, so Helen said, seventy-eight.

Seventy-eight hours, and Sunday twice as long as the other days, and that made thirteen more; ninety-one, said Helen, her nose in the air.
The week dragged along, very difficult work for everybody, and even Hamlet felt the excitement and watched his corner with the Jampot's sewing machine in it with more quivering intensity than ever.

The Day Before The Day arrived, the evening before The Day, the last supper before The Day, the last bed before The Day...

Suddenly, like a Jack-in-the-Box, The Day itself.
Then the awful thing happened.
Jeremy awoke to the consciousness that something terrific was about to occur.