Scr. A poor excuse for picking a man's pockets every twenty-fifth of December! Well, I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier next morning. Here's your week's money, fifteen shillings—I ought to stop half-a-crown—never mind!
Bob. Thank you, sir! I'll be here before daylight, sir, you may depend upon it. Good night, sir. Oh, what a glorious dinner Mrs. C. shall provide. Good night, sir. A merry Christmas and a happy new year, sir.
Scr. Bah! humbug! (Exit Bob, 2 e. l. h.) So—alone once more. It's a rough night! I will go to bed soon—that will save supper. (Takes off his coat, boots, etc., and puts on morning gown and slippers, talking all the time.) 'Tis strange now the idea of Marley is haunting me to-night—everywhere I turn his face seems before me. Delusion—humbug! I'll sit down by the fire and forget him. (Takes basin of gruel from hob.) Here's my gruel! (Sits in easy chair by fire—puts on night cap, and presently appears to dose. Suddenly a clanking of chains and ringing of bells is heard—he's aroused, and looks up terrified.) That noise! It's humbug! I won't believe it! (The door slowly opens, and the Ghost of Marley glides in. A chain is round his body, and cash boxes, ledgers, padlocks, purses, etc., are attached to it.) How now! What do you want with me?
Ghost. Much.
Scr. Who are you?
Ghost. Ask me who I was.
Scr. Who were you, then. You're particular for a shade—I mean to a shade.
Ghost. In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley. You don't believe in me! Why do you doubt your senses?
Scr. Because a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You may be an undigested bit of beef—a fragment of an underdone potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are.
Ghost. (Unfastening the bandage round its head.) Man of the worldly mind, do you believe me or not?