Enter Dark Sam, l. h.
Sam. It's very odd! I an't nimmed nothing to-night. Christmas eve, too—when people's got sich lots of tin! But they takes precious good care of it, 'cos I s'pose they thinks if they loses it, they shan't be able to get no Christmas dinner. If I can't prig nothin', I'm sure I shan't be able to get none. Unless this trade mends soon, I must turn undertaker's man again. There is a chance, in that honourable calling of a stray thing or two. Somebody comes! I wonder if I shall have any luck now.
Enter Bob, r. h.
Bob. I shall soon be home! Won't my Martha be glad to see me—and what a pleasant happy Christmas Day we shall spend. What a dinner we shall have! I've got fifteen shillings—my week's wages—and I'm determined to spend every farthing of it. Won't we have a prime goose, and a magnificent pudding! And then the gin and water—and oranges—and the—oh, how jolly we shall be! And Tiny Tim, too—he never tasted goose before—how he will lick his dear little chops at the sage and onions! And as for Martha—my dear Martha, who is a dress-maker, and can only come to see us once in about four months—she shall have the parson's nose. Let me see—a goose will cost seven shillings—pudding five—that's twelve. Oranges, sage and onions, potatoes, and gin, at least three shillings more. Oh, there will be quite enough money, and some to spare. (During this speech Sam advances cautiously and picks his pocket.)
Sam. (Aside.) Some to spare! It can't fall into better hands than mine, then! (Exit r. h.
Bob. I've a good mind to buy the goose going home; but then if it should turn out fusty—I think I had better leave it for Mrs. C. The moment I get home, I'll pop the money into her hands, and—(Feeling in his pockets.)—Eh?—what—what's this? Somebody has been having a joke at my expense. Eh? my week's salary—my fifteen shillings—it's gone! I'm ruined—lost——undone! My pocket has been picked! I've lost my Christmas dinner before I've got it! Oh, how can I face Mrs. C., and Bob, and Martha, and Tiny Tim! Oh, what can I do?
Enter Frank, l. h.
Frank. What my worthy friend Bob Cratchit—how is this, man? you look sorrowful, and on Christmas eve, too!
Bob. Some of those boys whom I was sliding with on the ice in Cornhill must have done it.
Frank. Done it! Done what, man?