Stev. So I am told. Cold, isn't it?
Jones. Seasonable for Christmas-time. You're not a skater, I suppose?
Stev. No, no. Something else to think of. Good morning. [Exeunt in opposite directions.]
Scro. Ah, here are more of my old business friends; the Spirit directs me to hear what they say.
Enter Mr. Fatchin, Mr. Snuffer and Mr. Redface.
Mr. F. No; I don't know much about it, either way; I only know he's dead.
Mr. R. When did he die?
Mr. F. Last night, I believe.
Mr. S. Why, what was the matter with him? (Takes snuff out of a large snuff-box.) I thought he would never die.