Fred. A Merry Christmas, uncle. God save you.
Scro. Bah; humbug.
Fred. Christmas a humbug, uncle! You don't mean that, I'm sure?
Scro. I do. Merry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? What reason have you to be merry? You're poor enough.
Fred. Come then. What right have you to be dismal? What reason have you to be morose? You're rich enough.
Scro. Bah; humbug.
Fred. Don't be cross, uncle.
Scro. What else can I be when I live in such a world of fools as this? Merry Christmas! Out upon Merry Christmas! What's Christmas-time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books and having every item in 'em through a round dozen of months presented dead against you? If I could work my will, every idiot who goes about with "Merry Christmas" on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should.
Fred. Uncle!