Mr. R. I’m not. Why should I be glad? Tell me that.
Bob. W’y—Mr. Radcliffe! W’y—jes’—’cos—it’s Christmas.
Mr. R. (sitting up suddenly). And what’s Christmas? Just a chance for some fools to spend other fools’ money. (Pounds table.) All foolery, I tell you! All foolery!
Bob (protesting). Oh, Mr. Radcliffe! No, sir! Leastways not as I ever see. We’re glad at Christmas, sir—and give things, sir, an’ gets ’em—an’ we feels kind to everybody, sir—that’s Christmas, sir.
Mr. R. (pounds table so suddenly Bob jumps). Don’t contradict me, sir! Do you hear? Don’t contradict me. I said it is all foolery, and it is. (Bob promptly departs.) And this fellow proves it when he talks as he does. “Get ’em!” Of course. That’s all they want—to “get” things. “Feel kind?” Slush! (Puts feet on table, takes paper. Knock at door.) Come in. What is it?
(Small boy, Bill, with very large bundle.)
Bill. Here’s yer suit, sir. From the cleaners.
Mr. R. Set it down. (Resumes reading. Bill puts down the suit and waits. After a moment Mr. R. looks over his paper.) Well, what are you waiting for?
Bill. Please, my paw—he says he’d like the pay, ’cos termorrer’s Christmas. An’ here’s the bill. (Offers it.)
Mr. R. (sarcastically). I’ll warrant he’d like the pay. And he can have it. But what in thunder does Christmas have to do with it?