Scrooge. You'll want all day off tomorrow, I suppose?
Cratchit. If it's quite convenient, sir.
Scrooge. Well, it isn't—and it's not fair. If I'd dock you a half a crown for it you'd think I was ill using you, wouldn't you?
Cratchit (nervously). I don't know, sir.
Scrooge. And yet you expect me to pay a full day's wages for no work.
Cratchit. It only comes once a year, sir. Only once a year.
Scrooge. A poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every twenty-fifth of December! But I suppose you've got to have the whole day. But you be here all the earlier next morning.
Cratchit. Oh, yes, indeed, sir. (Goes out R.)
Scrooge. I'll stay here a bit and finish up the work.
Enter Cratchit from R. with hat. He turns up his coat collar, wraps the long white woolen muffler around chin and pulls hat down over his face.