A Christmas Carol | Page 5

was usual with
him.
Meanwhile the fog and darkness thickened so, that people ran about
with flaring links, proffering their services to go before horses in
carriages, and conduct them on their way. The ancient tower of a
church, whose gruff old bell was always peeping slily down at Scrooge
out of a Gothic window in the wall, became invisible, and struck the
hours and quarters in the clouds, with tremulous vibrations afterwards,
as if its teeth were chattering in its frozen head up there. The cold
became intense. In the main street, at the corner of the court, some
labourers were repairing the gas-pipes, and had lighted a great fire in a
brazier, round which a party of ragged men and boys were gathered:
warming their hands and winking their eyes before the blaze in rapture.
The water-plug being left in solitude, its overflowings suddenly
congealed, and turned to misanthropic ice. The brightness of the shops,
where holly sprigs and berries crackled in the lamp heat of the windows,
made pale faces ruddy as they passed. Poulterers' and grocers' trades
became a splendid joke: a glorious pageant, with which it was next to
impossible to believe that such dull principles as bargain and sale had
anything to do. The Lord Mayor, in the stronghold of the mighty

Mansion House, gave orders to his fifty cooks and butlers to keep
Christmas as a Lord Mayor's household should; and even the little
tailor, whom he had fined five shillings on the previous Monday for
being drunk and blood-thirsty in the streets, stirred up to-morrow's
pudding in his garret, while his lean wife and the baby sallied out to
buy the beef.
Foggier yet, and colder! Piercing, searching, biting cold. If the good St.
Dunstan had but nipped the Evil Spirit's nose with a touch of such
weather as that, instead of using his familiar weapons, then indeed he
would have roared to lusty purpose. The owner of one scant young nose,
gnawed and mumbled by the hungry cold as bones are gnawed by dogs,
stooped down at Scrooge's keyhole to regale him with a Christmas
carol; but, at the first sound of
"God bless you, merry gentleman, May nothing you dismay!"
Scrooge seized the ruler with such energy of action, that the singer fled
in terror, leaving the keyhole to the fog, and even more congenial frost.
At length the hour of shutting up the counting-house arrived. With an
ill-will Scrooge dismounted from his stool, and tacitly admitted the fact
to the expectant clerk in the tank, who instantly snuffed his candle out,
and put on his hat.
"You'll want all day to-morrow, I suppose?" said Scrooge.
"If quite convenient, sir."
"It's not convenient," said Scrooge, "and it's not fair. If I was to stop
half-a-crown for it, you'd think yourself ill used, I'll be bound?"
The clerk smiled faintly.
"And yet," said Scrooge, "you don't think me ill used when I pay a
day's wages for no work."
The clerk observed that it was only once a year.

"A poor excuse for picking a man's pocket every twenty-fifth of
December!" said Scrooge, buttoning his great-coat to the chin. "But I
suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier next
morning."
The clerk promised that he would; and Scrooge walked out with a
growl. The office was closed in a twinkling, and the clerk, with the
long ends of his white comforter dangling below his waist (for he
boasted no great-coat), went down a slide on Cornhill, at the end of a
lane of boys, twenty times, in honour of its being Christmas-eve, and
then ran home to Camden Town as hard as he could pelt, to play at
blindman's buff.
Scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy tavern;
and having read all the newspapers, and beguiled the rest of the evening
with his banker's book, went home to bed. He lived in chambers which
had once belonged to his deceased partner. They were a gloomy suite
of rooms, in a lowering pile of building up a yard, where it had so little
business to be, that one could scarcely help fancying it must have run
there when it was a young house, playing at hide-and-seek with other
houses, and have forgotten the way out again. It was old enough now,
and dreary enough; for nobody lived in it but Scrooge, the other rooms
being all let out as offices. The yard was so dark that even Scrooge,
who knew its every stone, was fain to grope with his hands. The fog
and frost so hung about the black old gateway of the house, that it
seemed as if the Genius of the Weather sat in mournful meditation on
the threshold.
Now, it is a fact that