_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.

_Mr. F._ I did not take the trouble to inquire.

_Mr. R._ What has he done with his money?

_Mr. F._ I haven't heard (_yawning_); left it to his company, perhaps.

He hasn't left it to _me_. That's all I know. (_All laugh._) It's likely to be a very cheap funeral, for upon my life I don't know of any body to go to it. Suppose we make up a party and volunteer?

_Mr. R._ I don't mind going if a lunch is provided. I must be fed if I make one. (_All laugh._)

_Mr. F._ Well, I am the most disinterested, after all, for I never wear black gloves and I never eat lunch. But I'll offer to go, if any body else will. When I come to think of it, I am not at all sure that I wasn't his most particular friend; for we used to stop and speak whenever we met.

_Mr. S._ I would volunteer, but that I have another little matter to attend to that will prevent me. However, I have no objections to joining you in a drink to his memory.

_Mr. R._ I am with you. Let us adjourn to the punch bowl. [_Exeunt._]

_Scro._ To whom can these allusions refer; Jacob Marley has been dead these seven years, and surely those whom I have considered my best friends would not speak of my death so unfeelingly. I suppose, however, that these conversations have some latent moral for my own improvement, and as I have now resolved upon a change of life, I shall treasure up all I see and hear. Lead on, Shadow, I follow! (_Crosses to the opposite entrance and remains._)

SCENE III.--_Interior of a junk or p.a.w.n-shop._

_Enter Old Joe, ushering in Mrs. Mangle, Mrs. Dilber and Mr. Shroud, door in flat._

_Old Joe._ You couldn't have met in a better place; come in. You were made free here long ago, you know, and the other two ain't strangers.

Stop till I shut the door of the shop. Ah! how it shrieks! There isn't such a rusty bit of metal in the place as its own hinges, I believe, and I'm sure there's no such old bones here as mine. Ha, ha! We're all suitable to our calling, we're well matched. Come, come! we are at home here. (_Trims smoky lamp at table._)

_Mrs. M._ What odds, then! What odds, Mrs. Dilber? (_Throws her bundle on the floor and sits on a stool, resting her elbows on her knees._) Every person has a right to take care of themselves. _He_ always did.

_Mrs. D._ That's true, indeed! No man cared for himself more than he did.

_Mrs. M._ Why, then, don't stand staring as if you was afraid, woman; who's the wiser? We're not going to pick holes in each other's coats, I suppose?

_Mr. Shroud._ No, indeed! We should hope not.

_Mrs. M._ Very well, then: that's enough. Who's the worse for the loss of a few things like these? Not a dead man, I suppose.

_Mr. S._ (_Laughing._) No, indeed.

_Mrs. M._ If he wanted to keep 'em after he was dead, the wicked old Screw, why wasn't he natural in his life time? If he had been, he'd have had somebody to look after him when he was struck with death, instead of lying gasping out his last there, alone by himself.

_Mrs. D._ It's the truest word ever was spoke. It's a judgment on him.

_Mrs. M._ I wish it was a little heavier judgment, and it should have been, you may depend upon it, if I could have laid my hands on anything else. Open that bundle, Old Joe, and let me know the value of it. Speak out plain. I'm not afraid to be the first, nor afraid to let them see it. We knew pretty well that we were helping ourselves, before we met here, I believe. It's no sin. Open the bundle, Joe.

_Mr. S._ Oh, no; we don't mind showing what we have. Here, Joe, value these. (_Mrs. D. and Mr. S. lay their packages on the table and Joe proceeds to examine them._)

_Joe._ (_Chalking the figures on the wall as he names them._) A seal, eight shillings; pencil-case, three and six pence; pair of sleeve-b.u.t.tons, five and four-pence; scarf-pin, ninepence. Nine and four, thirteen, and six, is nineteen--seven. One and five's six, and thirteen is nine, and eight makes seventeen. That's your account, and I wouldn't give another sixpence if I was to be boiled for it. Who's next?

_Mrs. D._ I hope you'll be more liberal with me, Mr. Joe. I'm a poor, lone widow, and it's hard for me to make a living.

_Joe._ I always give too much to the ladies. It's a weakness of mine, and that's the way I ruin myself. Under-clothing, sheets, towels, sugar-tongs; these tea-spoons are old-fashioned, and the boots won't bear mending. One pound six, that's your account. If you asked me another penny, and made it an open question I'd repent of being liberal, and knock off half a crown.

_Mrs. M._ Now, undo _my_ bundle, Joe.

_Joe._ (_Opening bundle._) What do you call this? Bed curtains?

_Mrs. M._ Ah! (_Laughing._) Bed curtains.

_Joe._ You don't mean to say you took 'em down, rings and all, with Old Scrooge lying there?

_Mrs. M._ Yes I do. Why not?

_Joe._ You were born to make your fortune, and you'll certainly do it.

_Mrs. M._ I certainly shan't hold my hand, when I can get anything in it by reaching it out, for the sake of such a man as _he_ was, I promise you, Joe. Don't drop that oil upon the blanket, now.

_Joe._ His blankets?

_Mrs. M._ Whose else's do you think? He isn't likely to take cold without 'em, I dare say.

Joe. I hope he didn't die of anything catching. Eh? (_Stopping his work and looking up._)

_Mrs. M._ Don't you be afraid of that: I ain't so fond of his company that I'd loiter about him for such things if he did. Ah, you may look through that shirt till your eyes ache, but you won't find a hole in it nor a thread-bare place. It's the best he had, and a fine one, too.

They'd have wasted it if it hadn't been for me.

_Joe._ What do you call wasting of it?

_Mrs. M._ (_laughing._) Putting it on him to be buried in, to be sure.

Somebody was fool enough to do it, but I took it off again. If calico ain't good enough for such a purpose, it isn't good enough for anything.

It's as becoming to the body. He can't look uglier than he did in that one.

_Joe._ Well, well! I'll ruin myself again. I'll give you two guineas for the lot, and go to the bankrupt court. (_Takes bag of coin and counts out their amounts._)

_Mrs. M._ Ha, ha! This is the end of it, you see. He frightened every one away from him when he was alive, to profit us when he was dead.

_All._ Ha, ha, ha! [_Exeunt door in flat, old Joe lighting them out._]

_Scro._ Spirit! I see, I see. This is my own case, if nothing happens to change it. My life tends this way. Spirit, in leaving this. I shall not leave its lesson; trust me. If there is any person in the city who feels the least emotion for the death here announced, show that person to me.

[_Crosses to_ L., _while scene closes in_.]

SCENE IV.--_Street. Exterior of Scrooge & Marley's Counting House._

_Scro._ Why, here is my place of business, and has been occupied by Scrooge & Marley for many years. I see the house, let me behold what I shall be in the days to come. Why, Spirit, the house is yonder. Why do you point away? (_Goes to the window and looks in._) It is the old office still; the same furniture; but no one occupies my chair. Ah! some one comes.

_Enter James Badger from Counting House, going off right, meets Mrs. Badger at right entrance._