Transcript
Narrator/Host (0:00)
Have you ever wanted to text Ebenezer Scrooge? Well, now's your chance. Text Scrooge to 914914 and get free episodes of A Christmas Carol every day of Advent. Text Scrooge to 914-914.
Announcer (0:18)
The merry beggars at relevant radio present.
Announcer (0:27)
Episode 6. Jacob mar.
Narrator/Reader (0:41)
Up Scrooge went, not caring a button for that. Darkness is cheap, and Scrooge liked it. Before Scrooge shut his heavy door, he walked through his rooms to see that all was right. He had just enough recollection of Marley's face to desire to do that.
Scrooge (0:56)
It couldn't have been Marley. Marley's dead. Marley's dead. It was just the door knocker. Need to get it replaced. This is outrageous. Everything seems normal. Everything seems all right.
Narrator/Reader (1:13)
What's that?
Scrooge (1:15)
That's nothing.
Narrator/Reader (1:16)
Scrooge went through the sitting room. Bedroom, lumber room.
Scrooge (1:20)
Ridiculous.
Narrator/Reader (1:21)
All as they should be.
Narrator/Host (1:22)
Yes.
Narrator/Reader (1:22)
Nobody under the table, Nobody under the sofa. A small fire in the grate. Spoon and basin ready, and a little saucepan of gruel. Scrooge had a cold in his head upon the hob. Nobody under the bed.
Narrator/Reader (1:38)
Nobody in the closet, Nobody in his dressing gown, which was hanging up in a suspicious attitude against the wall. Lumber room as usual. Old fire guard, old shoes, two fish baskets, Washing stand on three legs and a poker.
Scrooge (1:55)
Everything is to rights as I left it this morning.
Narrator/Reader (1:58)
Quite satisfied, he closed his door and locked himself in. Double locked himself in, which was not his custom. Thus secured against surprise, he took off his cravat, put on his dressing gown and slippers and his nightcap, and sat down before the fire to take his gruel. It was a very low fire indeed. Nothing on such a bitter night. He was obliged to sit close to it and brood over it before he could extract the least sensation of warmth from such a handful of fuel. The fireplace was an old one, built by some Dutch merchant long ago and paved all round with quaint Dutch tiles designed to illustrate the Scriptures. There were Cains and Abels, Pharaoh's daughters, Queens of Sheba, angelic messengers descending through the air on clouds like featherbeds. Abrahams, Belshazzars, apostles putting off to sea in butterboats. Hundreds of figures to attract his thoughts. And yet that face of Mali, seven years dead, came like the ancient prophet's rod and swallowed up the whole. If each smooth tile had been a blank at first, with power to shape some picture on its surface, from the disjointed fragments of Scrooge's thoughts, there would have been a copy of Old Marley's head on every one.
