A Christmas Carol

Adapted for Bedtime Reading & Young Readers
by Adam Fisher, Ben Torrent, Matthew Zamoyski

Illustrated by Arthur Friday

Cover by
Arthur Friday

Typesetting by
Barbara Dusk

© Copyright by Tom eMusic, New York 2021

All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher.

ISBN 978-1-62321-437-1

www.tomemusic.com

E-book made by: eLitera s.c.

AT THE OFFICE

Scrooge and Marley had been business partners from time immemorial. For longer than any of them could possibly remember, they ran a finance company under the name of ‘Scrooge & Marley’. One day, Mr. Marley died; sad as it was, the occurrence did not upset Scrooge one bit. On the contrary, during the funeral, with his razor-sharp mind, he conceived a brilliant plan for a successful business enterprise that would bring a handsome profit.

In London, Scrooge had made a name for himself as a miser above all other misers. He did not shrink from pulling out, wringing out, and squeezing out to his advantage anything he laid his hands upon. As sharp as mustard and hard as nails, Scrooge was a veritable bloodsucker. At the same time, he was tight-lipped and would always keep himself to himself. As the years passed by, the icy cold of his heart had shrunk his countenance, squeezed his pointed nose into an icicle, wrinkled his forehead, lit up his eyes with a cold unfriendly gleam, tightened his livid corpse-like lips and caused his whole posture to remind one of a sharp rod.

One day, on the most beautiful and celebrated day of the year, Christmas Eve, the old miser, too busy to rejoice with others, was sitting in his office. It was bitterly cold, and the thick and frosty fog, so frequent in London in winter, wreaked havoc on passers-by, sparing nobody, rich or poor. Scrooge could hear people attempting to warm themselves up by blowing into their cupped hands and stamping their feet. Although the clock chimed three o’clock, the city was already shrouded in darkness.

Scrooge sat in the same room as his bookkeeper so as to keep a constant eye on him. In the corner of the office smoldered a single coal glowing on a handful of ashes. The poor wretch was not able to burn more coals, as the coal-scuttle stood intentionally out of his reach.

“Merry Christmas, Uncle! May God bless you with his love!” sounded a young and sonorous voice. The voice belonged to Scrooge’s nephew, who had dropped in unexpectedly. He was obviously very cold for he kept on rubbing his hands, yet he smiled cheerfully.

“Young man,” replied Scrooge, “don’t talk rubbish!”

“By no means is the feast of Christmas rubbish, dear Uncle,” protested the young man.

“But of course it is!” answered Scrooge. “Certainly Christmas doesn’t entitle you to give in to such ruinous cheerfulness! Even without this folly, you are as poor as a church mouse.”

“Wait a minute!” retorted his nephew. “Christmas doesn’t entitle you to be so sad. Why on a day like this, do you give in to such a boring chore as bookkeeping? Even without it, you’re as rich as Croesus.”

“Yet again you’re talking rubbish!” yelled Scrooge. “What in fact is this Christmas of yours? It is simply a moment of extravagance and running up debts that you won’t be able to pay off. Go to hell with your good cheer!”

“Your stubbornness causes me pain! A great pain, Uncle! I have come here today to celebrate Christmas, and despite the frosty welcome I receive here, I’m going to rejoice on this exceptional feast. So once more, let me wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. If you should change your mind, you’re invited to dine with us tomorrow.”

“Many thanks and good night,” hissed Scrooge curtly.

Without a single word more, the nephew made for the entrance to the office. However, he stopped at the accountant’s desk to repeat his Christmas wishes to the poor man. The latter was moved to tears, and though frozen to the bone, received these best wishes far more warmly than the old miser. Thanking him heartily, he showed the guest to the front door.

“Yet another fool!” Scrooge growled bitterly, resuming his work. “My bookkeeper, earning 15 shillings per week, burdened with a wife and children, speaks of Merry Christmas?! By jingo, surely even in a lunatic asylum, you will find more reasonable people.”

At last there came the moment for closing the office. Scrooge rose to his feet, thereby signaling to the bookkeeper to follow suit. The poor wretch had been looking forwards to this moment for a long time. He blew out the candle, wound a long scarf around his neck and grabbed his hat.

“You would rather have a day off tomorrow, wouldn’t you?” asked Scrooge, not even attempting to hide his peevishness.

“If you do not mind, sir, that is...”

“I do mind, a lot! As I see it, you don’t give a damn about me losing money, paying you for a day when you are of no use to the company whatsoever.”

The bookkeeper dared to point out to his master that it happened only once a year.

“That is a poor excuse for picking a man’s pocket just because tomorrow is the twenty-fifth of December, and with impunity to boot!” said Scrooge sarcastically, buttoning his overcoat up to his chin. “So there is nothing for it but to give you the day off tomorrow. But to make up for lost time, please report for duty earlier than usual the day after tomorrow.”

The bookkeeper promised solemnly that he would, and Scrooge was left shrugging his shoulders and cursing his employee under his breath:

“Lazy and good for nothing.”

The bookkeeper left hurriedly and rushed home, hoping to get there in time to play ‘blind man’s buff’ with the children before they went to sleep.