A Hearth's Warming Carol

by Professor_Blue

Chapter 1

Inspired by the works of Charles Dickens & Lauren Faust.
In prose being the nature of a ghost story of Christmas.
Dedicated to those whose charity is great, and those whose need is greater.

Chapter I. DERPE'S GHOST

Hoovton was dead, to begin with. Irrevocably it had been conferred by the chief mourner, coroner, his assistant and an investigative medical professional of whom mortality was a well-researched knowledge; of these members there was no doubt of the fact. Derpe Hoovton was dead as a doornail.

The fact thereof, McCrooge knew well to be true but uncruel. The old business partner had traded well by their mutual service to the Firm which they ran, dedicating every day of work hard and fast, for the provision to their investors and the repayment from their debtors. Still, the name bewrit the sign above the Office's door still read "Hoovton & McCrooge". McIntosh McCrooge had not endeavoured nor intended to labour about removing one of the names. "Derpe & Hoovton", "McCrooge", "Hoovton & McCrooge", it was all the same to him. The matter of Hoovton's death did not trouble him in the slightest.

But oh the stallion McCrooge was! An unbecoming creature of wiry contrivance, driven by resolute indifference to any weather or sympathy, colder than the starkest frost of night and unreachable as the highest wispy cloud for emotional intent was he, so determined to remove himself from the commonpony. A creature whose millstone of career tied at the neck drove his mind and matter every moment either by hand or by spirit. Ever interested in his own aloof service, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old scallop with a brain of avarice, whom in comparison the widest most harrowing tundra offered more charity. Foul weather knew not where to have him, for he never paid mind to the most glorious glowing day or most reprehensible blowing storm.

Once upon a Hearth's Warming Eve, McCrooge sat in his office, a separate chamber from the entirety of the room of his enterprise. A glass pane window resided in the fixture of the door, which he had kept open in order to keep a leery eye on his apprenticing clark, the young Rupert Right. A studious and tentative spirit whose desire was to serve his family above all else, even if it meant living in the employ of a miserly stallion such as was McCrooge. His marine-like blue mane shivered at the low cold of the office, the entirety of the bookkeeper's room warmed by a single coal burning in the space of the cast iron stove in the corner. His white coat did nothing to retain any semblance of warmth. The stallion raised his hooves to warm them on the illuminating candle that sat upon his desk, as he copied letters in a writ that looked so round and bland. Perchance might he gather the courage to stand himself up and walk into McCrooge's office to have another lump of coal or two to improve his station from the lack of warmth which it was, his employer would find the young pony liberated of his situation quite quickly.

"A Merry Hearth's Warming, Uncle! Celestia save you!" exuberated the rambunctious voice of one Cripe Caramel, a young and vehemently vivacious stallion. It was McCrooge's nephew, of that he was aware. His face was ruddy and handsome, eyes sparkling with gaiety and breath pouring of the mist of his body's hearty warmness that complimented his cheery brownish hair. He was standing in the doorway that separated McCrooge's office from the main of the establishment, now suddenly having appeared being the third soul in the whole of the building, having left the door open.

"Bah! said McCrooge, "Humbug!"

The nephew had so heated himself with rampant merry-making, trotting ever-free through slough and snow that it was completely evident nothing could despair or destroy is endearable bout of seasonal joy.

"Hearth's Warming a humbug? Oxcarts!" he replied. "Surely you don't mean that, uncle."

"Of course I do." said McCrooge. "'Merry Hearth's Warming' indeed! What reasons have you to be merry, what right? You're poor enough as it is."

"You're rich enough as it is!" returned the nephew with insurmountable cheer. "What right have you to be so dismal on an occasion that only comes about once a year?"

McCrooge having no better answer at the moment simply punctuated his annoyance with another "Humbug."

"Don't be angry, uncle."

"What else can I be?" returned the uncle. "When I live in a world of foals such as this one? Merry Hearth's Warming, indeed! Out upon a merry Hearth's Warming Eve, indeed! All manner of mares and stallions out upon the streets finds themselves giving their hard earned toil away for some simpleton's friendship, a time when everypony finds themselves many days older and no hour richer." He said emphatically with much frustration crafted into his words. "If I could have my way with every idiot on the street with "Merry Hearth's Warming" on their lips would be boiled in his own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through his heart!"

"Uncle!" Protested the nephew.

"Nephew!" returned the uncle sternly. "Keep the day in your own way and I will keep it in mine."

"Keep it! But you don't keep it at all, uncle." Pleaded Caramel.

"Well then let me leave it. Much good may it do you, as it's ever done!" Retorted McCrooge spitefully.

"I daresay that there have been a great many things by which I never profited that I might have derived good from, uncle." returned the nephew. "Hearth's-Warming among them. But I am sure I have always thought of the holiday with specific veneration because of how it is regarded by all as a time of kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant festivity, when in consent of every filly, colt, mare and stallion to be gathering themselves to open shut-up hearts and free to think of each other as unified beings of friendship, and not another race of creatures bound on other intangible journeys which we shouldn't regard, or passengers to the grave. It's never brought a bit of gold or silver to line my pocket, but every year its filled my cusp to the brim with delight and happiness, and do me good to say Luna bless it and Celestia keep it!"

The clark in the room just past the doorway involuntarily applauded with his hooves against the wood floor. Becoming aware of the impropriety, he accidentally bumped the stove as he returned to his stool, extinguishing the lonely coal in the fireplace. He gazed back down to the letter he was writing.

"Another sound from you," said McCrooge, "and you'll spend your Hearth's Warming as penniless as the paupers of the square!" he directed at Rupert, before setting his attention back to Caramel. "You're quite the speaker, nephew. A wonder you don't try for Parliament. A bunch of who-hooing is all I hear."

"Don't be angry, uncle. Come, I invite you to dine with us tomorrow at my house."

McCrooge reiterated his opinions of pudding and holly.

"But why?" cried Scrooge's nephew in earnest. "Why?"

"Why did you get married?" said the uncle.

"Because I fell in love."

"Love!" growled McCrooge, as if it were the only thing more ridiculous than the merriness of the season in all of the causative annoyances he perceived. "Good afternoon, Cripe."

"I want nothing from you, I ask nothing of you, all I do is invite. Why can't we be friends, uncle?"

"Good afternoon." Said McCrooge, his voice deepening, embittered.

"I am sorry, with all my heart, to find you being so resolute. But regardless of what quarrel you may have with it, I will keep my spirit to the last!" He finalized the remainder of what he said by jovially doffing his hat, and then placing it on the head of his uncle. "So a Merry Hearth's Warming, uncle!"

In exasperation McCrooge's hooves flailed about his head, knocking the hat off, he staring back up at the nephew.

"HUMBUG!"

"And a happy new year!" he said lastly, as he exited the door of the office. A smile still winked his face to spite the anger of his uncle.

"Good afternoon!" bellowed McCrooge. He bent forward to return to his work when he noticed a gust at his hooves, looking up to see the front door was still open.

"Right, get the door please." Said the miser, returning to his paperwork. Rupert said a subservient nothing as he stood and quietly but quickly trotted to the door, about to shut it as a portly stallion in a relatively meagre hat and fluffily eager face, conjunct with small but kept and comfortable-looking beard, greeted him as if he were about to knock.

"Hoovton & McCrooge, this is?" he inquired.

"I-i-it is." Replied the clark somewhat nervously but more becoming uncomfortable in direct exposure to the snipping wind of the street. "Please," gestured Rupert, holding the door open. The stallion stepped inside, clopping the snow off his hooves in order to prevent traipsing it further inside. The arrival was wearing a stout hat and had a dark gray mane that contrasted his lightish hair. He wore an embroidered red scarf with a shield-shaped pin on it.

McCrooge looked up indignantly at the sudden arrival of the gentlepony as he entered into his office in front of his large desk.

"Am I speaking to one of the proprietors, Derpe Hoovton or McIntosh McCrooge?"

"Hoovton died yet this very day seven years ago. But you have the address correct."

"Well, we have no doubt his liberality is well represented by his surviving partner." Said the gentlepony in a sincere politeness, presenting a folder of documents that accredited the foundation which he represented. McCrooge's brow furrowed at the word "Liberality", as he took the credentials, handing them back without examination.

"At this festive season of the year, Mr. McCrooge, it is common and desirable that we should make some provision for the less fortunate and destitute, who suffer greatly at present time." He placed a pen upon his desk alongside a form from the folder. "Hundreds of thousands are without comforts or even common necessities. We-"

"Are there no prisons" Replied McCrooge in a callous tone.

"There are. Plenty to be sure." Returned the stallion in a hopeful approach.

"Are there no workhouses; are they not still in operation?"

"I wish I could say they were not, good sir. But as I know, they are."

"The grindstone and the Poor Law are in full vigor, are they not?"

"Indeed, sir."

"Oh!" said McCrooge in a falsely enjoyed tone of sarcastic delight. "I was afraid from what you said at first that something had happened to them to prevent their useful course. I'm very glad to hear it."

"Under the mindset that they hardly enjoy sensible cheer or health to anypony. A few of us are endeavouring to fund some meal and drink to the Poor, and means of warmth. We choose this time, when want is easily seen and felt, and blessing flows. What shall I put you down for?"

"Nothing!" McCrooge barked.

"You wish to remain anonymous?"

"I wish to be left alone!" said McCrooge. "You asked me what I wished and I told you! I don't make merry at Hearth's Warming and I wouldn't dare pour myself into merry-making of those who's hooves are idle. I support the establishments I've mentioned and if anypony is badly off then they should go there themselves."

"Many would rather die!" protested the gentlepony.

"If they'd rather die then they'd better do it!" claimed McCrooge adamantly. "And decrease the surplus population. The affairs of how merry one is, is not my business, my business is my own."

"But-!"

"Good day, sir." Said McCrooge, returning his eyes to his work. The stallion realized that any further discourse would see him nowhere but thrown out, so he retired despondently through the front door. Rupert saw him out and closed the door after and returned to his desk.

A grand clock somewhere beyond the sight of above the buildings struck five with a grand chime. McCrooge stood and readied himself for the walk home, fearing nor appraising anything. Upon the floor still sat the hat of his nephew. He picked it up and placed it on his head again, looking into a mirror that sat on the wall. It did not suit him at all. He picked up his other hat, absent-mindedly placing it on top of the other hat, which made him realize and look back at the mirror, adorned by a pillarous tower of two black hats. He looked like some stupid Irish gentlepony.

"Ridiculous." He said to himself, removing the hats and returning his own to his head by itself.

Stepping outside his office and locking it, he saw Rupert Right the clark, already having packed up his work into a shelf and wearing his cheap derby and a somewhat tattered scarf, lovingly patched repeatedly until it actually resembled some variety of enjoyable tiling. He held out McCrooge's cloak for him to put on. Wordlessly he took it and began fitting it to himself.

"I suppose you'll be wanting the day then." Said McCrooge, aware of Rupert's silent and fearful curiosity. He spoke up.

"If it's not too much to ask sir. Please, Mr. McCrooge sir, it's only one day of the year."

"One day on which I must forego my enterprise for your personal enjoyment, and deprive us both of a shilling earned?" said the miser, not looking back at him. Rupert shrank at the response. McCrooge sighed.

"You may have it." Right perked up dramatically, but maintained his employee's reverence. "But all the earlier you will show up on the day after, Rupert Right." Finished the employer. Rupert struggled to maintain his composure in front of his ecstatic joy.

"T-t-thank you Sir, Mr. McCrooge!" he said, as he exited the door not far from where they stood.

"You're welcome. The day after, remember of it, Right." Replied McCrooge neutrally, as he exited himself and locked the door, placing the key in the pocket of his cloak. Rupert began down the street, slowly accelerating as the gravity of his happiness drew greater and greater appreciation. He yelled back,

"And a Merry Hearth's Warming, Sir!"

"Humbug!" retorted McCrooge.

Rupert disappeared into the people milling about the street, doubtlessly clicking his heels in happiness and even less doubtless would be enjoying a blessed morrow with his wife and child. He was an incredibly hard worker for someone who's life was lived for an adorable filly and enamouring mare. Any lesser-dedicated stallion would not be able to have the state of mind away from beings such as Rarity Right and their daughter named Sweetie.

The streets above and down below looked black and white, the disordination of wood structures being disdained by moist cold, making them look dark to the eye, versus the decoration of snow that settled on any surface that forbore the sky. The sky itself, locked in a gray stupor of overcast. Neither said anything of the coloration of the ponies milling in the streets, energetic and hectic from preparation for the gaiety of the day to follow. Garlands, tinsels, wreathes and fixtures were bore on every door and window, everypony wearing festive colors and brightly designed jackets and coverings, hats of every shape and size made the square look a sight reminiscent of a carnival, but more-so with the happiness of the hours that so rarely graced the year. Despite the light already having faded from the day, noponie's seasonal mood dispersed, held aloft by the lamplighters plying their trade to every fixture on the roadway. Although some ponies might have mistook McCrooge for a partyer because of his red coloration of hair and jovious mane when not obscured by his hat or cloak, his reputation preceded him and folks moved out of the way so not as to cause mutual discomfort of being bumped into.

The Lord Mayor partook amongst a grand feast in the city roundel in front of the church that held the great clock tower. Varieties of ponies young and old were having their share of all sorts of goods and goodies given free by the honesty of farmers and businessmen, some of whom wore the crisply maroon coloured scarves which McCrooge recalled were worn by the gentlepony that he dismissed not much earlier.

Even the poor of the alleyway and those without hats or shoes or clothing of any sort to protect them from the weather, held themselves in high spirits, warming their hooves over a barrel filled with burning wood and pleasant conversation of eras be, to come or had past.

Fog drifted in as he continued out of the city center and out to the quieter part of the city, overshadowed by a great viaduct that spanned the harbour. A chorus sang in front of a small shoppe, in perfect harmony, much to the discontent of Mr. McCrooge.

"Lay rest ye merry gentlecolt, let nothing you dismay

Remember our six ponies by whose friendship on this day,

To save us all from winter's pow'r

when we had gone astray,"

"Humbug." He muttered to himself. The chorus carried on, and somehow its ethereal effects blended with time into the flat moroseness of a distant fog-horn. And then, something odd happened. A, discordant, distinct and disturbingly familiar voice called through the night.

"McCroooooge….."

"Who's there?" said McCrooge aloud, annoyed at the intrusion of his loneliness, looking around.

"McCrooooooooge…!" said the mysterious voice-like sound again, piercing yet elusive at the same time, from no direction in particular.

"Speak again! Where are you?" demanded McCrooge, stopping and turning around, trying to spot where the anomaly had sprung from. A group of passers-by eyed him curiously as he stood there, flabbergasted.

Silence, and the distant carrying-on of the choir, was all that was heard. Beset with the oddity in his mind, McCrooge simply muttered to himself and carried on home.

The home of his was less than a modest place. An army barracks seemed cheerier, being simply bought, simply owned and simply adorned save for one element that was a remnant of the previous owner, an elaborate and relatively large brass door knocker. As McCrooge stepped up to his home on the small set of stairs and extracted his key from his cloak, he noticed that imperceptibly the knocker had changed into the statue-like face of an all too familiar pony, eyes focusing in opposite directions and mouth held embitteringly closed.

"…Derpy Hoovton?"

"McCROOOOOOOOGE!" bellowed the bronze face, scaring the stallion half to death and set him stumbling backwards. McCrooge regained his composure as he stood up again to confront the apparition of his door. The door knocker was as it always had been, resting idly and unchanged, as if the face were never there. Ponyfolk looked at him from the street with minor concern but obviously had not sensed anything apart from possibly an old pony slipping on his front stoop. It was apparent that no one had heard what he had. He looked at it from the side, and reasoned that it must have been just some kind of hallucination.

"Humbug." And he opened the door.

McCrooge checked through some of the rooms of his home in order to investigate if there had been some kind of mischief being had by an intruder of his home, that had caused the knocker to change as it did, but a glance in every doorway and gaze in every closet yielded nothing but empty rooms and furniture gathering dust from neglect. And a dismal looking stuffed toy, shrouded in an obscure shelf, which he entirely ignored in his determination of silence and mongering of the possessed knocker. Eventually it put itself out of his mind and he relaxed somewhat, retiring to his bed chamber. His supper was a simple one of a bit of cheese and bread, as well as some tea to calm his nerves about the door knocker nonsense, and the sound he thought he heard by the harbour. But his calm never came. As he was about to stand up from his chair to extinguish the fire from his mantle and go to bed, the small bell mounted above the mantle place where a picture should have been hung, rang.

*Ring-a-ling!*

He instantly looked at it. It was far too high for anypony to reach, even for his stature. It had no strings attached to it, so the pendulum could not swing. In fact he was quite sure that the old bell was iron-cast and had rusted before he ever moved in. He must have been hearing things.

*Ring-a-ling!* it chimed again.

Before any coherent thoughts formed, it rang again.

*Ring-a-ling-a-ling a-ling a-ling a-ling!*

Loud and violent and hard as the metal from which it was cast, admitting nothing but a steely, vibrant, repetitious, foreboding tone. McCrooge opened his mouth as he tried to think, but then without a sound and without a wisp of wind his fire went out. As if the life of it was sucked away in a moment. The room was bathed in darkness save for a candle on the table beside his chair. He froze, not knowing what to do or what to think. He looked around the room, seeing the other chair, his bed, a bed stand, the two far windows, the chandelier above him and he turned to look back at the mantelpiece when his view was interrupted by a Phantom. He gasped.

There before him stood a ghost, gray but entirely see-through, the eyes looking off not towards him but someplace else, emotionless and unfeeling, expression as damnably depressed, or more, than imaginable. It was a Pegasus, that much was certain, but it was bound in chains and covered with an enormous saddle of safe-boxes, purses, keys, padlocks and lengths and lengths and lengths of chain, bound and tied back again of cold steel and knotted metal, gritty and chafing.

The apparition said nothing, as one of its eyes slowly focused on McCrooge, and then the other. The miser did recognize the face, but was not seeing his mind through.

"W-wwhat do you want with me?" Said McCrooge, almost beside himself with fear and misunderstanding.

"Much!-" Said the Spirit in a voice, which removed all doubt of his identity in McCrooge's mind.

"Who are you?"

"Who was I." corrected the Spirit.

"Who were you then?"

"In life I was your partner, Derpe Hoovton." The Spirits voice echoed as if it were a gas flowing every place it could reach, then drifting back as if it wanted to be thunder. Ghastly and unlovable is what it was.

"Can y-you sit down?"

"I can."

"Then do it, sit." Commanded McCrooge, trying to affirm whether or not the being which he beheld was capable of interacting with matter as he knew of it. As the Ghost of Hoovton rested on the cushion of the chair, it depressed and McCrooge saw right through the ghost's body to see it happening. This made him feel even more nervous than before, disproving his assumption of the ghost's intangibility.

"You don't believe in me." Observed the ghost.

"W-why should I?" justified McCrooge, "You're a ghost. Ghosts aren't real."

"What evidence does one have beyond their senses, and what they make of those?"

"Be-because, the slightest thing can make them cheat. A bit of indigestion or sickness is all it takes.-"

McCrooge lost his concentration of reasonability and began staring at Hoovton, who's atmosphere was entirely its own, as if simultaneously existing in two different ways of the room and the chair. One way being unseen, seemed to have cold air and no light, and a thick aura of some unspeakable thing. He held up a toothpick, firstly to divert the attention of the Ghost away from his eyes, as the sensation felt like the very action of the Ghost was peeling his mind out.

"You see this toothpick?"

"I do." Replied the ghost, if anything, patiently.

"You're not looking at it."

"But I see it, notwithstanding." Replied the ghost, not relinquishing its stare beyond the eyes of McCrooge.

"If I were to swallow this, I'd be possessed all my days in my mind with legions of goblins! Habha ha I tell you this ghost n-nonsense is Humbug!" he said, losing his constitution and what remained of his sanity of the mention. The Spectre loosened a bandage wrapped around its head that held under its jaw in one jarring motion. Untied, the jaw flapped downwards against the neck showing a black empty hole where the bottom of the mouth should have been, and it let loose from its parched lips a ghastly wail louder and more horrifying than anything McCrooge had ever heard in his entire life. He doubled over, falling back on his chair, splaying out his legs, now in the visible shelter of hiding behind the overturned chair. He poked his head up, to see that the Ghost of Hoovton was still there, watching and not changing focus whatsoever, just as dismal and dreadful as ever, having tied the bandage back up above its head and jaw returned to place.

"Horrible beastly spirit!" he said. "Why do you trouble me so!"

"Stallion of a worldly mind!" it wailed. "Do you believe in me or not?"

"I do I do!" said McCrooge. "But why must spirits walk the world and why must they come to me, what have I done?"

"Be it required of every stallion and mare," said the ghost "that the willing spirit of friendship within them should travel far and wide between and among the spirits of his fellow ponyfolk. If he does not do so in life, he must do so in death. Doomed, to wander through the world, and witness what it cannot chare, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness! But nevermore can do so, oooOO!" and it trailed off again into another horrifying wail, trying to pull against some of the chains but only causing itself to become more tangled, and falling to the floor with its front hooves crossed. It moaned a dreadful moan, indescribably dreadful and sad, lying in nothing's pity before it stood up again on all four legs.

McCrooge watched the display in fear. He ventured to ask

"What are these that you're wearing, Derpe?"

"I wear the chain I forged in life. I crafted it link by link, fathom by fathom, padlock, key and box. I girded it on my own free will, and of my own free will I crafted it and kept it, and now it is to be mine, forevermore. Woe to me, oh woe."

McCrooge could barely even keep himself upright for how hard he was trembling, still trying to shelter himself with the overturned chair.

"Would you rather know," pursued the ghost "the length and weight of the chains you yet craft yourself that you shall bear? As long as heavy as mine it was, seven Eves of the Hearth ago. Regard it well, McCrooge."

The miser looked down at his own hooves, thinking the feeling that he had been wearing chains not a moment ago, but now there was no such feeling.

"Derpe, can you not speak of anything good? Is there no comfort you have to say?"

"None." Said the ghost. "That comes from other regions, McIntosh McCrooge. Of whom, I am not such a minister. Nor can I tell you what I would, for a very little more can I say before I must depart and move on; oh woe is me that I will be forever going and coming but never staying. In life my spirit never roved beyond the narrow ways of our life and naught farther from our money-changing hole, and weary journeys lie before me, evermore!"

His curiosity trying to make a conversation with a long dead friend got the better of him, and McCrooge asked,

"You travel fast?"

"On the wings of the wind." Said the Pegasus ghost, not moving its wings, for they were still burdened by the fathoms of metal.

"Must have been slow only to travel so short in seven years?" replied McCrooge.

Again the ghost wailed a cry that made his blood curdle and his mind freeze, McCrooge almost falling over again.

"So small is the mind and perceptiveness of mortal creatures on this little sphere. They know not that their stake in their life is of consequence to all of eternity, and squander it on themselves in ignorance! Not to know that no vast regret can make amends for one life's opportunity misused! Yet such was I, oh such was I!" moaned the Spectre.

"But you were always a good gentlepony of business, Derpe," faltered McCrooge, who now began to apply what the ghost said to himself.

"Business!" cried the ghost, wringing its ears with its hooves in mournful frustration. It stood straight again and stood closer to McCrooge, who had stood up and in front of the chair. "Ponykind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!"

McCrooge quaked, his knees knocking together in realization of the gravity of the words.

"Hear me!" cried the Ghost. "My time is almost gone."

"I will." Said McCrooge. "But don't be hard and don't be soft, I want to hear it straight, pray Derpe."

"How it is that I appear before you in a shape that you can see, I may not tell. I have sat beside you invisible many a day."

McCrooge did not like the sound of that.

"That is no part of my penance," it continued. "I am here tonight to warn you, that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. A chance and hope of my procuring, McIntosh."

"Thank you, Pray Derpe, you were always a good friend." Said McCrooge, starting to become relieved.

"You will be haunted by Three Spirits." Finished the ghost.

McCrooge's countenance immediately sank lower than it was ever before.

"Is that the chance and hope you mentioned, Derpe?"

"It is."

"I- -I don't-"

"Suffer them to pass or suffer the path I tread!" declared the spirit in a terrible voice as irreproachable as his wails before. McCrooge collapsed from his fear.

"Expect the first ghost at the toll of the hour of One, and the second at Two, followed by the third at Three. There may yet be hope for you, McIntosh McCrooge."

The apparition began walking, its pace stifled by the the chains, making an unbearable racket as it approached the wall, and simply walked through it. McCrooge galloped to the window and looked out, seeing thousands of spirits much like Hoovton, transitioning in and out of houses, up and down the sky, all tied down with burdens and restraints of various forms, some many casks of wood, some metal safes, one with a skeleton. McCrooge tried to open his mouth to bellow "Humbug!" at the scene of horror but all that came out was a vague squeak before he passed out overwhelmed by what he had seen.

A little while later, he gathered himself up and put on his nightcap, still recalcitrant to the things that had happened to him in sight and mind. He lay down on the mattress of his bed and muttered,

"Humbug."

And closed the bed-curtains.

Comments

[King Of Thieves]

you spelled "Share" wrong.