The Further Adventures of Ebenezer Scrooge Read Online Free PDF Page B

placed each freshly labelled bottle to the side he let out a rattling cough.
    â€œHis father is in debtors’ prison at the Marshalsea,” said the Spirit. “Strange that if a man has twenty pounds a year for his income, and spends nineteen pounds nineteen shillings and sixpence, he is happy, but if he spends twenty pounds one he is miserable, as are his children.”
    â€œA talented boy he was,” added Scrooge. “Such promise.”
    Without pausing to ask how Scrooge knew the young lad, Freddie asked, “How long must he work like this?”
    â€œSixteen hours a day,” replied the Spirit, “with a half hour for tea.” Though Freddie had meant to ask for how many days or weeks or, God forbid, months longer the boy would be employed in this dreadful work, he reeled at the thought that for even a single day a child should be forced to work such hours in such conditions.
    â€œAnd today is . . .” said Freddie.
    â€œToday is Christmas Day,” said the Spirit.
    â€œBut something must be done!” cried Freddie, anger boiling inside him. “Surely such a child should be in school. And no one should work like this on Christmas Day. Are there no laws, no regulations?”
    â€œSurely,” said the Spirit, “there
are
such laws. But I amthe Ghost of Christmas Past, and the rules that provide Greek and Latin for a child instead of endless hours of drudgery are quite recent.” It could be argued that Greek and Latin were another form of drudgery, Scrooge reflected, but he couldn’t deny they were a substantially more humane form.
    â€œIt’s a travesty,” said Freddie. “If I had been alive to see such things, I should have marched straight to Parliament and not rested until something was done.”
    â€œWould you?” asked Scrooge, smiling, for he could almost hear the chains falling from Marley.
    â€œWait a moment,” said Freddie, paying no heed to his uncle but rounding on the ghost, his anger welling up red in his face. “That woman you showed me at the asylum—should not the Lunacy Commission have done something for her? We should file a report. Such abuses are not allowed to . . .” His voice trailed off as the ghost drifted before him through the wall of the factory. In the next moment, the three figures hovered over the murky waters of the Thames.
    â€œI suppose at the time there was no Lunacy Commission,” mumbled Freddie, oblivious to his seemingly precarious position in midair.
    â€œNot then,” said the ghost. “But problems can be addressed. Shall we pay her another visit?” In an instant the three figures found themselves again within the walls of the asylum.
    â€œIs it still Christmas past?” asked Freddie, his voice echoing in the stony silence.
    â€œQuite recent past,” said the ghost. “A mere five Christmases ago.”
    They stood in a long, low gallery with a few windows on one side and a great many doors leading to sleeping cells on the other. Several women were seated on benches around a caged fireplace, all silent, except one. Though there was nothing in her hands, she sewed a mad sort of seam and scolded some imaginary person. Except the scolding woman, every patient in the room either silently looked at the fire or silently looked at the ground—or rather through the ground, and at heaven knows what beyond. Freddie sensed no happiness, but neither did he sense the unjustified misery of the woman he had seen on his previous visit.
    It was a relief to come to a workroom, with coloured prints over the mantel shelf and china shepherdesses upon it, furnished also with tables, a carpet, stuffed chairs, and an open fire. There was a great difference between the demeanour of the occupants of this apartment and that of the inmates of the other room. They were neither so listless nor so sad. Although they did not speak much, they worked with earnestness