The Further Adventures of Ebenezer Scrooge by Charlie Lovett Read Free Book Online Page B

“There are only four. Here is a man who needs only enough money to buy a loom and he might ransom his family from this prison.”
    â€œSurely there are relief societies to help just such a person,” said Mr. Pleasant, averting his gaze from the hollow eyes of the mother, who cradled her children in her lap.
    â€œWhy, certainly,” said Scrooge cheerfully. “The Society for the Relief of Distress undertakes just such endeavours.”
    â€œWell, we had best contact them,” said Mr. Portly.
    â€œThey are a bit shy of funding at the moment,” said Scrooge. “It seems the bank refused payment on a fifty-pound donation just this morning. A mere fraction of that would have saved this family.”
    â€œYou don’t mean to say,” said Mr. Pleasant, “that they will . . .”
    â€œI am but the ghost of this year’s Christmas,” said the Spirit, breaking his silence. “I cannot tell what is to pass on Christmases yet to come. Yet I would be surprised if any of my younger brothers ever meet these souls.”
    Mr. Pleasant opened his mouth as if to remark on this prediction, but before he could speak, the Spirit had once again taken hold of his hand, and that of his companion, and the dungeon fell away beneath them. They found themselves standing in a narrow paved yard hemmed in by high walls duly spiked at the top. From this yard they passed into a small cell, which, though its occupant was a prisoner, was luxurious in comparison to the home they had just left behind. In one corner stood a simple wooden bedstead and next to it a stool and a writing desk, on which lay a few sheets of paper. From a small window high in one wall a hint of daylight filteredinto the room. Seated on the stool was a man in ragged clothes with dishevelled hair, scratching away with a quill.
    â€œI know this man!” cried Mr. Portly. “Or I know what he was, for the last time I saw him his hair was kempt, his cravat exquisite, and the sheen fresh on his breeches.”
    â€œWhy, of course,” said Mr. Pleasant. “He was a customer of the bank. That is, he . . . he . . .” And Mr. Pleasant stuttered into silence as he dragged the depths of his mind for the details of the prisoner’s long-forgotten business with the bank.
    â€œHe was a debtor,” said Mr. Portly slowly. “He owed ten shillings and sixpence and came to the bank for a loan of the sum.”
    â€œIndeed,” said Mr. Pleasant, the memory swimming to the surface from the murky past. “We could do nothing to help him, of course, but such a small debt must have easily been repaid.”
    â€œMust it?” asked the Spirit, with a wink at Scrooge.
    â€œHis debt was repaid, to be sure,” said Scrooge. “And the ten and six he borrowed from a moneylender has compounded, as of today, into three hundred and sixteen pounds, eight shillings, and twopence.”
    â€œOh, he shall never be able to pay such a debt,” said Mr. Pleasant, who now had a clear picture of the man’s past financial irresponsibility before him.
    â€œIndeed, it seems unlikely,” said Mr. Portly, peering overthe man’s shoulder. “He seems to do nothing but write letters to acquaintances asking for assistance. He’s not likely to keep pace with the interest in that manner.”
    â€œSome useful occupation is what he should pursue,” said Mr. Pleasant.
    â€œAnd what useful occupation would you have him pursue here in debtors’ prison?” asked Scrooge, his voice tinged with impatience. “What useful occupation could he possibly pursue when his interest is compounded at a rate that would make you and Mr. Portly paupers in six months’ time? And to think what a small sum would have saved him once.”
    â€œWould have saved him?” said Mr. Portly quietly. “Do you mean to say there is no hope whatsoever?”
    â€œThat is not