JamalMarley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Bebop signed it: and Bebop's name was good upon 'Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old JamalMarley was as dead as a door-nail.
Bebop knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Bebop and he were partners for I don't know how many years. Bebop was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend and sole mourner. And even Bebop was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnised it with an undoubted bargain.
Bebop never painted out Old JamalMarley's name. There it stood, years afterwards, above the Lobby door: Bebop and JamalMarley. The lobby was known as Bebop and JamalMarley. Sometimes people new to the business called Bebop Bebop, and sometimes JamalMarley, but he answered to both names: it was all the same to him.
Once upon a time -- of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve -- old Bebop sat busy in his Lobby. It was cold, bleak, biting weather: foggy withal: and he could hear the people in the court outside go wheezing up and down, beating their hands upon their breasts, and stamping their feet upon the pavement stones to warm them.
The door of Bebop's lobby was open that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, who in a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was copying letters. Bebop had a very small fire, but the clerk's fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one coal.
"A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!" cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Bebop's nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach.
"Bah!" said Bebop, "Humbug!"
"Christmas a humbug, uncle!" said Bebop's nephew. "You don't mean that, I am sure."
"I do," said Bebop. "Merry Christmas! What right have you to be merry? What reason have you to be merry? You're poor enough."
"Come, then," returned the nephew gaily. "What right have you to be dismal? What reason have you to be morose? You're rich enough."
Bebop having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said "Bah!" again; and followed it up with "Humbug."
"Don't be cross, uncle!" said the nephew.
"Nephew!" returned the uncle, sternly, "keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine."
"Keep it!" repeated Bebop's nephew. "But you don't keep it."
"Let me leave it alone, then," said Bebop. "Much good may it do you! Much good it has ever done you!"
His nephew left the room without an angry word, notwithstanding. He stopped at the outer door to bestow the greetings of the season on the clerk, who cold as he was, was warmer than Bebop; for he returned them cordially.
