At the point when Scrooge arose, it was dark to the point, that watching out of bed, he could barely recognize the straightforward window from the murky dividers of his chamber. He was attempting to penetrate the obscurity with his ferret eyes, when the rings of a neighboring church struck the four quarters. So he tuned in for the hour.
To his extraordinary amazement the overwhelming ringer went ahead from six to seven, and from seven to eight, and frequently up to twelve; at that point halted. Twelve. It was past two when he went to bed. The clock wasn't right. An icicle more likely than not got into the works. Twelve.