Children. Come, Tiny Tim, into the washhouse, to hear the pudding singing in the copper! (They carry Tim out—Peter exits l. h.)
Mrs. C. And how did little Tim behave?
Bob. As good as gold. Somehow he gets thoughtful sitting by himself so much, and thinks the sweetest things you ever heard! (The Children re-enter with Tim.)
Children. The goose! the goose! (Peter re-enters carrying the goose—it is placed on the table, etc. All seat themselves at table.)
Scr. Bob's happier than his master! How his blessed urchins, mounting guard upon their posts, cram their spoons into their mouths, lest they should shriek for goose before their turn arrives to be helped! And now, as Mrs. Cratchit plunges her knife in its breast, a murmur of delight arises round the board, and even Tiny Tim beats the table with the handle of his knife, and feebly cries hurrah!
Bob. Beautiful! There never was such a goose. It's tender as a lamb, and cheap as dirt. The apple sauce and mashed potatoes are delicious—and now, love, for the pudding. The thought of it makes you nervous.
Mrs. C. Too nervous for witnesses. I must leave the room alone to take the pudding up and bring it in. (Exit l. h.
Bob. Awful moment! Suppose it should not be done enough? Suppose it should break in turning out? Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the back yard and stolen it? (Gets up, and walks about, disturbed.) I could suppose all sorts of horrors. Ah! there's a great deal of steam—the pudding's out of the copper! A smell like a washing day—that's the cloth! A smell like an eating-house and a pastry cook's door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that—that's the pudding. (Mrs. Cratchit re-enters with pudding, which she places on table. Bob sits.)
Children. Hurrah!
Scr. Mrs. Cratchit looks flushed, but smiles proudly, like one who has achieved a triumph.