Up rose Mrs. Cratchit, Cratchit’s wife, dressed out but poorly in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which are cheap, and make a goodly show for sixpence; and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda Cratchit, the second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons; while Master Peter Cratchit, who was wearing a monstrous shirt collar belonging to his father, plunged a fork into the saucepan of potatoes, and rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired.
And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl, came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker’s they had smelt the goose, and known it for their own. Then these young Cratchits danced about the table, while Master Peter Cratchit, whose collar nearly choked him, blew the fire until the slow potatoes bubbling up, knocked loudly at the saucepan lid to be let out and peeled.
“What has become of your father?” said Mrs. Cratchit. “And your brother, Tiny Tim! And Martha wasn’t as late last Christmas Day by half an hour.”
“Here’s Martha, Mother!” said a girl, appearing as she spoke.
“Here’s Martha, Mother!” cried the two young Cratchits. “Hurrah! There’s such a goose, Martha!”
Bob Cratchit and Tiny Tim
“Why, bless your heart, my dear, how late you are!” said Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a dozen times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet for her.
“We had a great deal of work to finish up last night,” replied the girl, “and had to clear away this morning, Mother!”
“Well, never mind, as long as you are here,” said Mrs. Cratchit. “Sit down before the fire, my dear, and warm yourself.”