“No, no! There’s Father coming,” cried the two young Cratchits, who were everywhere at once.
“Hide, Martha, hide!”
So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the father, with at least three feet of comforter hanging down before him; and his threadbare clothes darned up and brushed, and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his legs supported by an iron frame!
“Why, where’s our Martha?” cried Bob Cratchit, looking round.
“Not coming,” said Mrs. Cratchit.
“Not coming!” said Bob. “Not coming upon Christmas Day!”
Martha didn’t like to see him disappointed, even if it were only in joke; so she came out from behind the closet door, and ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchits caught up Tiny Tim and carried him off into the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the kettle.
“And how did little Tim behave?” asked Mrs. Cratchit, when Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart’s content.
“As good as gold,” said Bob, “and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He told me that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see.”
Bob’s voice trembled when he told them this, and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was growing strong and hearty.