Cratchit (down C.). Why, where's our Martha?
Mrs. Cratchit (down L.). Not coming.
Cratchit. Not coming? Not coming—on Christmas Day?
Martha (rushing in from L.). No, father, it's only a joke. Here I am, father, here I am. (Rushes into his arms.)
Betty (taking Tiny Tim). Come on, Tiny Tim, out to the wash-house. We've got something to show you, we have. Ain't we, Bob?
Bob. You bet we have, Tiny Tim. Come and hear the Christmas pudding singing in the wash boiler. Come on! (Exit Bob, followed by Betty and Tiny Tim, at L.)
Mrs. Cratchit (taking Cratchit's hat and muffler and hanging them up). And how did Tiny Tim behave in the church, father?
Cratchit. As good as gold and better. Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. (Sits at L. surrounded by all.) He told me, coming home, 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 it was who made lame beggars walk and blind men see. (Trembling voice.) Little Tim is growing stronger and more hearty every day.
Enter Tiny Tim from L.
Tim. I heard the pudding singing a song in the wash boiler, I did.