Betty. Oh, suppose it should break in turning it out.
Martha. Or suppose it isn't done enough.
Bob. Suppose somebody should have got over the wall of the backyard and stolen it while we were in here eating the goose.
Mrs. Cratchit. Nonsense. I'll get the Christmas pudding. (Exits.)
Bob (very much excited). Oh, I can smell it, I can. I smell the pudding.
Enter Mrs. Cratchit bearing dish of pudding, decked with holly, and blazing.
Cratchit. Oh, it's a wonder, mother, it's a wonder.
Betty. It looks like a little speckled cannon-ball.
Bob. But just wait till you taste it; that's all. (It is served.)
Cratchit (rises). I have a toast. Mr. Scrooge! I'll give you Mr. Scrooge, the founder of the feast.