TIM. Hurray! (CRATCHIT _makes signal, all bend heads for a silent grace._) CRATCHIT (_after pronounced pause_). And God bless Christmas Day. TIM. God bless us all, every one. (CRATCHIT _and_ MRS. CRATCHIT _serve the meal. All eat._) CRATCHIT. I've got a situation in my eye for Master Peter. PETER. A situation for me? CRATCHIT. Yes, sir, for you. Full five-and-sixpence weekly. ALL. Oh, Peter! BOB. Peter will be a man of business, won't you, Peter? PETER. What'll I do with all that money? CRATCHIT. Invest it, invest it, my lad. It's a bewildering income. MARTHA. Who do you think was in the shop yesterday? You'll never guess. A countess and a real lord. ALL. Martha! MARTHA. A real, live lord, as fine as silk and just about as tall as Peter here. PETER (_pulls his collar up high and tosses his head_). As big as me? (WAITS _outside sing two verses of Christmas Carol, as before._) CRATCHIT (_goes to door_). Here's a sixpence for you, and God bless you all. WAITS (_outside_). Thankee, sir. Merry Christmas, sir. BELINDA. And now the pudding. 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. MRS. CRATCHIT (_indignantly_). The founder of the feast indeed! I wish I had him here. I'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and I hope he'd have a good appetite for it. CRATCHIT (_remonstrating gently_). My dear, the children! Christmas Day. MRS. CRATCHIT. He's an odious, stingy, hard, unfeeling man. You know he is, Robert. Nobody knows it better than you do. CRATCHIT (_mildly_). My dear, Christmas Day! MRS. CRATCHIT. Then I'll drink his health, for your sake and the Day's, not for his. Long life to him! A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! He'll be very merry and happy, I've no doubt. CRATCHIT. And now a Merry Christmas to us all, my dears. God bless us. ALL (_rising_). A very Merry Christmas. TIM. And God bless us every one! (_The tableau curtains are slowly drawn._) SCROOGE. Spirit, tell me if Tiny Tim will live. SECOND SPIRIT. I see a vacant seat in the poor chimney-corner, and a little crutch without an owner. If these shadows remained unaltered by the future, the child will die. SCROOGE. No, no, kind Spirit! Say he will be spared.