He listened to the strange footsteps following him through the foggy night and, for the first time in his life, Watson felt that this might be the end. He'd had his share of close calls in the many cases in which he had assisted Sherlock Holmes but this time was different - this time he was dressed as a cockney tart!
    He recalled the frightened look on Holmes' face as the detective started from a brief slumber in his favorite chair earlier that evening. It was almost as if he had seen a ghost, he was so pale. True, Holmes had been so hard on the trail of Jack The Ripper for the past several months that he was bound to show signs of exhaustion but his entire demeanor was unlike anything he had ever seen in his friend. As Watson considered Holmes' strange behavior and his insistence that he venture out alone on such a foggy night unarmed and disguised as a prostitute, it made him question Holmes' sanity. But he was used to following the detective's instructions without question and tonight was to be no exception - even if it were to cost him his life!
    Summoning every ounce of courage he possessed, he tightened his grip on his purse and tried to swivel his hips in an alluring manner as he proceeded down what now appeared to be a blind alley. Unable to go forward, he bravely turned to face the unearthly sound. It didn't really resemble footsteps at all, he realized, it was more like a scraping sound occasionally punctuated by a wooden thud. At first all he could see was fog swirling about the lamp at the beginning of the alley but gradually he was able to make out a shape emerging from the darkness. It only vaguely resembled a man's silhouette, small and hunched but it was clearly wearing a gentleman's top hat of the latest fashion. Closer still and Watson now discerned that the strange sound was the result of the creature limping with the aid of a cane. Unarmed except for his purse, Watson tried to brace his courage with the thought of how much bigger he was than his foe. But even that glimmer of boldness disappeared as the dwarf stopped and pulled from his cane a long thin blade. With it's evil intent betrayed in every sinister motion, the thing moved in for the kill. Watson braced himself for the strike of the blade...
    The night exploded with a gunshot!
    Quicker than the echo faded from the alley, it was over. Holmes had shot the cane out from under the Ripper who had fallen and impaled himself upon his hideous weapon. Rushing forward with his electric torch, Holmes rolled the villain over with his foot. Even in the shock of the moment Watson recognized the face of the dead man.
    "It can't be!"
    "I'm afraid it is," Holmes said with sadness.
    "Tiny Tim Cratchit? Ebenezer Scrooge's heir?"
    "None other."
    "God bless us, everyone! But why...?"
    "The old story, Watson. A fine young lad spoiled by an overindulgent philanthropist."
    "The Scoundrel!"
    "Indeed."
    "But how did you know?"
    The detective looked tense.
    "Do you believe in ghosts, Watson?"
    "Of course not! Do you?"
    Holmes listened to a myriad of bells that suddenly filled the foggy night all over London.
    "Midnight. Merry Christmas, Watson."
    "Merry Christmas, Holmes."