"Get your uncle buried all right?" inquired his left-hand neighbour, suddenly speaking out of the void. Mr. Bingle's reply was a guilty, bewildered start. The man went on: "What did he die of?"

"Oh," said Mr. Bingle hazily, "most assuredly."

"I said, what ailed him?"

"Why, he was dead," said Mr. Bingle, vaguely surprised by the other's obtuseness. "That's why we buried him."

"I see," said the questioner, after staring hard for a moment. He edged a little farther away from Mr. Bingle and shot a swift glance of apprehension in the direction of the door.

"I couldn't help being late," ventured Mr. Bingle, his first apology in fifteen years. "My wife is sick, Jenkins—mighty sick. The doctor couldn't come at once, so I had to wait. She—"

"Say," said Jenkins nervously, "the old man didn't die of anything catching, did he?"

"Catching?"

"I mean contagious. Your wife hasn't caught anything from him, has she? If she has, you oughtn't to come around here carrying—"

"He died of old age," said Mr. Single stiffly.

"Sure?"

"Of course."

"Well, we all catch that if we live long enough," said Jenkins, considerably relieved. "How old was he?"

"Seventy-three."

"Leave anything?"

Mr. Bingle was suddenly bereft of all power of speech. Three men were standing just outside the long bronze caging that enclosed the bookkeeping-department, and they were looking at him with a directness that was even more pronounced than the stare of utter dismay with which he favoured them. There could be no mistake: they were discussing him—Thomas Bingle! And they were discussing him with unquestionable seriousness. His heart flopped down to his heels and his poor ears burned with a fierceness that caused him to fear that they were on the point of bursting into flames. The first vice- president was pointing him out to the president, there could be no doubt about that; and the pompous president was bobbing his head in a most extraordinary manner, there could be no doubt about that either. The third man of the trio was the chief watchman, and he was looking at Mr. Bingle as a cat looks at a captured mouse. It was all over! They were about to arrest him for embezzlement or murder or something equally as heinous. Mr. Bingle turned colder than he had been at any time during his stay in the ice-bound city of Syracuse.

Then the trio abruptly turned away and left him sitting there, frozen to the marrow. He tried to swallow, but his throat was paralysed.

"Gee, that looks bad, Bingle," whispered Jenkins, pityingly. "That was the old man. What—what the dickens have you been up to?"

Mr. Bingle's stiff lips moved but no sound came forth. He was to be discharged! In fifteen years he had been late at his desk but once, and he was to be discharged! What would Mary say? What would become of Mary? What would become of Melissa, now that they couldn't afford to keep a servant?

"You been here longer than any one, too," went on Jenkins. "How long has it been, Bingle?"

"Fifteen years," gulped Mr. Bingle, in a strange, unnatural voice.

"That's longer than the old man himself," said Jenkins. "He's been president less'n twelve years. Say, Bingle, I'm all broke up over it. I—I hope it ain't as bad as we think. Maybe—oh, I say, it's your EARS! That's what it is. Mr. Force was showing him your ears. And say, take it from me, Bingle, they're worth going a long way to see, too. Good Lord, what a relief!" Mr. Bingle actually took hope. Could it be possible? Were frozen ears so rare a sight that the president of a great bank—But even as he grasped at the straw he became convinced that it was very likely to prove his salvation, for, to his amazement and confusion, the cashier and the fourth vice-president strolled up to the caging and regarded him with the gravest interest. He bent his head to the task before him, hoping against hope that it WAS his ears and not his tardiness. And, when he looked up again many minutes afterward, other officials of the bank were looking at him from various points of vantage, and all of them were staring with the most amazing intentness, quite as if they had never seen anything so strange as the man who had sat unnoticed in this very spot for fifteen years and more. Messengers took a peep at him as they circled from window to window; patrons of the bank sauntered past and squinted vaguely in his direction.

Vice-president Force came back a second time and actually pointed him out to an utter stranger, at the same time waving his hand at Mr. Bingle in a most friendly and engaging manner!

The poor bookkeeper reeled on his stool. He laid his pen down, removed the green shade from over his eyes, placed his blotters neatly in the rack, and turning to Jenkins, said:

"I can't stand it, Jenkins. I've—I've just got to know the worst. I'm going to the office."

"With—without being sent for?" gasped Jenkins.

"There's no use putting it off. I—"

A dapper little page appeared at Mr. Bingle's elbow, interrupting him with the curt remark that Mr. Force wanted to see him when it was convenient.

"Convenient?" murmured Mr. Bingle, his eyes bulging.

"Well, great—" began Jenkins.

"That's what he said: convenient," said the page loftily. "Gee, where did you get them ears?"

Mr. Bingle got down from his stool slowly, painfully.

"I guess I'll go now," he said. "It's just as convenient for me to get out now as—"

"I can't understand that 'convenient' business," broke in Jenkins, wrinkling his brow. "Well, good luck, Bingle. I'm sorry."

Sixty wistful, sympathetic eyes followed Mr. Bingle as he made his way out to the passage. The word had gone 'round that "old Bingy" was to get the sack, and every one was saying to himself that if they discharged a man like Bingle for being late it wouldn't be safe for any one to transgress for even the tiniest fraction of an instant.

Half-way down the narrow aisle leading to the offices, Mr. Bingle stopped to wipe his brow and to pull himself together for the coming ordeal. A high-and-mighty young man who had been elevated from a clerkship to the post of third assistant foreign teller, and who no longer deemed it proper to associate with his erstwhile companions in the "galleys," emerged from his cage and, coming abruptly upon the shivering bookkeeper, blinked uncertainly for a moment and then said in what was unmistakably a polite and even respectful tone:

"Good morning, Mr. Bingle. Pleasant day, sir, isn't it?"

If Mr. Bingle had been in a condition to notice such things as miracles, he might have been struck by this one, but he merely said it WAS a pleasant day and resumed his way, utterly oblivious to the fact that a human being had been completely transformed before his very eyes. A few steps farther on he encountered an even mightier force than the third assistant foreign teller: the bank detective.

"Good morning, Mr. Bingle. Nice day, sir," said the bank detective, somewhat eagerly, and stood aside to let the lowly bookkeeper pass without being jostled—as was the custom.

"Morning," said Mr. Bingle, still unimpressed. It seemed to him that every one was evincing a singular interest in the fact that he was about to be discharged on a pleasant day.

Mr. Force was seated at his desk when Bingle entered the room and found himself in the presence of the man who was certain to become president when "the old man" died—an event that would have to occur if the first vice-president's dream of elevation ever came true, for there wasn't the remotest likelihood that he would have the sense of decency to resign, no matter how old or how senile he became in the course of time.

Now, Mr. Force took himself very seriously. Having married an exceedingly wealthy woman after a career in which liveliness had meant more to him than livelihood, he assumed that if he treated the world at large with extreme aloofness it would soon forget—and overlook— the fact that he had never amounted to a row of pins in the estimation of those who knew him as a harvester in Broadway. Shortly before his marriage—at forty-three—he abandoned an extensive crop of wild oats in the very heart of New York City—announcing that he intended to retire from active business and go to work.

Going to work meant stepping into a bank as its third vice-president the week after his return from a honeymoon spent with a bride who held, in her own right, something over one-half of the entire capital stock of the institution. Her wedding present to him was the third vice-presidency and the everlasting enmity of every director and official in the bank. He accepted both in the spirit in which they were given. To the surprise of his enemies and the scorn of his friends, he promptly settled down and made himself so valuable to the bank that even his wife was vindicated. He managed in one way or another to increase her holdings and soon was in a position to dictate to those officially above him. He dictated so effectually in the case of the first and second vice-president that they preferred to resign rather than to continue the struggle to keep him in his place. Before he had been in the bank a year, he was its first vice-president.

It was generally conceded that the president himself would have been in jeopardy but for the fact that he was the father of Mrs. Force and therefore exempt. In order to clarify the situation, it is necessary to state that the bride inherited her extensive holdings from a former husband, who, it appears, died of old age when she was but twenty-six. It would also appear that her father owed his position as president to the influence of Mr. Force's predecessor, or rather to the influence that his daughter exercised over an old gentleman in his dotage. Be that as it may, the present chief executive of the bank was immune for life. To quote the directorate, he couldn't be FORCED out of office. His son-in-law would be obliged to wait. He could afford to wait. He was forty-four.

It has been said that Mr. Sydney Force was seated at his desk when Thomas Bingle sidled into the luxurious office. It must now be added that he did not retain his seat for more than a second after Mr. Bingle's entrance. In fact, he fairly leaped to his feet, frightening his visitor into a sudden, spasmodic movement of the hand in search of the door-knob and a backward shuffle of both feet at once. The little bookkeeper's alarm was groundless. Mr. Force came forward, beaming, his hand extended.

"How are you, Mr. Bingle? Come right in. Well, well, this is splendid. Too good to be true, 'pon my word it is." He was wringing the little man's hand violently. "I confess that I am surprised that you considered it worth while to come down to the bank at all, sir."

Mr. Bingle was batting his eyes furiously. He was also having a great deal of difficulty with his knees.

"I—I couldn't help it, Mr. Force," he stammered. "I really couldn't. It is the first time in all the years of my connection with—"

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Bingle," interrupted Mr. Force, with a somewhat sweeping wave of the hand that took in practically all of the office and yet no spot in particular; "this is Mr. Sigsbee." He then stood aside and permitted Mr. Bingle to discover Mr. Sigsbee, who came hastily out of the whirling background.

"Glad to meet you, sir," said Mr. Sigsbee, giving Mr. Bingle's hand a tremendous squeeze. "I should have known you, Mr. Bingle, anywhere on earth from the description given to me."

Description! Poor Bingle's blood congealed. Description? That dreadful word could have but one application. It was never used except in connection with people who were wanted for crime. The man was a detective!

"Sit down, Mr. Bingle," said Force, with shocking amiability. "Will you smoke?"

"No, thank you," said Mr. Bingle, doing his best to pull himself together and failing completely. "As I was saying, Mr. Force, my wife—"

At this juncture, the door to an adjoining room was thrown open and the bank's president stood revealed. At his back was the chairman of the board and also the cashier, while somewhat indistinctly associated with the sombre elegance of the room beyond were the figures of a peeping stenographer and an open-mouthed secretary whose neck was gallantly stretched almost to the point of dislocation because he was too much of a gentleman to push the little stenographer out of his line of vision.

"Well, well, Bingle!" exclaimed the president, somewhat gustily as he hastened forward. "How are you? That this should happen to you! It is unbelievable!" He was pumping Mr. Bingle's arm. "I don't see how in the world we are to get along without you. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Why don't you—"

"Wha—what in the name of heaven am I accused of doing?" blurted out Mr. Bingle abjectly. "This is some awful mistake. I—"

"Accused of doing?" exclaimed Mr. Force, frowning perplexedly.

"What say, Bingle?" inquired the president, who wasn't quite certain that his hearing was what it used to be. "What say?"

Mr. Sigsbee interposed, staring hard at the little man. "Haven't you been notified of—Oh, I say, you have at least seen the morning papers?"

"Have they printed anything about me?" gasped Mr. Bingle, sitting down very suddenly. "It's a lie, gentlemen—a lie, I tell you! I haven't done a thing—"

"Do you mean to say—" began Mr. Force, glaring at the shivering little man.

"I'll bring an action against 'em," shouted Mr. Bingle from the depths of the huge chair. "I'll sue 'em for all they're worth if they've—"

"Haven't you seen the newspapers?" demanded Mr. Sigsbee, bending over the occupant of the chair in what that individual mistook for a menacing attitude.

"I—I didn't have time to look at the paper," mumbled Mr. Bingle. "My wife was so miserable that—"

"Well, by Jove!" exclaimed Mr. Force, and then, to Bingle's astonishment, the five other occupants of the room were overtaken by a simultaneous impulse to shout at the top of their voices, all of them crowding close about him and barking unintelligible exclamations into his very teeth, so to speak.

The strangest part of it all was that they were in high good humour and laughed like maniacs. He hadn't the faintest notion what it was all about, but he began to laugh shrilly. He couldn't help it. He certainly didn't feel like laughing. The president was slapping Mr. Force on the back and shouting things that fell upon deaf ears, for Mr. Force was shouting manfully on his own account. The cashier stumbled over a chair in trying to get at Mr. Bingle to grasp his hand, and the chairman of the board began pounding the helpless bookkeeper on the shoulder with a hand that had all of the weight and some of the resilience of a sledge hammer.

It was Mr. Sigsbee who finally settled down to a succinct, intelligent question, and at once had Mr. Bingle's attention.

"Didn't you receive my letter in the morning post?" he demanded.

Mr. Bingle no doubt intended to repeat the word "letter," being vaguely impressed by its significance, but what he uttered was a mystified, syllable-less "le'r?"

"I wrote to say that if it suited your convenience to come to our offices this afternoon at three, I would see to it that the other heirs were present, Mr. Bingle."

"My wife's illness—" began Mr. Bingle hazily, and then brought himself up with a jerk. Heirs? What in the world was the man talking about? "I—I beg pardon, sir. I didn't quite catch that. What—"

Mr. Sigsbee held up his hand, silencing him. Then he turned to the other gentlemen and said in a strained, excited voice:

"I suspect, gentlemen, that it would be better if I were to have a few minutes alone with Mr. Bingle."

"Right!" exclaimed Mr. Force, regarding the bookkeeper with what seemed to be infinite compassion in his eyes. "Stay right where you are, Sigsbee. We'll get out," and he literally shoved the others out of the office, closing the president's door behind him.

"Now, Mr. Bingle," said Sigsbee, drawing a chair up close to the little man's knee, "I want the truth. Have you no—"

"Before heaven, Mr. Sigsbee, I—I swear I am innocent of—"

"Have you no inkling of what has befallen you?" concluded the other.

"No, sir, I haven't," declared Mr. Bingle with conviction.

"Well, my dear sir," said Sigsbee, laying his hand upon Bingle's knee and speaking with grave impressiveness, "your late and lamented uncle, Joseph Hooper, in his will, devises that you are his principal—I might almost say, his sole heir. He has left practically everything to you, sir. I—I pray you, be calm. Do not allow this astonishing, this prodigious—"

"Oh," exclaimed Mr. Bingle, with a huge sigh of relief and a sudden relaxing of all his taut nerves, "I know all about THAT, Mr. Sigsbee. Is that all?"

"All?" with a stare of amazement.

"We often joked about it, poor old Uncle Joe and I. He seemed to enjoy a chuckle once in awhile, in spite of the way the world had used him."

"I now realise that you are quite ignorant about the whole matter, Mr. Bingle. My letter would have enlightened you, of course, but as you did not receive it, I fear that—"

"I didn't open my letters this morning. Quite forgot 'em, sir. You see, Mrs. Bingle came down with a fearful—"

"Yes, yes," interrupted Mr. Sigsbee. "Perhaps it would be well for me to describe myself a little more clearly to you, Mr. Bingle. I am of the firm of Bradlee, Sigsbee & Oppenheim, lawyers. We have been acting for Mr. Hooper for the past six months, or, in other words, since his return to New York City. Our relations were or a—er—a somewhat Secret nature, I may say. He made the somewhat Extraordinary demand upon us, at the time we were Retained, that we should conduct his affairs with the Utmost secrecy. Especially, ser, were we required to Keep you in the dark as to the real—"

"Just a moment, sir," interrupted Mr. Bingle, sitting up very straight, and staring. "May I ask one questions? Are you sure you haven't got my Uncle Joe confused with another Joseph Hooper? To my certain knowledge, he had no transactions with lawyers while staying at my house. You've got the wrong man, sir, I—" "I've got the right man, Mr. Bingle," said the lawyer, with a smile. "Your uncle was a strange man. Have you never heard of Joseph H. Grimwell?"

"Certainly. Every one has heard of him."

"Well, your uncle was Joseph H. Grimwell, the millionaire mine-owner and lumber king. For fifteen years the name of Joseph Grimwell took the place of—I beg your pardon! I did not mean to put it so abruptly, sir. Calm yourself! I—"

"All right," said Mr. Bingle, suddenly collapsing into the chair after struggling to his feet, his eyes bulging. "All right. I'm—I'm calm. Go on with the story. You can't expect me to believe it, however. How on earth could poor old Uncle Joe Hooper, who was actually starving when he came to me last—"

"That is the best part of the story, Mr. Bingle," said Sigsbee, settling back in his chair and linking his plump hands benevolently across his expansive and somewhat overhanging waistcoat. "That is the best part of the story, sir."



CHAPTER V

THE STORY OF JOSEPH

Mr. Bingle went home in a taxi-cab, completely done up.

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

Back in 1885, Joseph Hooper, disgraced, disowned by his family and as poor Job's turkey, made a brief but sufficiently explicit will in which he named his beloved nephew Thomas Singleton Bingle as his sole heir. He drew it up on the surface of a fresh, unused postal card, and had it properly witnessed by the bailiff who came to Bingle's apartment to demand his appearance before a court to show cause why he should not consider himself in contempt for having disregarded the order to pay monthly sums in the shape of alimony to his late but unlamented wife.

In looking about for the second witness, he observed a levying deputy sheriff in the act of carrying off his last and only possession of value, to wit: a gold-headed cane that had been left to him by his father. With a fine sense of irony, he persuaded the aforesaid deputy sheriff to affix his signature to the will, and then remarked with deep sarcasm that he had "put his house in order" so far as it was in his power to do so. Inasmuch as the deputy sheriff was making way with what looked to be his entire estate, saving the clothes upon his back and the post-card (which he had taken the precaution to address to his lawyers, thereby securing its protection by the United States Government), Mr. Hooper's last will and testament as uttered on the 16th day of October, 1885, was necessarily brief and succinct. It merely said:

"I hereby revoke any former will I may have made prior to this date, and now bequeath to my beloved nephew, Thomas Singleton Bingle, my entire fortune, which at this time appears to be not my face but my figure. I therefore bequeath to him my physical person, and vest in him the right to chuck it into the river, or to dispose of it for medical purposes, as he may see fit, provided however that I shall first have been declared sufficiently dead by competent judges. I also bequeath to him any property, great or small, that may be in my possession at the time of my demise, even though it be no more than the collar-button with which he so kindly supplied me this morning, and which I shall always retain as a mark of his devotion, knowing well what it means for a man to deprive himself of a cherished belonging."

This was written in a very fine, cramped hand, and there was ample room at the bottom for his own signature and those of the witnesses, although it must be said that the elegant symmetry of the document was destroyed by the bulging scrawl of the bailiff, whose name was Abraham Kosziemanowski and who had to turn the final two syllables down at a sharp angle in order to get the whole of his signature on the card.

Bradlee, Sigsbee & Oppenheim, on the receipt of this jocose instrument, immediately communicated with their once magnificent client, who laconically instructed them to put it away in a very safe place as it might come in handy some time. To their own and to his subsequent surprise, they DID put it away in a safe place, but forgot all about it until he walked in upon them fifteen years afterwards and revealed himself as the great and only Joseph H. Grimwell.

Having once disinherited his children, he was then in the mood to reconsider his act, being alive to the fact that his days were numbered. But he went about the business with the sagacity of an old dog who has been kicked hard by some one who was not his master. Instead of proclaiming himself to be the Midas-like Joseph Grimwell, he appeared before his son and daughters, as poor old Joseph Hooper, their long lost father, as poor—nay, even poorer than when he went away, for he had lost the rugged health that was his only possession at the beginning of his vicissitudes.

Assuming a condition of abject, though genteel poverty, he went to each of them in turn. He wanted to give them a chance to reconsider, as he had done. But they would have none of him! Vastly dismayed by the failure of his nice little scheme to trick them into filial responsibility, he was on the point of shouting his denunciations from the house-tops when he suddenly remembered Tom Bingle: he wondered if Tom would receive him—an old derelict—with open arms.

He presented himself, with his battered valise, at the door of Thomas Bingle's apartment—and was given a warm, even hearty reception!

And it was on that day—at that very hour, so to speak—that Thomas Bingle became a fabulously rich man without the slightest effort or intention on his part.

Mr. Hooper one day recalled to mind the postal-card will. If his memory served him right there was something jocose and undignified about it—something that would not look well in the public prints. He visited the offices of his lawyers, recovered the amazing instrument, and forthwith set about to make a new will, bereft of certain grewsome stipulations but quite as sweeping in purpose as the other had been. In fact, he left his fortune—as he had done before—to his beloved nephew, Thomas Singleton Bingle, with three precautionary bequests to his son and daughters, providing against the contests that were sure to follow. He bequeathed the sum of one thousand dollars to each of his children, and he signed his name once more as Joseph H. Hooper— for the first time in fourteen years.

His wanderings as a tramp—in his own account of himself he used the word "tramp" with a shocking lack of pride—led him inevitably into the far Northwest. Men were doing things up there. The country fairly seethed with the activity of live, virile men who were taking the first staunch grip upon the tricky wheel of fortune and were turning it to their own account. Every man was building; no man complained of conditions, for conditions were so new and so ready to hand that he who found fault was merely lessening his own chance to secure his share of the vast resources that spread before him, welcoming the greedy fingers of him who courted the future and shunned the past. All men lived in the present out there in the great stretches, and all men were strong and eager.

Joseph Hooper caught the fever that infected the West. He shook off the fetters that bound him to a far from enchanted East, and began to squirm with the first tickling sensations of an ambition that had never really made itself felt, even in the old days of successful achievement among men who were content to tread the beaten and commonplace highway toward riches. The spirit of the West gripped him in its great, enveloping hands, picked him out of the slough and set him down again, plump upon his two feet, high and dry, prodding him violently all the while with a spur that would not permit him to stop or to take a step backward, with the natural result that he moved forward—slowly, dazedly at first, and then with a mighty rush.

He had one advantage over most of the men who were being driven helter-skelter by the grateful lash of the West: he was a trained money-getter. Back of him were generations of shrewd business men, while dormant in his own being was the half-stunned thing called natural ability. The simple shrewdness of Joseph Hooper, combined with a certain hitherto unconfessed lack of respect for the Golden Rule, to say nothing of a vain-glorious desire to kick the world that had kicked him, soon produced opportunities that paved the way for his rehabilitation.

Without a dollar to his name, with nothing in the shape of resources save a self-sufficient nerve and an infinite eastern contempt for these struggling westerners, he began to promote things!

The field was fresh and fertile. Inside of two years he reaped a half- dozen harvests—and replanted as he went along! First, he promoted a street railway in a place called Mockawock; then it became necessary for some one to establish reasons for the existence of such a thing as a car-line in a town that could be traversed on foot, from one end to the other, in less than eight minutes; so he began to promote the organisation of a wagon factory at one extreme and a pickle works at the other, possessing the far-sightedness to put them so far away from each other that if one wanted to go to the pickle works from the wagon factory, or vice versa, he would have to go by trolley unless he possessed the hardiness of an ox and was not dismayed by the vastness of the city limits. For like all towns in the great Northwest, Mockawock had its limits and they were wide enough to make New York or Chicago appear cramped by comparison. One could walk for hours in a straight line south from the public square in Mockawock and still not be "out in the country," figuratively speaking, although he might not see a house or a human being—unless he turned his head—after the first ten minutes. He could also walk west or north in the same futile effort to get out of the "city" into the "country," but he could not walk east for more than two city blocks. Mockawock happened to be situated on the shores of Lake Superior and not even the most boastful citizen would have contended that the city limits reached far in that direction.

And, having successfully promoted such enterprises in Mockawock as would tend to convince the citizens that some day the city limits would have to be extended, he very wisely took the gains acquired in the sale of options, the disposal of franchises, the surrender of equities, and all such, and slipped away to the vast forests in the north, where he bought timber-land by the section.

Another town required stirring up by this time, so he descended upon it, backed by the reputation gained at Mockawock and, before the citizens could say Jack Robinson, he had skilfully promoted a number of enterprises, including a belt railroad, an electric lighting plant, and a new evening newspaper, all of which fairly set the town by the ears and made him one of the most important figures in the upper Lake region.

Once more he slipped off into the forests and took unto himself additional sections of virgin timber at inconceivably low prices. Other men made much of the wheat-field and the town-lot, but Joseph Hooper saw fortune in the forests. Again and again he increased his timber land holdings. People thought he was buying up town-sites and smiled smugly among themselves as they discussed the dreadful shock he was to have when the time came for him to begin clearing away the timber!

All this time he was known as Joseph H. Grimwell. There was no such person as Joseph Hooper. That discredited individual had died, so to speak, by the wayside, a vagabond. New York had lost track of him; his family believed him to be dead—or in prison! It is barely possible that he ought to have been incarcerated for some of his skilfully manipulated enterprises, but that has nothing to do with this narrative. It is relevant to dwell only upon the contention that riches come swiftly to him who makes use of both hands without caring whether the left knows what the right is doing or the other way about. At any rate, Joseph Grimwell was a better man than Joseph Hooper ever had been, and he was a wiser man in many respects than Solomon the historic.

In brief, there came a day when his timber turned to gold. The name of Grimwell became a household word. It even penetrated to the secret crannies of Wall Street. Men who did not know oak from soft pine began to plead with him to be "let in on the ground floor." Gentlemen who sat in mahogany offices and worshipped at unseen shrines, took notice of this man of the West who was getting more than his share of the pillage. Promoters sought him out and haggled with him—haggled with the prince of promoters! They tried to let him into the secret of making money!

Fortune may not always favour the brave, but it continues to do a little something every now and then for the bold. In Joseph Grimwell's case, it overlooked the fact that he was neither brave nor bold but rewarded him for being interestingly tricky. Out of sheer respect for his cleverness in acquiring all of the timber land available, Fortune set about to outdo him in productiveness. It suddenly remembered that it had placed three rich copper deposits in separate and distinct parts of his land and kindly directed him to the spots.

Now, copper can be turned into gold quite as readily as ice, or beef, or hops, or any of the products of man's experimentation, just as one can make hay while the sun shines, even though his field of activity lies at the bottom of an oil-well. Mr. Grimwell made gold out of his copper, just as he made it out of oak and pine and ash, and when he came to be three score years and ten he had so many dollars that, like Old Mother Hubbard, he didn't know what to do with them.

It suddenly dawned upon him that there was no one to whom he could leave this vast accumulation unless he made peace with his past.

He sold out all of his holdings, reducing everything to coin of the realm, and once more became a wanderer in search of a place to lay his head. With fourteen or fifteen millions of dollars in his purse, so to speak, he slunk into New York, a beggar still and hungrier than he had ever been in his life.

Then he tried out the plan that failed. His lawyer and his doctor alone knew that Joseph Grimwell and Joseph Hooper were one and the same person, and they were pledged to secrecy. One of them drew up his will and the other made death as easy as possible for him. His nephew, poor wretch, buried him in a grave alongside a devoted sister, froze his ears while doing so—and lost his job in the bank besides!

The new will was read in the offices of Bradlee, Sigsbee & Oppenheim on the day following Mr. Bingle's first ride in a taxi-cab. The heir was too bewildered to attend the meeting arranged for the same afternoon, and it had to be postponed. As a matter of fact, he sent word to the lawyers that his wife was too ill to come down that afternoon but would doubtless be better on the following day. When informed that his wife's presence was unnecessary and that his cousins were even then on their way down town and that there was no way to head them off, he blandly inquired if it wouldn't be possible to postpone the whole matter for a week or two, assuring the gentlemen that he wouldn't, for all the world, disturb Mrs. Bingle, who appeared to be sleeping comfortably for the first time in twenty-four hours. In fact, he informed them that he thought it would be a mistake to break the news to her while her cold was so bad; as for himself, he didn't mind waiting a week or two—not in the least—if it was all the same to Mr. Sigsbee.

It was Melissa who broke the news to Mrs. Bingle, and it was at once apparent that it was not a mistake to do so. The good lady improved so rapidly that she sent for the expensive Dr. Fiddler, dismissing the cheap Dr. Smith, and by seven o'clock that evening declared that she had never felt better in all of her life.

"I suppose you'll fire me now, Mr. Bingle," Melissa had said dejectedly. "With all that money, you'll be wanting high-priced servants."

"Quite so," said Mr. Bingle magnificently. "Much higher-priced, Melissa."

"You'll never find any one that loves you more than I do," began Melissa, on the verge of tears.

"Allow me," interrupted Mr. Bingle, with a sweep of the hand. "The highest priced servant in our employ is to be Melissa Taylor, which is you, my girl. We shall probably keep two or three servants—if we can find anything for them to do—but none of 'em shall receive as much as you, Melissa. Put that in your pipe and smoke it."

"I—I wasn't asking for a raise, sir," murmured Melissa, in considerable distress.

"You get it without asking," said Mr. Bingle. It should be remembered that he was still very much dazed and bewildered.

"Maybe you'll be having a butler and a regular chef. They come pretty high, sir," advised Melissa, spilling a little of Mrs. Bingle's tea on the counterpane. "Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Bingle."

"Never mind, Melissa," said Mr. Bingle. "I guess we can afford to spill a little tea if we like. I've no doubt that a butler would spill a great deal. It doesn't matter what we have to pay him—if we have him—you shall have five dollars a month more than he gets. That's settled."

The least important person at the "reading of the will" was the little man who sat hunched up in a chair and gazed about him with perplexed eyes, occasionally touching his sore ears with tender fingers, and always regretting the act for the reason that it called the attention of his cousins to something that appeared to gratify them a great deal more than the actual business at hand. In fact, he never quite got over that miserable hour of inspection on their part. He never ceased to regret the condition of his ears on that stupendous occasion. What might have been a really impressive hour in his life was spoiled by the certainty that every one was paying more attention to his misfortune than to his fortune.

Of course, the conditions of the will were pretty well known to the three children of Joseph Hooper, hours before they were read to them. They knew that their detestable father had practically disinherited them, but they were not prepared for the staggering baseness employed by the old man in giving his reasons for cutting them off. To their chagrin, mortification, even shame, they were compelled to listen to at least a dozen letters that they had written to their father during the period covered by his supposed degeneracy. The originals of these letters, stained, dirty, frazzled but incontrovertibly genuine, were attached to the instrument, and were referred to in certain specific recommendations incorporated in the body of the will itself.

Old Joseph had preserved the letters of his children. They were emphatic evidences of their attitude toward him from first to last. There was no such thing as going behind them. It might be possible to produce proof that the testator was unsound of mind, but it would never be possible to wipe out the written declarations of his mentally perfect son and daughters. In these delectable missives they completely disowned him as a father; they raked him fore and aft; they riddled him with a hundred shafts of scorn; they repeatedly said that they never wanted to see his face again; they put him out of their lives and urgently requested him to put them out of his; they expected nothing of him and they certainly did not want him to expect anything of them; and so on and so forth. And in spite of all these bitter rebukings, old Joseph had come back to New York ready and willing to let bygones be bygones if they would only meet him half way.

Geoffrey declared in so many words that his father had played a scurvy trick on all of them. He managed to give utterance to this violent opinion before his attorney could check his unnecessary eloquence. After that, Geoffrey, subdued and desolate, kept extremely quiet and suffered considerably under the convicting gaze of his sisters and their husbands, all of whom were inclined to disown him there and then as a brother for his reckless implication that their father was as sane as any of them.

Thomas Singleton Bingle was to receive, in round figures, fifteen million dollars under the will of his uncle, after the funeral expenses and all just debts had been paid. It was really quite staggering. If Thomas Singleton Bingle had not been so completely wrapped up in his ears, it is certain that he would have acted as any other intelligent human being would have acted at a time like this. He would have gone stark, staring mad.

But wait! After all, he DID become a bit daffy. Observing the desolated, crushed attitude of his three cousins, his honest heart smote him sorely. He piped up from the depths of his chair and announced that all he wanted out of the estate was the amount that he had actually expended in caring for Uncle Joe during the past few months. He would be satisfied with that and—But he got no farther. Mr. Sigsbee hastened to remind him that he hadn't anything to say about it. He didn't have a voice in the matter. And then Angela and Elizabeth scornfully observed that it was a pretty time to talk about that sort of thing, after he had so skilfully succeeded in influencing their poor, mentally unbalanced father to make a will like this one.

Right heroically, Mr. Bingle declared that he was willing to give all of his inheritance to any deserving charity, or charities, reserving, if no one objected, a sufficient amount to enable him to purchase a little farm on which he could spend the rest of his days and not have to go on forever as a bookkeeper in a bank.

"Bosh!" said Geoffrey Hooper, glaring at his rich cousin.

"Ridiculous!" cried Angela and Elizabeth, transfixing Mr. Bingle with glittering eyes.

"Very well," said Mr. Bingle, arising hastily. "Let it be bosh and ridiculous, just as you like. I would have been willing to take this small amount, just as I have said, and, what's more, I might have been willing to divide the estate into four equal parts—if Mr. Sigsbee would let me do it—but now I'll be damned if I'll do anything for either of you. You don't deserve a nickel, not one of you. You had your chance and you didn't take it. I fed and clothed and housed your father and I stood ready to spend my last dollar to make his last few days on earth comfortable and easy. I buried him. I went to his funeral. I took the chance of losing my job by doing so. I froze my ears—oh, look at 'em! I don't care. And now you—you three! You can go to the devil, with my compliments as well as Uncle Joe's. Come along, Mary! Let's get out of this. We've got fifteen million dollars coming to us, and we don't have to sit here and be insulted by people to whom we have offered charity. Good day, Mr. Sigsbee. If you want me for anything, you'll find me at the bank. Now, be sure you wrap your throat up carefully, Mary. Don't take any chances. You look as though you were overheated."

Mr. Sigsbee followed them into the corridor, where he shook hands with the indignant heir.

"Your troubles have just begun, Mr. Bingle," he said, with a genial smile.

"How's that?"

"We'll have a long, bitter fight on our hands, but—we'll win. There will be a contest, you see."

"All right," said Mr. Bingle, his eyes snapping. "I'm ready. I stood by Uncle Joe when he was alive, you can bet your last dollar I'm not going back on him now that he's dead."

That evening, sitting over the crackling grate fire, Mr. Bingle broke a long period of silence by remarking to his wife:

"I dare say we can afford to adopt one or two, Mary, with all this money we're going to have."



CHAPTER VI

THE HONOURABLE THOMAS SINGLETON BINGLE

Time flies.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It is another Christmas Eve, ten years later than the one described in the opening chapter of this narrative. The Honourable Thomas Singleton Bingle is preparing for his annual reading of "The Christmas Carol." The sentiment which influences him on this occasion is the same that inspired the habit in his days of long ago, but the surroundings have changed. Now the vast drawing-room in the home of Mr. Bingle provides the setting for an elaborate observance of a custom that has become almost historic to those who have studied the life and habits of Mr. Bingle. An imposing English butler, assisted by two able footmen and the head gardener of the estate, are employed in the final decoration of the huge room. For seven or eight years they have performed these Christmas Eve duties in the mansion on the Sound. Melissa, a trifle more buxom than in the days of the lower West Side apartment but quite as capable despite her secret knowledge that she receives a greater salary than the mighty Diggs, is superintending the hanging of a row of stockings along the mantel-ledge, stockings of variegated hues and distinguishing sizes.

There are eleven children in the family now. They range from one year up to twelve. Kathleen and Frederick divide the distinction of seniority, both being twelve. There is some doubt as to the actual age of Henrietta and Guinevere, but for the sake of policy, Henrietta, who came first, is down in the family records as six, Guinevere as five, although Mrs. Bingle herself confesses that they came but six weeks apart, and at a time when a few weeks, either way, make little or no difference in the computation. This was the nearest that Mr. and Mrs. Bingle ever came to being blessed with twins. For awhile they hoped that they could make twins out of these infants, but, as the children grew older, the impracticability of such a thought—or ambition— became clear to them, and they reluctantly abandoned the project. Henrietta revealed all the characteristics of being of Italian extraction, while Guinevere was unmistakably Irish.

If you were to take a motor-ride along the North Shore of Long Island Sound and feel your way back into private lanes that appear to lead nowhere in particular, they are so deviously circuitous, you would pass by the lodge gates of two magnificent estates. One of them belonged to Mr. Bingle, the other to Sydney Force—or, more strictly speaking, to Mrs. Sydney Force. It is worthy of mention that Mr. Force lived up to his theory of regeneration by selling to Mr. Bingle, at a tremendous profit, one hundred acres off of the least desirable end of his late father-in-law's estate, thereby proving to himself that the early bird is a much smarter creation than the one which is satisfied to possess a mere nest-egg. Of course, the selling of that "parcel" of land was provocative of most acrimonious disputes between Mr. and Mrs. Force. Mrs. Force, while not averse to the sale of the land, was frightfully cut up by the fact that she was to have the impossible Bingles as neighbours, and Mr. Force, who was the prince of snobs, berated her soundly for petty snobbishness.

"Bingle is such a hopelessly common name," she said.

"It happens to be a proper name," remarked Mr. Force, resorting to a rather lame sort of wit.

"If it only had been Mrs. Bransone or Mrs. Mortimer," she sighed. "They are awfully smart, don't you know. One meets them everywhere."

"We couldn't have sold that piece of land to either one of 'em," said he. "They are much too smart for that."

Mr. Bingle erected a very costly and magnificent house, much against his will, and spent a great deal of time thereafter in wishing that he was back in the five-room apartment where he could put his hand on anything he wanted without having to call for a servant to tell him where to find it. He was so stupendously rich and so completely awed by the importance of being acquainted with Mrs. Force that he became a most desirable neighbour, from that lady's point of view. She experienced a great deal of pleasure in association with a man who could be made to feel as small as he gave every sign of being when in her august presence. It was really a joy to her. With all his money, he could not induce his wife's gowns to hang as Mrs. Force's hung; he could not make her boots fit as neatly, nor her hats sit as naturally; he could not buy style or majesty for Mrs. Bingle. So he was the kind of neighbour to have. Any woman will tell you that.

Diggs was telling Watson, the footman, just where to put the mistletoe. Watson's position was precarious. He was at the top of a step-ladder, struggling to reach the lowest crystal pendant on the enormous chandelier, and the ladder was wobbling.

"It's all tommy-rot," muttered Watson, apropos of nothing that had gone before.

"Wot's all tommy-rot?" demanded Mr. Diggs severely.

"Christmas Eve," said Watson. "I have no objection to Christmas morning, but 'ang me if I can see any sense in Christmas Eve. What's it good for, anyway?"

"You'd better get a taller ladder," said Mr. Diggs. "It's getting on towards 'alf-past eight. We can't be all night 'anging that bunch of mistletoe, you know."

Melissa paused in her work long enough to devote an appraising look upon Watson.

"You look very handsome up there, Watson. It gives you a very good height. Straighten your legs out a bit. If you stand up as straight as you can you'll be as tall as Mr. Diggs THINKS he is."

"See here, my fine lady," began Diggs, annoyed.

"Oh, I beg pardon, Mr. Diggs," cried Melissa. "I didn't see you."

"You'll get your walking papers if you don't keep your place," said Diggs ominously.

"And I'll keep my place if I don't get my walking papers," retorted Melissa, airily.

"And what's more," went on the butler, "you'll get the sack anyway if you don't stop filling the kids up with them yarns of yours. The nurses were telling Mrs. Bingle that the children didn't go to sleep for hours last night, they were that scared."

"Seeing ghosts, dragons and goblins all night long," said Hughes, the second footman, shoving a big chair into position. Chairs from all parts of the house had been brought to the drawing-room and arranged in a semi-circle in front of the huge fireplace, at one corner of which stood Mr. Bingle's reading lamp, accurately placed at the edge of a costly little Italian table. There were big chairs and little chairs, soft chairs and hard ones, chairs of velvet and chairs of silk, chairs of ancient needle-point and chairs that could not be sat upon.

"I didn't tell any ghost stories yesterday," said Melissa. "I told 'em about robbers and kidnappers."

"Get the ladder, Watson," said Diggs. "What are you standing there for? Do you think it's a pedestal you're on?"

"I just wanted to say that three of the kids saw sea-serpents and crocodiles in their dreams—"

"Don't lay it to me, Watson," broke in Melissa. "I'm not to blame if they had delirium tremens. I didn't give them anything to drink."

"I—I shall have to speak to Mrs. Bingle about you, Melissa," exclaimed Diggs severely.

"Do! She is always complimented when you condescend to speak to her, Mr. Diggs."

"Don't scrap," put in the gardener mildly. "Remember it's Christmas Eve."

"Oy-yoy!" groaned Watson. "We've all got to listen to Mr. Bingle read Dickens again. It will be the sixth time I've 'eard The Christmas Carol in this 'ere room." He departed in quest of the tall step- ladder, banging Hughes on the shins with the small one as he swung past.

Hughes said something under his breath and then, with a quick glance at Melissa, went on: "I will say this for the old boy, he makes Christmas a merry one for all of us."

"Must I remind you again, Hughes, not to speak of the master as 'the old boy'? Please remember that you were engaged as a TRAINED servant."

"Well, I'd have you to know, Mr. Diggs, that I'm not one of your bally English servants. I'm as good an American as any one, and I say what I please."

"You were engaged as an English footman. I distinctly told you that at the intelligence office when I engaged you. You may be as American as you please on your days out, but while you are on duty in this 'ouse, you've got to be as English as I am, or—"

"Oh, I can drop 'em as well as any one, Mr. Diggs," said Hughes scornfully. "'Ulloa! 'Ere comes the lidy governess!" He was peering into the hall, the corners of his mouth drawn down in the most approved English fashion.

Whatever may have been Mr. Bingle's taste in the selection of rugs and furniture, he could be charged with no lack of it in his choice of a governess for the young Bingles. Miss Fairweather was as pretty as a picture. In fact, you would go a long way before you found a picture as pretty as Miss Fairweather. Her serene beauty was disturbed, however, by a perplexed frown, as she hurriedly entered the room and paused just inside the door for a furtive, agitated glance down the hall.

"Diggs, who is in the library with Mr. Bingle?" she inquired, unconsciously lowering her voice as if fearing the sharpness of distant ears. It was a very pleasing, musical voice, a fact which no one appreciated more than Diggs, who boasted of his ability to know a lady when he heard one.

"A newspaper chap, Miss Fairweather. To interview Mr. Bingle about the—"(here he sighed faintly)—"about the Christmas jollities."

Miss Fairweather sent another futile look in the direction of the library. She was plainly distressed by her failure to see through the walls that intervened.

"What—what name did he give?"

"I can't say, Miss. I didn't quite catch it myself."

"But you must have announced him. He gave you his card or—something, didn't he?"

"No, Miss. He announced 'imself over the telephone this afternoon. It sounded like Blinkers, or, even more nearly, on his repeating it, like Rasmussen. At any rate, Mr. Bingle was expecting 'im, and came out into the 'all before I had the chance to learn his name proper, so to speak, Miss."

She bit her lip, annoyed. "Was it Flanders, Diggs?"

Mr. Diggs reflected. "It was," said he. "Now that you mention it, it was. Richard, I think."

Miss Fairweather lowered her eyes suddenly and grasped the back of a chair as if to steady herself. The next instant, she had recovered, except that a queer, hunted look had settled in her eyes.

"Thank you, Diggs. Please say to Mrs. Bingle that I shall not be down again this evening. I have a splitting headache." She moved rapidly toward the door.

"Won't you be here for the reading, Miss?"

"No. I always cry when I hear about Tiny Tim." "Beg pardon, Miss, but as this is your first Christmas Eve 'ere, you'll excuse me for saying that the entire 'ousehold is expected to be present for the reading. It is a rule, Miss. Even the cook comes up."

"Thank you, Diggs. Please give my message to Mrs. Bingle."

"Very good, Miss."

"By the way, is this Mr. Flanders tall and fair, with dark grey eyes, a rather broad mouth and just the tiniest sort of a wave in his hair— especially above the ears? And a small white scar on his left thumb?"

Diggs arose to the demands of the occasion, as he always did. "Yes, Miss. Quite accurate, I'm sure. And a very pleasant voice, I may add if you don't mind."

"Thank you, Diggs," said Miss Fairweather for the third time, and then scurried across the hall and up the broad staircase, accelerating her speed materially as the library door was thrown open and lively masculine voices came booming up from behind her.

"Sounds like a scene from a novel," said Melissa to Diggs, "A mysterious stranger appears to disturb the peace and quiet of our heroine. She runs off and hides in her room, shivering with dread lest this spectre out of her dark past—-"

"Rubbish!" said Mr. Diggs.

"Sure," said Melissa. "That's what most novels are. It's my opinion that that young lady's been on the stage, Mr. Diggs. She acts just like an actress. I've noticed that in her from the beginning. And the other day she had a letter from a theatrical manager. I saw the name on the envelope."

"I dare say," observed Diggs, inattentively. Watson appeared with the tall step-ladder. "Be a bit lively, Watson. I 'ear Mr. Bingle in the 'all. Go and open the door for Mr. Flanders, Hughes."

Melissa happened to be standing directly beneath the mistletoe. Hughes took advantage of an opportunity that has become historic. Then he passed swiftly out of the room, followed by Melissa's astonished: "Oh, you!" Watson came nimbly down the ladder and emulated the example of the astonishing Hughes quite before Melissa could recover herself. He received a resounding smack in return, but from the young woman's open hand.

"Don't stand under it," he grumbled ruefully, "unless you want to play the game."

"I'll stand under it as long as I please," said Melissa defiantly, planting herself firmly on the spot from which Watson had hastily removed the ladder. She faced Mr. Diggs.

Mr. Diggs coloured. He cleared his throat and then glared at Watson, who went grinning from the room. Melissa was a very pretty, rosy young woman, and her eyes flashed dangerously.

"It's a fine old custom," said Mr. Diggs persuasively. "In merry England we hobserve it—er—you might say religiously, and without fear of future complications. It can be done in a dignified fashion if—"

"I don't want to have it done in a dignified fashion," protested Melissa, lifting her round little chin and pursing her lips invitingly. "Do it as if you liked it, not as if you wanted to be religious."

Mr. Diggs became human at once. He laid aside his austerity, and was no longer a butler but a good-looking chap of thirty-five who had the "very Old Nick" in him. It was the sort of kiss that has nothing in common with mistletoe—the sort that DOES lead to future complications. It proved something to Melissa, and she uttered a little sigh of happiness. Mr. Diggs kissed her because he was in love with her.

Unfortunately, Mr. Bingle entered the room at the very instant of least resistance, and coughed.

"Oh, I—I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Mr. Bingle, genuinely distressed. It is worthy of note that it was the good little man who apologised, not Diggs.

As the master was accompanied by the tall young newspaper chap, who grinned abominably, both Diggs and Melissa forgot their moment of bliss and fell from a great height. Needless to say, they were speechless.

"It's quite all right, Diggs," said Mr. Bingle, affecting a vast geniality. "What's a mistletoe for if not to—yes, yes, Melissa, it's quite all right. Ahem! Don't you agree with me, Mr. Flanders?"

"Thoroughly," said Mr. Flanders with conviction. "And what's more, Mr. Bingle, I agree with Diggs."

Melissa, crimson to her throat, fled. Mr. Diggs passed his hand over his brow, as if to clear his brain, and then stammered in a voice that strove hard to regain its former impressiveness:

"Yes, sir, it—it is all right, sir. Quite all right, sir. As right as can be, sir."

"Right as rain," proclaimed Mr. Bingle, resorting to a habit of imitation that had marked his progress during the past few years of observation. He had heard the imposing Diggs say it, many times over. It was quite the proper thing to say, of course—apparently on any and all occasions—but, for the life of him, Mr. Bingle couldn't grasp the significance of the simile. "And now, Diggs, THAT being settled, is everything else all right?" He surveyed the great, gaily bedecked room with an eye that took in the smallest detail.

"I think so, sir," said Diggs, slowly recovering. "You will hobserve, sir, that I have added the necessary new chair—the 'igh-chair over here, sir, for little Miss Him—Imogene."

"I see. We make it a point, Mr. Flanders, to get a new baby at least once a year. The first year, as I explained, we had three. Two or three years ago, one came in May and another in September."

"Mental arithmetic gives you twelve in all," said young Mr. Flanders.

"Eleven. We lost one in 1906. Little Harriet."

"Eleanor, sir, begging your pardon," corrected Diggs.

"Right. Thank you, Diggs. Malnutrition. We never should have had her. There goes the door-bell, Tell Mrs. Bingle that Mr. and Mrs. Force have arrived, and give Mr. Force a drink before she comes down."

"Very good, sir." Diggs retired with gravity.

"President of our bank, you know. Mr. Sydney Force," explained Mr. Bingle.

"I know. The husband of Mrs. Sydney Force," said Flanders, a twinkle in his grey eyes.

"Sit down, Mr. Flanders. I'd ask you to have a cigar, but the nurses say that smoke isn't good for the children. Force always smokes here. I can't tell him not to, you see. He wouldn't come again." In that bit of ingenuousness, Mr. Bingle exposed the family state of mind in respect to their aristocratic neighbours. "Now, this is where we have the reading. Permit me to call your attention to the way we arrange the—er—the auditorium, you might say. That's where I sit—over there. I'm glad you've decided to stay and hear The Christmas Carol. It will do you good, Mr. Flanders. You'll be a better man for it. There is a train in at nine-fifty-five. We'll not be interrupted here, so fire away. I'm ready to be interviewed."

They seated themselves on the broad, luxurious couch that marked the precise centre of the semi-circle and was evidently intended to be the section of honour. Mr. Bingle leaned back, stretched out his slender legs, crossed his feet, and looked over his tortoise-shell glasses with a fine assumption of tolerance. He was still trying, after many years, to enjoy his own importance. Sad to relate, he still expected to wake up and find that he had but half an hour in which to eat his breakfast and get across town to the bookkeeper's stool he had occupied the day before. He sometimes felt of his ears reminiscently, for they seemed in some way to clearly connect him with his last waking hours. He never quite got over listening for the alarm clock.

At fifty-three, he was no older in appearance than when he was forty- three. If anything, he seemed younger, for the harassed, care-worn expression had disappeared, leaving him bland, benign of countenance, although the same imperishable wrinkles lined his pinched cheeks. He was just as careless about his sparse hair as in the days of old. It was never by any chance sleek and orderly. The habit of running his fingers through his thatch still clung to him, significant reminder of the perplexities that filled his daily life over the ledgers and day- books. In all other respects, however, he was a re-made man.

His trim little frame was clothed in expensive garments; his patent leather pumps were the handiwork of the most fashionable of bootmakers, and quite uncomfortable; his hosiery was of the finest silk and his watch-chain was of platinum; there were pearl studs in his unpolished shirt front and four shining black buttons on his neat white waistcoat; his clawhammer coat had a velvet collar and fitted him about the shoulders as if it had been constructed for a man who possessed much more of a figure than he; and his trousers were primly pressed. Not the same old Bingle outwardly, you will say, but you are wrong. He was, and always will be, like the leopard.

A certain briskness of manner, inspired by necessity, had come to him in these days of opulence. His position in life made its demands, and one of the most exacting of these denied him the privileges of familiarity. He would have liked nothing better than an hour or two a day of general conversation with Mrs. Bingle and Melissa—say while the latter was tidying up the library—but that was utterly out of the question under the new order of things. He was compelled, by virtue of exaltation, to be very crisp, succinct, positive in his treatment of the most trivial matters; as for conversing amiably with a single servant in his establishment, something told him more plainly than words that it would not be tolerated—not for an instant. He would have given a great deal to be able to just once shout a glad, cheerful, heart-felt "good morning" to Diggs—or to any one of the servants, for that matter—but custom and the surprising dignity of his employees compelled him to utter the greeting in a casual, bored manner, quite as if he did it automatically and always as if he was on the point of clearing his throat. He sorely missed Melissa's spontaneous, even vulgar "Morning, Mist' Bingle," and the rattle of cutlery and chinaware. Melissa had acquired a fine but watchful dignity. She now said "good morning, sir" in the hushed, impersonal voice of the trained servant. She never "joked" with him, as of yore, although he was by way of knowing that she bubbled over with fun in the regions "below stairs."

"I haven't heard The Christmas Carol since I was twelve years old," said Richard Flanders. He had his note paper on his knee. "What I want, Mr. Bingle, is a good Christmas story from you. We shall play it up, of course, and—well, it ought to be good reading. Your own story, sir, from the beginning. All about the Hooper millions and the children that just grew."

"Something stranger than fiction, eh?" mused Mr. Bingle. "But, my dear sir, it's such an old story, this yarn about me. The newspapers have worn it to shreds. Suppose we leave out all reference to the Hooper millions. If the public is as tired of those millions as I am at times, Mr. Flanders, we'll be doing an act of charity if we leave 'em out. You will get your best story, as you call it, by observing what happens here to-night. No one else has ever done it for a newspaper. You are the first, my dear sir. I am a simple man. I don't like to be in the newspapers. The long and tiresome litigation over my poor uncle's estate has kept me more or less in the limelight, as you fellows would say, and there have been times when I willingly would have given up the fight if my lawyers had allowed me to do so. But a lawyer is something you can't get rid of, once you've got him—or he's got you, strictly speaking. My lawyers won't allow ME to quit, and I have every reason to suspect that they won't allow the other side to quit. However, I believe the matter is nearing an end. The United States Supreme Court will pass on the issue just as soon as the lawyers on both sides reach a verdict—that is to say, a verdict acknowledging that it won't pay them to delay the business any longer. The case of Hooper et al vs. Bingle has been going on like the Jarndyce matter for nearly nine years. We've licked them in every court and in three separate hearings, and my lawyers are confident the Supreme Court will sustain the findings of the lower courts. I am a tender-hearted lunatic, Mr. Flanders. I have made an arrangement whereby the son and two daughters of Joseph Hooper are to be paid one million dollars each out of the estate, just as soon as I know definitely that I have beaten them in the court of last resort. I guess that will surprise 'em, eh?"

Flanders' eyes glittered. "Don't forget, Mr. Bingle, that you are speaking to a newspaper man. That last statement of yours would make a sensation, sir."

Mr. Bingle sighed. "I am sure you will not take advantage of me, Mr. Flanders. I have made a similar statement to every newspaper man who has interviewed me, and every one of them has promised not to use it in his paper. So far not one of them has violated his promise. I am sure, sir, that you are no less honourable than the rest of the boys."

"I have given no promise, sir."

"Nevertheless I shall trust you not to use the statement, Mr. Flanders. And now, let us get back to the important part of the interview."

Flanders stared hard for a few seconds, unable to comprehend the serene faith that this little but exceedingly important man reposed in his fellow-man. He appeared to take it for granted that this startling piece of confidence would not be betrayed, no matter to whom it was extended. There was something actually pathetic in his guilelessness. Mr. Richard Flanders admittedly was staggered, and yet somewhere down in his soul he knew there was a spark of fairness that would become a stupendous obstacle in the path of his news-getting avarice. Of course, he was no less honourable than the rest of the boys!

"You would be more generous toward your cousins, I fear, than they could be toward you," said the reporter, twisting his pencil nervously. After all, it WOULD create a sensation, this remarkable statement of Mr. Bingle.

"Oh, they would cheerfully see me rot in the poorhouse," assented Mr. Bingle composedly. "I am not deceiving myself in regard to Geoffrey and Angela and Lizzie—I mean Elizabeth. You won't mention what I have just confided to you, will you, Mr. Flanders?"

Flanders sighed. He had hoped that the petition would not be put into definite form.

"Certainly not, sir—if you—er—if you'd rather I wouldn't," he managed to say with a fair show of alacrity. "But, gee!" The half- muttered ejaculation spoke volumes of regret.

His host smiled complacently. It was settled, so far as he was concerned. Mr. Flanders was to be depended upon.

"Still snowing when you came in?" he asked, quite irrelevantly but with interest.

"Yes, sir—hard."

"Good! We'll have bob-sledding on the terrace for the kiddies to- morrow. I suppose you'd like to know how we happen to have such a large and growing family. Well, it's all very simple. It is our practice to acquire a new baby at least once a year. On occasions we have felt called upon to make it two, and even three, but of late it seems the more sensible plan to limit ourselves to one. It is our idea to keep up the practice until I am seventy-five, if God permits me to live to that age. So, you see, we will have reared a family of thirty- three children by that time, and we will never be without little toddlers and prattlers. I am fifty-three now, Mr. Flanders. We are reasonably sure to have twenty-two additions to the family. The pitiful part of getting old and decrepit lies in the fact that one's children grow up, get married, leave home—or die—and that is just what we are trying to guard against. On my seventy-fifth birthday, there will be a fine, healthy two-year-old babe crying and goo-gooing for my especial benefit, and by working backwards in your figuring you can also credit us with a three-year-old, a four-year-old, and so on up the line. Naturally we will have lost a goodly number of the first- comers, but we provide against a deficit, so to speak, by this little plan of ours. Some of the girls may not turn out as well as we expect, however, so there is the possibility that they may remain with us to the end, enjoying single-blessedness. The boys, of course, will marry."

"It is splendid, Mr. Bingle," said Flanders enthusiastically. "You are a wonder."

"Not at all, not at all," protested Mr. Bingle, with a deprecatory gesture. "I'm a selfish, conniving old rascal, that's what I am. We've always wanted children, Mrs. Bingle and I, and we never—er—never seemed to have 'em as other people do, so we began to look for children that needed parents as much as we needed children. That's the whole thing in a nut-shell. We are a bit high-handed about it, too. We never have a child until it is past the teething age and can walk a little bit and talk a little bit. So, you see, we manage to have 'em without the drawbacks. That's where we are selfish and—"

"I think you're quite sensible about it, Mr. Bingle," interrupted Flanders politely." They say teething is awful."

"That's what they say," said Mr. Bingle, a slight frown of regret on his brow. "Still, I should have preferred—ahem! Yes, yes! Most annoying, I'm told. The nurses seem to know. We began adopting our children as soon as we came into possession of my Uncle Joseph's money. Up to that time, we had hesitated about having other people's children on our hands and minds. Of course you'll understand that poverty could never have stood in the way of our having children of our own. God simply did not choose to give them to us. The old saying, 'a poor man for children,' did not work very well in my case. Mrs. Bingle is ten years younger than I. She is a strong, normal woman. I never could understand why—er—and neither could she, for that matter. As soon as we came into this fortune, or, more accurately speaking, after we had returned from our first trip to California and a short visit to Chicago, we adopted Kathleen. She was the daughter of a young woman who—but, never mind. We sha'n't go into that. She was about two years old. At once it occurred to both of us that it would be a fine idea to have a boy to grow up with her. So we called in the stork. He happened to have a splendid, left-over, unclaimed two-year- old boy in stock, so we took him. That was Frederick. Then, a friend of mine—a widower who worked as a bookkeeper alongside of me, chap named Jenkins—died very suddenly, leaving a little girl just under eighteen months of age. That's how we got Marie Louise. And so it goes, Mr. Flanders, right up to date. Henrietta and Guinevere are almost twins. Six weeks between 'em. They—"

"You mean in respect to age or—"

"In respect to their arrival. Guinevere came much sooner than was anticipated, you might say. Little Imogene came the twenty-sixth of last September. She cries a good deal. I am inclined to think she's getting her wisdom teeth."

"Naturally, Mrs. Bingle is keen about the idea. Saves a lot of bother."

"It's got to be such a joy having children in this way, when we please, as often as we like, and being able to determine sex to our own satisfaction, that we really look forward to the arrival of a new one. There's always the pleasure of picking out blondes or brunettes. We try to equalize as much as possible. I am—or was—a blonde, Mr. Flanders—quite a decided blonde. Mrs. Bingle is still a brunette."

"And now, may I inquire, do they all regard you as their real father?"

"In a measure. There are times when they look upon me as a sort of truck-horse. But real fathers have told me that that is customary. They call me daddy, if that's what you mean. Once in a while they seem to recollect that there was another man and woman in their lives, but not often. Generally people who used to beat them, I gather. I will say this for our children: they were all thoroughly spanked before they came to us. It takes 'em a long time to get used to not being spanked."

"Do you never punish them?"

"Frequently. If they're bad I have them locked in a closet. We've got a very large closet with windows and other comforts. Usually there are three or four of 'em in at the same time, so they don't mind."

"God will surely reward you, sir, for being kind to all these poor little kiddies. May I—ahem!—May I express the hope, sir, that some day you may me blessed with—er—"

"No use, sir. Thank you, just the same. It will never happen."

"How many nurses have you in your employ?"

"Four at present. We also have a school-teacher—I mean, a governess. Excellent young woman. Teaches 'em French and German. Curiously enough some of the children take to foreign languages quicker than the others. Force says that Reginald is a Hebrew. He was supposed to be Irish."

"Very interesting. All of them strong and healthy?"

"Absolutely. You'd think so if you could see 'em fight occasionally. They've had the whooping cough and chicken-pox. My doctor is the renowned Dr. Fiddler. You know of him?"

Mr. Bingle proceeded to dilate upon the activities and achievements of Dr. Fiddler. There had been broken arms and prodigious bruises, cuts and gashes of every conceivable character, and in every instance Dr. Fiddler had performed with heroic fidelity. In the middle of a particularly enthusiastic tribute to the doctor's skill as a fish-bone extractor, Diggs appeared in the doorway, coughed indulgently, and then advanced.

"Beg pardon, sir. Mrs. Bingle says the children are getting nervous. They happear to be—"

A series of shrill screeches descended the stairway, followed by the sudden slamming of a distant doorway and the instantaneous suppression of bedlam.

"Quite so, quite so," exclaimed Mr. Bingle, springing to his feet. "Dear me, it is past the hour. Forgive me, Mr. Flanders, but—but I really can't delay the—er—Yes, yes, Diggs, tell Mrs. Bingle that we are all ready. Keep your seat, Mr. Flanders. Don't mind me. I must run upstairs and see if—Quite so, Diggs. They MUST be nervous. Where is Miss Fairweather?"

"She has a 'eadache, sir, and says she can't come down—"

"Stuff and nonsense! It will cure her headache. Send for her, Diggs. She's our new governess, Mr. Flan—"

"What was the name?" demanded the reporter, pricking up his ears. He leaned forward with a new interest in his lively grey eyes. But Mr. Bingle was gone, his coat-tails fairly whisking around the heavy portieres.

"Fairweather, sir," supplied Diggs. "Miss Hamy—I mean to say, Amy— Fairweather."

"Good Lord!" fell from the lips of Richard Flanders. Then he proceeded to behave in the most astonishing manner. He sprang to his feet and grasped the retreating Diggs by the arm, literally jerking that dignified individual back upon his heels. His eyes were gleaming. "Dark brown hair and soft grey eyes? Fairly tall and slend—" The sly grin on the butler's face served to check the outburst. He abruptly subdued his emotions. "Excuse me for grabbing you like that. I—I was just wondering if—"

Diggs had recovered his urbanity. "She is the same Miss Fairweather, sir. I recognise her from your description. It may interest you to hear, sir, that she acted just as queerly as you when I told her that you—"

"What did you tell her?" demanded Flanders, seeing that Diggs hesitated.

"That you had a scar on your thumb, sir. By the way, HAVE you?"

"I have!" exclaimed the young man. "Well, by George! Will wonders never cease? Where is she? You say she isn't coming down—but, of course, not! She couldn't think of it, knowing that I am here. I say, will you—will you see that she gets a message from me? Wait a second. I'll write it now. Just slip a note to her—Great Scott! What's that?"

The house seemed to be clattering down about his head.

"That, sir," responded Diggs, drawing a deep breath, "is the charge of the light brigade. Hinfants in arms, you might say. There's no stopping them now. 'Ere they come."

And down the wide stairway streamed the shrieking vanguard of the Christmas revellers—seven or eight unrestrained youngsters who had snatched liberty from the nurses the instant Mr. Bingle opened the play-room door at the top of the house. Down the steps they came, regardless of stumbles and tumbles—an avalanche of joy.

Diggs, from the doorway, raked the stairway and its squirming horde with an exploring eye.

"She is coming, sir. Fairly tall and slender, sir, and—"

"Good Lord!" gasped Flanders, helplessly. "This is more than I can stand. Diggs, do—do men ever faint?"

There was no reply. Three sturdy youngsters collided with Diggs. There was nothing he could say—with lucidity.



CHAPTER VII

SEARCHERS REWARDED

Miss Fairweather bowed gravely to Flanders as she passed. Diggs observed her closely. He was conscious of a sensation of disappointment. He had counted on a scene—an interesting scene. Circumstances justified something more thrilling than a mere nod of the head, his intelligence argued, and it was really too bad to have it turn out so tamely.

Mr. Flanders, looking a trifle dazed and bewildered, contrived to hide his emotions in a most commendable manner. A keener observer than Diggs, however, would have detected a strange pallor in the young woman's smooth cheek and an ominous shadow between her finely pencilled brows. Even Diggs might have observed these symptoms but for the fact that she kept her face rigidly averted. Mr. Flanders, from his position near the door—he seemed to have taken root there—was favoured with no more than a glimpse of the tip of a small ear and the faintest suggestion of a cheek's outline. His own face, entirely visible to Diggs, was scarlet—quite frankly so.

Four nurses appeared, carrying infants. Miss Fairweather assisted in the task of placing the sleepy-heads in their high-chairs and in the subsequent occupation of entertaining them by means of sundry grimaces and motions, keeping them awake—and quiet—against the arrival of Mr. Bingle, who, it appears, had gone to his room to substitute a pair of far from fashionable carpet slippers for the smart pumps he had been wearing. There was a great deal of excitement attending the placing of the children, but it passed unnoticed by Mr. Flanders. He was staring hungrily, pleadingly at the unfriendly back of the new governess.

Once she gave him a swift, perhaps unintentional look. It was too brief to be described as significant, but it served to revive his interest in the proceedings. He sprang forward and offered his aid to the nurses. If he was clumsy in his attempt to jiggle a chair into position, an explanation may be instantly provided. Miss Fairweather, after a brief stare of indecision, favoured him with an almost imperceptible smile. He happened to be in the act of pushing a high- chair under the wriggling person of Imogene. That smile caused the momentary paralysis of his whole being, with the result that the nurse came near to depositing Imogene on the floor. Every one—except Imogene—squealed. Mr. Flanders was reminded of his own existence. The arrested chair shot into position and Imogene came down rather soundly on the seat of it, and then every one giggled—except Imogene.

"Amy!" he whispered, as she turned away from the little group. He was at her side in an instant. She faced him, and there was no trace of the departed smile in her eyes.

"How dare you speak to me?" she said in low, intense tones. Her eyes were cold, unfriendly.

"I've been searching for you—" he began, eagerly, but her disdainful laugh cut him short.

"Go away, please. I don't want to see you. There is nothing more to be said between us. It's all over, Dick. Don't speak to me again. I—I don't want the Bingles to know that I—"

"I must see you, Amy," he persisted. "It isn't all over. Now that I've found you, I'll see that I don't lose track of you again. We can't talk here. Where can I see you alone—"

"Sh!" she cautioned, and he respected the appeal in her dark, distressed eyes. Mr. Bingle had entered the room, and was greeted by a shout of delight from the children. The governess moved swiftly away from the young man's side, mingling with the nurses by the fireplace.

Mr. Bingle, hurrying toward the semi-circle of youngsters was surprised by a genial slap on the back from the visibly excited Flanders.

"Wonderful!" exclaimed the young man, his face radiant. "Wonderful!"

"Aren't they?" cried Mr. Bingle, pleased.

"I don't mean the—Ahem! They certainly are, Mr. Bingle. I expect this to be the most beautiful Christmas Eve in all my life, sir. I shall never be able to thank you for—"

"Tush, tush! Now come along. I want to introduce you to the young ladies and gentlemen. Imogene, my dear, this is Mr. Flanders. Kathleen, shake hands with—oh, I beg pardon, I ought to have presented you to the Fairy Princess. Miss Fairweather, just a moment, please. I want you to meet my friend, Mr. Flanders, of the Banner. Well, well, are we all here? Let me see: one, two, three—no, hold up your hands as I call the roll. Strict attention, Mr. Flanders, and you'll know which is which—I say, Flanders, would you mind looking this way, please? Children first, on an occasion like this, sir. Grown-ups don't count. How is your headache, Miss Fairweather? Now, speak up, children. Answer to your names—and how to Mr. Flanders, while you're about it."

Planting himself in front of the row of eager children, grasping Flanders's arm with one hand, and employing the other in a sort of counting-off process, he called the roll.

Kathleen, exquisitely dressed and radiant with joy, a dainty miss who looked to be fourteen but was said to be twelve, curtsied to Flanders, who bowed low, his roving eye unwilling to relax its interest in the flushed face of the governess. Then came Frederick, a sturdy youngster; Marie Louise, a solemn-eyed ten-year-old; Wilberforce, Reginald, Henrietta, Guinevere, Harold, Rosemary, Rutherford, and last of all Imogene, who whimpered.

"There!" said Mr. Bingle proudly. "They did it very nicely, didn't they, nurse?" He addressed the four nurses, who beamed as one. "Diggs, you may summon the servants. I hear Mrs. Bingle and our guests in the hall—or is it the—er—ahem!"

"The servants 'ave congregated in the 'all, sir. It is them that is whispering," said Diggs, who had been scowling in the direction of the door. "I shall speak to them, sir. They should be made to understand— "

"Don't lecture them to-night, Diggs," broke in Mr. Bingle hastily. "Not on Christmas Eve. Let 'em whisper. Tell 'em to come right in. You see, Mr. Flanders, we have the servants in to hear the Christmas Carol. It's my rule. They enjoy it. They—Ah, my dear! Here we are! This is Mr. Flanders, Mary—my wife, sir. Come right in, Mrs. Forced. Permit me to introduce my old friend Flanders of the Banner. Mr. Force, shake hands with Mr. Flanders. Now—er—ahem! All right, Diggs— call 'em in."

The servants—a horde of them—stalked into the room, each one being formally, but perfunctorily announced by the butler, and each one flushing painfully in return for the attention. There was Delia, the cook, and Christine, her assistant; Swanson, the furnace man; Lockhart, the chauffeur, and Boyles, the washer; Cora, the laundress; Georgia, the scullery-maid; Edgecomb, the gardener, and his four helpers; Beulah and Emma, the upstairs-maids; Bliss, the lodge-keeper, and Jane, his daughter; Frank, the pony-cart driver, and Joe, the coachman; Matson, the stable-boy; Fannie, the seamstress; Rudolph, the carpenter; Miss McLeish, the stenographer and telephone operator; Throckinorton, the dairy-man; Scott, the stockman; John Butts, the handy-man; Melissa, Watson and Hughes. The four nurses escaped official announcement because they had been clever enough to anticipate the formality.

Awkward, ill-at-ease in Sunday garments, and almost sullen in their efforts to appear impressed, they formed an amazing group as they clumsily ranged themselves in a compact fringe outside the more favoured guests of the evening, who occupied what may be described as the "orchestra." They remained standing.

"Ever see the play called 'The Admirable Crichton'?" whispered Mr. Bingle to Flanders while the servants were crowding into their places.

"Yes," said Flanders. "I recognise the setting, but I miss the grown- up daughters. Diggs is shorn of his opportunities, sir."

"That play gave me an idea. It was written by a fellow named Barrie. He also wrote 'Peter Pan.' That is the greatest play ever written."

"If one believes in fairies, Mr. Bingle."

"Well, I do," said Mr. Bingle.

"So do I," said Flanders, his gaze wandering. Miss Fairweather was caught in the act of staring at him. She lowered her eyes.

Mr. Force arbitrarily had settled into the chair next to little Kathleen. His hard, impassive face wore a softer expression than was usually to be observed there, and his voice, ordinarily brusque and domineering, became ludicrously soft and wheedling.

"Come here, Kathleen. Sit on my knee. I've—I've got something pretty for you."

Kathleen instantly lost her joyous, happy expression. Her eyes fell and her manner betrayed unmistakable aversion to the august petitioner.

"Thank you, Mr. Force," she muttered, and was guiltily conscious of impoliteness. Frederick snickered. "I—I don't want to," she went on, spurred to defiance by her brother's action.

"Why not?" demanded Mr. Force coaxingly.

"Oh—because," said Kathleen, almost surlily.

"Don't you like me, Kathleen?"

"Yes, sir," said she, but without enthusiasm.

"Would you like to see what I've got for you? All for yourself alone, you know."

Kathleen couldn't resist. She betrayed the greediness that overcomes all feminine antipathy. "What is it?" she asked guardedly.

"Sit on my knee and I'll put it around your neck," said he, fumbling in his waistcoat pocket.

The child flushed painfully and her eyes fell again. "I don't want to," she repeated.

Force got up from his chair, muttered something under his breath, and moved away. He almost collided with Bingle.

"What's the matter with these kids of yours, Bingle?" he began irascibly. "Why don't you bring them up properly? Teach 'em politeness. Teach them how to behave toward—"

"My dear Force, has—has Kathleen been rude?" said Mr. Bingle in distress.

"You are not to reprimand her," said Force hastily. "I wouldn't have you do that for the world. She'd always have it in for me if she knew that I—but, what nonsense I'm talking. They are little ingrates anyhow—all of them. Good Lord, Bingle, I can't understand what you see in the brats."

"I know you can't," said Mr. Bingle mildly. "That's just the difference between us."

"There's only one in the whole lot that I'd have as a gift," said Force, with a sidelong glance at Kathleen, who was joyous once more. "That girl has got some class to her. Why is it, Bingle, that she dislikes me? All the rest of 'em are friendly enough—too friendly, if anything—but she won't even look at me."

"That's the woman of it," said Mr. Bingle.

"What's the woman of it?" demanded Force gruffly. "What do you mean by 'woman of it'? Don't be silly, Bingle. She's a mere child."

"She'll come around all right," said Mr. Bingle gaily. "Give her time, old fellow, give her time."

"Good heavens, what a racket they're making," growled Force. "Have you no control over them, Bingle? I'd send the whole lot of them to bed, hang me if I wouldn't."

"On Christmas Eve? Oh, no, you wouldn't, old—Where are you going?"

"I'm going into the library to smoke," said Force. "I can't stand the row."

"Now, don't do that," pleaded Mr. Bingle, grasping his arm. "Wait a minute. I'll speak to Kathie. She—"

"Do nothing of the sort," snapped Force. "She doesn't like me, and that's all there is to it. I've taken a fancy to the child, Bingle—I never liked a kid before in all my life. I've got a little present for her, but—oh, well, never mind. I'll put it in her stocking, if you'll tell me which is hers. But I say, why doesn't she like me, Bingle?" He was staring at the back of Kathleen's brown, curly head, and his eyes were filled with perplexity.

"Bashful—just bashful," explained Mr. Bingle.

"Do you really think so?" demanded the other eagerly.

"Sure," said Mr. Bingle, delighted. "All girls go through that stage of development. I don't mind saying to you, Force, she's my favourite. It's a dreadful thing to say, but I'd rather lose any one of them—or all of them—than to lose Kathie. I love her with all my heart."

Flanders was shaking hands with the small boys, Mrs. Bingle looking on with placid approval.

"What's your name, my little man?"

"Abraham."

"Ahem!" coughed Mrs. Bingle, with a violent start.

"Reginald, sir," gasped he whose memory was still faithful when under the pressure of excitement.

"I see," said Flanders, smiling down into Mrs. Bingle's embarrassed eyes. "Lapsus linguae, Mrs. Bingle."

"My French is very—" began Mrs. Bingle plaintively.

"Do you like Santa Claus, Reginald?" interrupted Flanders.

"I like him better'n I do Dickens," confessed Reginald with considerable positiveness. "Say, what's your name?"

"My name is Dick."

"Gee! Deadwood Dick, the road-agent? The feller Melissa is always telling us about? Hey, kids, here's—"

"Sh!" hissed Flanders, clapping his hand over Master Reginald's mouth. "Never mind that!"

"Did I understand Mr. Bingle to say, Mr. Flinders, that you report for the Banner?" It was Mrs. Force who spoke. She was inspecting the young man through a bejewelled lorgnette, held at an angle which was meant to establish beyond dispute the fact that she was looking down upon him from a superior height. She was a tall woman and she had been married to Mr. Force for twelve long years. Looking down on him had become such a habit that it was quite impossible for her to look up to any one of his sex.

"Yes, Mrs. Force, the Banner."

"Can you tell me who put that disgusting item in the paper about my little gathering last week?" She regarded him with severity.

"Gathering? Oh, I daresay it was one of the hospital reporters, Mrs. Force," said Flanders suavely. She spent the rest of the evening in cogitation.

Three words describe Mrs. Force. She detested children.

Joe, the coachman, and Watson were waiting for an opportunity to speak to Mr. Bingle. They appeared to be crowding each other.

"I beg pardon, Mr. Bingle," began Joe, hurriedly, as the master turned in response to Watson's cough.

"What is it, Joseph?"

Watson succeeded in speaking first. "If you please, sir, my grandmother is dying in the city. I've just been sent for, sir. I think it is possible for me to catch the eight-forty—"

"I beg pardon, sir," broke in Joe. "I've just heard that my sister is expecting a baby to-night, and I thought I'd speak to you about getting off—"

"Just a moment," said Mr. Bingle, blinking rapidly. "Wasn't your grandmother dying last Christmas Eve, Watson?"

"No, sir. It was Hughes's grandmother."

"Did she die?"

"She did, sir," said Watson, with a pleased smile. "Hughes can attend to my—"

"And your sister, Joe: didn't you get off last month for three days to attend her wedding? Your only sister, I think you said."

"Yes, sir. Poor girl," said the coachman, without shame or conscience.

Mr. Bingle looked hard at the two men. They coloured. "Very well. You may go, both of you, but don't let it happen again. I am sorry that you will not be here to receive your Christmas presents. I shall distribute the envelopes to-night. By the way, the grandmother season ends about the middle of October, Watson. Good night, and—a Merry Christmas to both of you."

"Beg pardon, sir," stammered Watson, sheepishly. "I'm ashamed of myself, sir. It shan't 'appen again, not so long as I'm in your service." The coachman shuffled his left foot uneasily and appeared to find something of great interest in the rug on which he was standing. At any rate, he scrutinised it very intently. Mr. Bingle smiled as he turned away.

Miss Fairweather suddenly leaned over and whispered into the ear of young Wilberforce. He paid no attention to her, so she shook him gently by the arm. A moment later, obeying an unspoken command, he sheepishly removed two large wads of cotton from his ears.

"Don't you want to hear about Old Scrooge and Tiny Tim?" she whispered.

"I wish I'd thought of doing that," lamented Mr. Force audibly. He had witnessed the little incident.

"I'd sooner hear about Melissa's pirates and sea-cooks," whispered Wilberforce shrilly.

"Order, please!" commanded Mr. Bingle, taking his place at the reading-table. "Please be seated, Mr. Force. Hi! Look out! Not on top of Rosemary."

"Good heavens! I might have squashed her—or him. What are you? A boy or a girl?"

"I'm a woming," piped up Rosemary from the depths of the biggest chair in the room.

Mr. Bingle cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles. Then he benignly surveyed the audience. The row of servants bobbed their heads and shifted from one foot to the other.

"Friends all," began the master, "I give you greeting. On this glad evening no line is drawn between master and man, no—What is it, Delia?"

The cook had stepped forward. "Excuse me for interruptin', sor, but for sivin years I've stud through the Christmas Carol, from ind to ind, and I'm sivin years older than whin I began. I'm no longer young and hearty. I'm—"

"Well, why do you hesitate? Go on. Do you mean to say you don't want to hear it again?"

"God knows, sor, I'm willing to give up wan evenin' to society. We all are, for that matter. But it takes an hour an' a half to read the blissed story. If we could only sit down during the recital, sor, it— it wouldn't be so bad. But as it is, sor, we have to stand and only our legs and feet can go to sleep. If—"

"I see!" cried Mr. Bingle. "You put me to shame, Delia. I never thought of it in that light. You must have chairs. We will delay the reading while you go to the dining-room and—"

"It's all right, sor. We've got the dining-room chairs in the hall. It was me as thought of thim, sor. Go wan wid yez now, lads, and rush thim in."