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He knew that Mr. Bingle's pocket-book was the real Santa Claus, and he wanted a pair of skates and a hockey outfit. Something told him that he would be compelled to accept in lieu of these necessities a silly overcoat or a pair of shoes from the cheap department store up the street.
The children were dressed in their Sunday best, prepared for the coming exodus. They were neat and clean, and although six months had lengthened their bodies and shortened their garments, their patches and shreds were not so vindictive that they slapped Mr. Bingle's pride in face, if the metaphor is permissible.
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.
Bingle could utter another word, Diggs appeared in the door and announced Mr. Force. Instantly Kathleen's manner changed. She released her grip on Mr. Bingle's arm and slid to the floor. "Oh, I hate him! I don't want to see him." "Kathie!" cried Mrs. Bingle, distressed. "You should not say such things. Mr. Force is very nice to you. He likes you " "He gives me a pain," said Kathleen succinctly.
Bingle's best overcoat, an ulster of five winters, to say nothing of his arctics, gloves and muffler. No one, not even Mr. Bingle, could deny that it was a very shabby thing to do on a Christmas morning, and for once the gentle bookkeeper lost faith in his fellow-man.
Mr. Bingle's smile was quizzical. "You HAVE got something out of 'The Christmas Carol' then," he said, and Mr. Hoskins eventually had the grace to redden perceptibly. He was slow in grasping the connection, however. The impoverished millionaire had a busy afternoon, and some annoying mishaps if they may be classified as such.
You will understand, of course, that it is better for her and for all of us if she doesn't see you." Mr. Bingle's face shone. "She she still loves me, then?" he cried softly. Force compressed his lips, and then admitted: "Yes, Bingle, old fellow, she DOES love you. And, hang it all, why shouldn't she? I I want her to love me and not you.
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.
'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.
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.
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