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Updated: June 15, 2025
Bingle, clearing his throat. "Mary, you'd better take Kate and Georgie on your lap, and suppose you hold Maud, Melissa. It will be more cosy." This was his way of overcoming the shortage in chairs. Now, it was Mr. Bingle's custom to read "The Christmas Carol" on Christmas Eve. It was his creed, almost his religion, this heart- breaking tale by Dickens.
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.
"I'll have some more soup, daddy," said Rutherford from his high chair. He was just ending the third course. "Bless my soul!" exclaimed Mr. Bingle. Melissa had come in to see that everything was going along in proper order. She looked hard at Mr. Bingle's plate and then at the gentleman himself. He met her reproachful gaze with one of mild apology.
He could not have endured this part of the business. The Christmas Carol lay on the mantelpiece behind the stove, with Mr. Bingle's reading glasses, both ready for use. At six-thirty Mr. Diggs appeared, laden with bundles, and at his heels was Watson, carrying a tremendous basket. They were clad in huge fur overcoats, their faces were red from the cold, and their voices were vastly cheerful.
"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.
I'm just driveling simply driveling with joy. We fixed it all up fifteen minutes after we got together. You might congratulate me, Mr. Bingle." "God bless my soul! Congratulate you on what?" "I'm going to marry your governess." Bright and early on Christmas morning, Mr. Sydney Force walked slowly, even irresolutely up the broad avenue leading to Mr. Bingle's stupendous door-step.
Bingle's study and, later on, directed with some misgiving upon the closed transom above Mrs. Bingle's bedroom door. To the certain knowledge of the oldest servant on the place, this transom had never been lowered before. This much was known to three persons: the butler, one of the footmen and Melissa: shortly after the strange gentleman entered Mr.
The agents came at eight o'clock, a gloomy man in uniform and two kind-looking, sweet-faced women in brown. Mr. Bingle's voice broke occasionally as he read "The Christmas Carol" to a silent, attentive audience made up of Kathleen and Sydney Force, Melissa, Diggs and the two Watsons. Fortunately, he knew the story so well that he was not called upon to perform the impossible.
The critics would go into convulsions over the attempt to foist a silly little " "But, hang it all, Amy, you've got it in you to surprise New York," he cried earnestly. "I KNOW you can do it. Good Lord, I wouldn't take a nickel of Mr. Bingle's money if I didn't believe you could make good. Why, I've got a conscience too, much as the confession may surprise you."
Rouquin leaped forward and snatched the squalling Napoleon from Mrs. Bingle's arms, and an instant later deposited him in those of his maternal grandmother, who in almost the same instant was pushed rudely out of the room. The door was quickly closed. Napoleon's howls receded. "Now," said Rouquin, "we may talk in peace. My faithful old servant, Madame," he went on, turning to Mrs.
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