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Updated: June 15, 2025
The trip to Syracuse had been too much for Mrs. Bingle. The railway coaches were cold; she shivered nearly all the way up and all the way back, notwithstanding Melissa's furs and the extra suit of flannels she had donned at Mr. Bingle's suggestion. She came home with a frightful cold and a temperature that frightened her husband almost out of his boots.
Bingle's heart was sorely hurt by the very evident enthusiasm with which they received the news. The younger ones, swept along by the current, and less subtle than their elders, plied Mr. Bingle with a hundred eager, innocent questions, and every one of them seemed to look upon the coming separation as a lark!
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.
Bingle's absence for three whole days, having got wind of a death in the family, but, for the life of them, they couldn't see what he meant by spoiling a perfectly clean record for punctuality when he might have remained away for the entire day, just as well as not, instead of upsetting a hallowed tradition in the bank by coming in forty minutes late. Moreover, Mr.
The fire was crackling merrily by the time the servants were seated and Diggs had turned out the ceiling and wall lights from the switch, leaving the big room in semi-darkness. The blazing logs sent a bright, nickering glow into the faces of Mr. Bingle's auditors. He bowed gravely and took up the cherished well-worn book.
They fairly shrivelled in their skins as they stood beside the open grave and saw, through blurred eyes, the last of Uncle Joe. Both of Mr. Bingle's ears were frozen quite stiff. A much be-furred undertaker's assistant rubbed snow on them with what seemed to be unnecessary vigour and told him to have 'em looked after when he got back to New York. They were ugly things, those ears of his, and Mr.
In all probability he would have excused Uncle Joe's early morning stroll in garments that did not belong to him had it not been for the fact that the old gentleman also took away with him all of his own scanty belongings neatly wrapped in the morning newspaper, an almost priceless breakfast possession from Mr. Bingle's way of looking at it. At first Mrs.
"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."
"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.
Fiddler came roaring into the room ahead of its owner. "By the Lord Harry, it's a cold night Hello! What's this? Liveried servants again? Well, upon my soul, I Ah, there you are, Bingle! How are you, Force?" The next instant he was wringing Mr. Bingle's hand and booming Christmas greetings to every one in hearing and out of it, for that matter, such a voice he had! "Mary?
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