Mr. Bingle Part 14

"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 embarra.s.sed 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 d.i.c.kens," confessed Reginald with considerable positiveness. "Say, what's your name?"

"My name is d.i.c.k."

"Gee! Deadwood d.i.c.k, the road-agent? The feller Melissa is always telling us about? Hey, kids, here's--"

"s.h.!.+" 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 s.e.x.

"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 s.h.i.+fted 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--"