Mr. Bingle

Mr. Bingle

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Mr. Bingle, by George Barr
McCutcheon (#8 in our series by George Barr McCutcheon)
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Title: Mr. Bingle
Author: George Barr McCutcheon
Release Date: June, 2004 [EBook #5963] [Yes, we are more than one
year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on October 1, 2002]

Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, MR.
BINGLE ***

Charles Franks, Charles Aldarondo, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.

MR. BINGLE
BY George Barr McCutcheon
Author of "Graustark," "The Hollow of Her Hand," "The Prince of
Graustark," etc.
With Illustrations by JAMES MONTGOMERY FLAGG

CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I
THE FIVE LITTLE SYKESES II RELATING TO AN ODD
RELATION III THE DEATH OF UNCLE JOE IV FORTY MINUTES
LATE V THE STORY OF JOSEPH VI THE HONORABLE
THOMAS SINGLETON BINGLE VII SEARCHERS REWARDED
VIII THE AFFAIRS OF AMY AND DICK IX THE MAN CALLED
HINMAN X MR. BINGLE THINKS OF BECOMING AN ANGEL XI
A TIMELY LESSON IN LOVE XII THE BIRTH OF NAPOLEON

XIII TROUBLE, TROUBLE, TROUBLE! XIV THE LAW'S LAST
WORD XV DECEMBER XVI ANOTHER CHRISTMAS EVE XVII
THE LAST TO ARRIVE
CHAPTER I
THE FIVE LITTLE SYKESES
A coal fire crackled cheerily in the little open grate that supplied
warmth to the steam-heated living-room in the modest apartment of Mr.
Thomas S. Bingle, lower New York, somewhere to the west of Fifth
Avenue and not far removed from Washington Square--in the wrong
direction, however, if one must be precise in the matter of emphasizing
the social independence of the Bingle family--and be it here recorded
that without the genial aid of that grate of coals the living-room would
have been a cheerless place indeed. Mr. Bingle had spent most of the
evening in trying to coax heat from the lower regions into the pipes of
the seventh heaven wherein he dwelt, and without the slightest sign of
success. The frigid coils in the corner of the room remained obdurate. If
they indicated the slightest symptom of warmth during the evening, it
was due entirely to the expansive generosity of the humble grate and
not because they were moved by inward remorse. They were able,
however, to supply the odour of far- off steam, as of an abandoned
laundry; and sometimes they chortled meanly, revealing signs of an
energy that in anything but a steam pipe might have been mistaken for
a promise to do better.
Mr. Bingle poked the fire and looked at his watch. Then he crossed to
the window, drew the curtains and shade aside and tried to peer through
the frosty panes into the street, seven stories below. A holly wreath
hung suspended in the window, completely obscured from view on one
side by hoar frost, on the other by a lemon-coloured window shade that
had to be handled with patience out of respect for a lapsed spring at the
top. He scraped a peep-hole in the frosty surface, and, after drying his
fingers on his smoking jacket, looked downward with eyes a-squint.
"Do sit down, Tom," said his wife from her chair by the fireplace. "A

watched pot never boils. You can't see them from the window, in any
event."
"I can see the car when it stops at the corner, my dear," said Mr. Bingle,
enlarging the peep-hole with a vigour that appeared to be aggravated by
advice. "Melissa said seven o'clock and it is four minutes after now."
"You forget that Melissa didn't start until after she had cleared away the
dinner things. She--"
"I know, I know," he interrupted, still peering. "But that was an hour
ago, Mary. I think a car is stopping at the corner now. No! It didn't stop,
so there must have been some one waiting to get on instead of off."
"Do come and sit down. You are as fidgety as a child."
"Dear me," said Mr. Bingle, turning away from