Mr. Bingle | Page 5

drivers of men.
Experience--and some sage conclusions on the part of his wife--had
taught him, after years of unsatisfactory practice, that it was best to
read the story BEFORE giving out presents to the immature guests. On
a great many occasions, the youngsters--in those early days they were

waifs--either went sound asleep before he was half way through or
became so restless and voracious that he couldn't keep his place in the
book, what with watching to see that they didn't choke on the candy,
break the windows or mirrors with their footballs, or put some one's
eye out with a pop-gun.
[Illustration with caption: The "kiddies" kept their eyes and ears open
and sat very still while he read to them of Tiny Tim and his friends]
Of late he had been reading the story first and distributing the
"goodies" and toys afterward. It was a splendid arrangement. The
"kiddies" kept their eyes and ears open and sat very still while he read
to them of Tiny Tim and his friends. And when Mr. Bingle himself
grinned shamefacedly through his tears and choked up so that the
words would not come without being resolutely forced through a
tightened throat, the sympathetic audience, including Mrs. Bingle and
Melissa-- and on one occasion an ancient maiden from the floor
above--wept copiously and with the most flattering clamour.
A small reading-lamp stood on the broad arm of his chair, which faced
the expectant group. Mr. Bingle cleared his throat, wiped his spectacles,
and then peered over the rims to see that all were attending. Five rosy
faces glistened with the sheen of health and soap lately applied with
great force by the proud but relentless Melissa.
"Take off your ear-muffs, James," said Mr. Bingle to the eldest Sykes,
who immediately turned a fiery red and shrank down in his chair
bitterly to hate his brothers and sisters for snickering at him. "There!
That's much better."
"They're new, Mr. Bingle," explained Melissa. "He hasn't had 'em off
since yesterday, he likes 'em so much. Put 'em in your pocket, Jimmy.
And now listen to Mr. Bingle. Are you sure they ain't too heavy for you,
ma'am? Georgie's getting pretty big--oh, excuse me, sir."
Mr. Bingle took up the well-worn, cherished book and turned to the
first page of the text. He cleared his throat again--and again. Hesitation
at a time like this was unusual; he was clearly, suddenly irresolute. His

gaze lingered for a moment on the white knob of a door at the upper
end of the room, and then shifted to his wife's face.
"I wonder, my dear, if Uncle Joe couldn't be persuaded to come in and
listen to the reading," he ventured, a wistful gleam in his eyes. "He's
been feeling better the last few days. It might cheer him--"
"Cheer your granny," said Mrs. Bingle scornfully. "It's no use. I asked
him just before dinner and he said he didn't believe in happiness, or
something to that effect."
"He is the limit," said Melissa flatly. "The worst grouch I've ever seen,
Mr. Bingle, even if he is your own flesh and blood uncle. He's almost
as bad as Old Scrooge."
"He is a sick man," explained Mr. Bingle, lowering his voice; "and he
hasn't known very much happiness in his lifetime, so I suppose we
ought to overlook--er, ahem! Let me see, where was I?" He favoured
young Mary Sykes with a genial grin. "Where was I, Mary?"
Mary saw her chance. Without a trace of shame or compunction, she
said page seventy-eight, and then the three grown people coughed in
great embarrassment.
"You sha'n't come next Christmas," whispered Melissa very fiercely
into Mary's ear, so ominously, in fact, that Mary's lip began to tremble.
"Page one," she amended, in a very small voice. James moved uneasily
in his chair, and Mary avoided his gaze.
"I believe I'll step in and ask Uncle Joe if he won't change his mind,"
said Mr. Bingle. "I--I don't believe he has ever read the Christmas
Carol. And he is so lonely, so--er--so at odds with the world that--"
"Don't bother him, Tom," said his wife. "Get on with the reading. The
children are impatient." She completed the sentence in a yawn.
Mr. Bingle began. He read very slowly and very impressively at first,

but gradually warmed up to the two-hour task. In a very few minutes he
was going along rapidly, almost monotonously, with scant regard for
effect save at the end of sentences, the ultimate word being pronounced
with distinct emphasis. Page after page was turned; the droning sound
of his voice went on and on, with its clock-like inflections at the end of
sentences; the revived crackle of coals lent spirit to an otherwise dreary
solo, and always it was Melissa who