Part 14 (1/2)
”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.