Part 14 (2/2)
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--”
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