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In all probability he would have excused
Uncle Joe's early morning stroll in garments that did not belong to
him had it not been for the fact that the old gentleman also took away
with him all of his own scanty belongings neatly wrapped in the
morning newspaper, an almost priceless breakfast possession from Mr.
Bingle's way of looking at it.
At first Mrs. Bingle insisted on having the police notified. It was so
evident that Uncle Joe had departed without even contemplating an
early return that she couldn't see why her husband shouldn't at least
recover what belonged to him before the old ingrate could get to a
pawn-shop, notwithstanding the family shame that would attend an
actual arrest.
"He is an old scamp, Tom, and I don't see why you should put up with
the scurvy trick he has played on you," she protested, almost in
tears. "After all we've done for him, it really seems--"
"I swear to goodness, Mary, I believe I'd do it if--if it wasn't
Christmas," groaned Mr. Bingle, who sat dejectedly over the fire, his
hands jammed deep into his pockets, his chin on his breast.


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