"
Mr. Bingle sighed. He was in no position to argue the point. Uncle Joe
had not left him very much to stand upon in the shape of a theory.
There was nothing to do but to concede her the sigh of admission.
"It's possible," he said hopefully, "that the poor old man is--is out
of his head. Let us hope so, at any rate." And with this somewhat
doubtful sop to the family honour, he lapsed into the silence of one
who realizes that he has uttered a foolish remark and shrinks from the
consequences.
Mrs. Bingle said "Humph," and no more, but there is no word in any
vocabulary that represents as much in the way of sustained argument as
that homely, unspellable ejaculation.
Mr. Hooper DID return, but not until the Saturday following Christmas
Day. He justified Mr. Bingle's faith in mankind to some extent by
restoring the overcoat and the arctics, but failed to bring back the
ear-muffs and the newspaper. He also failed to account for his own
scanty belongings which he had taken away from the flat wrapped up in
the newspaper. As a matter of fact, he did not feel called upon to
account for anything that had transpired since a quarter before seven
on Christmas morning.
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