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"I wouldn't talk about it if I were you, Uncle Joe."
"But I--I want to talk about it," he said, with an effort. "First I
wrote a nice, kind letter to each one of them. Then I called them up
on the telephone and told them all how sick I was, that I couldn't
last much longer, that I didn't want to die in the street, or a
charity hospital, or--the police station. That confounded Christmas
Carol of yours made me relent. I read the thing the other night after
you went to bed. They all asked me where I was and said they would
send an ambulance to take me to Bellevue, and that was the best they
could do for me. After the holidays, when they had a little more time,
they might possibly send me to a sanitarium if I--if I showed any
signs of improvement. That was all there was to it, Mary. I told them--
each one of 'em--that I washed my hands of them, and they could all
go to the devil. They won't do it, of course. People like that never
go to the devil for the simple reason that the devil hasn't anything
to offer them that they don't already possess.


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