Book account

Uncle Joe's forgetfulness cost Mr.
Bingle six dollars and fifty cents, and he entered the sitting-room
with a heart doubly sore. Of one thing he was uncomfortably certain:
the nurses would cost fifty dollars a week and they would have to be
paid on the dot. They were not like doctors, who could afford to wait.
They were working for a living.
Mr. Bingle's salary at the bank was one hundred dollars a month. He
was an expert accountant, but it did not require the intelligence of
an expert to do the "sum" that presented itself for his hasty
consideration. His small, jealously guarded account in the savings
bank would be wiped out like a flash. And yet he entered the sick-room
with a cheerful countenance and an unfaltering faith in the fitness of
all things. He greeted his repentant Sindbad with such profound
gladness and relief that one might well have believed him to be happy
in having the burden restored to his frail shoulders.
"Well, well, here you are!" he cried, rubbing his cold hands
vigorously before offering to grasp the bony old fingers that were
extended to him.


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