"How long
has it been, Bingle?"
"Fifteen years," gulped Mr. Bingle, in a strange, unnatural voice.
"That's longer than the old man himself," said Jenkins. "He's been
president less'n twelve years. Say, Bingle, I'm all broke up over it.
I--I hope it ain't as bad as we think. Maybe--oh, I say, it's your
EARS! That's what it is. Mr. Force was showing him your ears. And say,
take it from me, Bingle, they're worth going a long way to see, too.
Good Lord, what a relief!" Mr. Bingle actually took hope. Could it be
possible? Were frozen ears so rare a sight that the president of a
great bank--But even as he grasped at the straw he became convinced
that it was very likely to prove his salvation, for, to his amazement
and confusion, the cashier and the fourth vice-president strolled up
to the caging and regarded him with the gravest interest. He bent his
head to the task before him, hoping against hope that it WAS his ears
and not his tardiness. And, when he looked up again many minutes
afterward, other officials of the bank were looking at him from
various points of vantage, and all of them were staring with the most
amazing intentness, quite as if they had never seen anything so
strange as the man who had sat unnoticed in this very spot for fifteen
years and more.
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