Bingle and seven of the
children. He looked happy but inadequate. A grinning park policeman
enlightened her as to the identity of the bewildered little man. A
single glance was all that was necessary to convince her that Mr.
Bingle was having his hands full.
He had lost all control of the little ruffians. (The park policeman
was the first to call them ruffians, so I may be pardoned.) They
insisted on playing games that Mr. Bingle couldn't play, and he was
beginning to look worried. Time and again he tried to herd them into
the big station 'bus in which he had brought them over from Seafood
(the Bingle estate), and always with so little success that he was
getting hot and tired--and farther away from the conveyance all the
time. Still he smiled cheerfully and gave no sign of losing his
temper.
They were frolicking in the neighbourhood of the lake at the north end
of the park, and Miss Colgate was sitting on one of the benches not
far removed from the scene of activity. She began to feel sorry for
the little foster-father.
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