She hasn't
permitted me to speak to her since yesterday morning. It will be quite
all right, however, to 'ave Watson 'andle the matter. Thank you, sir."
The fifth of July, as usual, came close upon the heels of the one day
in the year that men with large families of growing children feel
perfectly justified in characterizing as All-Fools' Day. The Bingle
youngsters, regardless of their missing antecedents, celebrated the
day as unqualified American citizens. They set fire to the stables,
shot Roman candles into the kitchen, bounced torpedoes off of the
statuary in the gardens, hurled firecrackers great and small at one
another, and came through the day with one thumb missing, four faces
powder-burnt, and one arm fractured in two places. (Rutherford fell
off of the balcony while being chased by an escaped pin-wheel.)
"But," said Mr. Bingle, after relating the horrors of the day to Dr.
Fiddler on the morning of the fifth, "I am glad to say that we got
through with it alive. How did you find Mrs. Bingle? She was pretty
well done-up by the noise.
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