And how about you,
Rutherford? Anything more?"
"I'll have some more soup, daddy," said Rutherford from his high
chair. He was just ending the third course.
"Bless my soul!" exclaimed Mr. Bingle.
Melissa had come in to see that everything was going along in proper
order. She looked hard at Mr. Bingle's plate and then at the gentleman
himself. He met her reproachful gaze with one of mild apology.
"I'm saving my appetite for to-morrow, Melissa," he explained.
"You're not eating a thing," said Melissa sternly. "Mr. Diggs, what
kind of a lummix are you? Can't you see that he's stinting himself
so's them--"
"Now, Melissa," implored Mr. Bingle, "don't say anything on Christmas
Eve that you'll be sorry for afterwards. It's all right, I assure you.
I'm not very hungry and--"
"But there's more than enough to go 'round," burst out Melissa
wrathfully. "There's no sense in your acting like this, Mr. Bingle."
"Sh!"
"Watson, give him some more of that chicken--the white meat, do you
understand? And where's the dressing? Mr.
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