Diggs, get those rolls over
here--lively! Did he have any soup and fish? Did he--"
"Melissa, what are you trying to do?" demanded Mr. Bingle. "Stuff me
so full I'll die in the night?"
"And him lookin' that thin and pale and peaked," went on Melissa,
glaring at the unhappy butler and footman. "What have you got them
buttons and that striped vest for, Watson? Are you here as a
spectator? Get a move on now, both of you. And as for you, Mr. Bingle,
I'm going to stand right here and SEE that you eat. Do you suppose I
got up this meal for a joke on myself? Not much! The mashed potatoes,
Watson! Never mind, Freddy, you can have some more after your daddy's
had all he wants. Gee whiz, I'm glad I happened to come in when I
did!"
Presently the door-bell rang--a feeble, broken tinkle reminiscent of
an original economy--and Mr. Bingle laid down his salad fork with a
sigh. The children started violently and a scared, uneasy look went
around the table.
"The Society's agents," said Mr. Bingle, closing his lips tightly to
prevent their trembling.
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