Bingle."
"And now I haven't ten dollars to my name," said Mr. Bingle cheerily.
"Luck is like the sun, Dick. It doesn't stay up all the time.
Sometimes I look back upon the past ten years and wonder if they don't
belong to the fellow who wrote the 'Arabian Nights' and not to me.
They were not real, not a bit of it. And yet I can't remember ever
having found a queer old jar at the seashore, nor having released a
good geni from its smoky insides. So I suppose I really must have
lived them."
"Don't let yourself get lonely, Mr. Bingle," said Flanders, gripping
the other's hand. "Don't allow yourself to mope over the loss of
these--ahem! They will all have nice, happy homes and grow up to be
splendid--"
"Come on, Dick," called his wife from the little hall, where she was
surrounded by a suddenly repressed group of children. She had been
whispering something to them, and they were ashamed.
The door-bell gave forth its stuttering tinkle once more, and again
the impassive Watson stalked to the entry. The next instant a white-
furred figure bounded through the door, rushed across the room and
precipitated itself forcibly into the arms of Mr.
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