Emile Gaboriau - "Other People's Money"

Georges Ohnet - "Serge Panine, v1"

George Gissing - "In the Year of Jubilee"

Grant Allen - "Recalled to Life"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: Mr. Bingle

G >> George Barr McCutcheon >> Mr. Bingle




Geoffrey declared in so many words that his father had played a scurvy
trick on all of them. He managed to give utterance to this violent
opinion before his attorney could check his unnecessary eloquence.
After that, Geoffrey, subdued and desolate, kept extremely quiet and
suffered considerably under the convicting gaze of his sisters and
their husbands, all of whom were inclined to disown him there and then
as a brother for his reckless implication that their father was as
sane as any of them.

Thomas Singleton Bingle was to receive, in round figures, fifteen
million dollars under the will of his uncle, after the funeral
expenses and all just debts had been paid. It was really quite
staggering. If Thomas Singleton Bingle had not been so completely
wrapped up in his ears, it is certain that he would have acted as any
other intelligent human being would have acted at a time like this. He
would have gone stark, staring mad.

But wait! After all, he DID become a bit daffy. Observing the
desolated, crushed attitude of his three cousins, his honest heart
smote him sorely. He piped up from the depths of his chair and
announced that all he wanted out of the estate was the amount that he
had actually expended in caring for Uncle Joe during the past few
months. He would be satisfied with that and--But he got no farther.
Mr. Sigsbee hastened to remind him that he hadn't anything to say
about it. He didn't have a voice in the matter. And then Angela and
Elizabeth scornfully observed that it was a pretty time to talk about
that sort of thing, after he had so skilfully succeeded in influencing
their poor, mentally unbalanced father to make a will like this one.

Right heroically, Mr. Bingle declared that he was willing to give all
of his inheritance to any deserving charity, or charities, reserving,
if no one objected, a sufficient amount to enable him to purchase a
little farm on which he could spend the rest of his days and not have
to go on forever as a bookkeeper in a bank.

"Bosh!" said Geoffrey Hooper, glaring at his rich cousin.

"Ridiculous!" cried Angela and Elizabeth, transfixing Mr. Bingle with
glittering eyes.

"Very well," said Mr. Bingle, arising hastily. "Let it be bosh and
ridiculous, just as you like. I would have been willing to take this
small amount, just as I have said, and, what's more, I might have been
willing to divide the estate into four equal parts--if Mr. Sigsbee
would let me do it--but now I'll be damned if I'll do anything for
either of you. You don't deserve a nickel, not one of you. You had
your chance and you didn't take it. I fed and clothed and housed your
father and I stood ready to spend my last dollar to make his last few
days on earth comfortable and easy. I buried him. I went to his
funeral. I took the chance of losing my job by doing so. I froze my
ears--oh, look at 'em! I don't care. And now you--you three! You can
go to the devil, with my compliments as well as Uncle Joe's. Come
along, Mary! Let's get out of this. We've got fifteen million dollars
coming to us, and we don't have to sit here and be insulted by people
to whom we have offered charity. Good day, Mr. Sigsbee. If you want me
for anything, you'll find me at the bank. Now, be sure you wrap your
throat up carefully, Mary. Don't take any chances. You look as though
you were overheated."

Mr. Sigsbee followed them into the corridor, where he shook hands with
the indignant heir.

"Your troubles have just begun, Mr. Bingle," he said, with a genial
smile.

"How's that?"

"We'll have a long, bitter fight on our hands, but--we'll win. There
will be a contest, you see."

"All right," said Mr. Bingle, his eyes snapping. "I'm ready. I stood
by Uncle Joe when he was alive, you can bet your last dollar I'm not
going back on him now that he's dead."

That evening, sitting over the crackling grate fire, Mr. Bingle broke
a long period of silence by remarking to his wife:

"I dare say we can afford to adopt one or two, Mary, with all this
money we're going to have."




CHAPTER VI

THE HONOURABLE THOMAS SINGLETON BINGLE


Time flies.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It is another Christmas Eve, ten years later than the one described in
the opening chapter of this narrative. The Honourable Thomas Singleton
Bingle is preparing for his annual reading of "The Christmas Carol."
The sentiment which influences him on this occasion is the same that
inspired the habit in his days of long ago, but the surroundings have
changed. Now the vast drawing-room in the home of Mr. Bingle provides
the setting for an elaborate observance of a custom that has become
almost historic to those who have studied the life and habits of Mr.
Bingle. An imposing English butler, assisted by two able footmen and
the head gardener of the estate, are employed in the final decoration
of the huge room. For seven or eight years they have performed these
Christmas Eve duties in the mansion on the Sound. Melissa, a trifle
more buxom than in the days of the lower West Side apartment but quite
as capable despite her secret knowledge that she receives a greater
salary than the mighty Diggs, is superintending the hanging of a row
of stockings along the mantel-ledge, stockings of variegated hues and
distinguishing sizes.

There are eleven children in the family now. They range from one year
up to twelve. Kathleen and Frederick divide the distinction of
seniority, both being twelve. There is some doubt as to the actual age
of Henrietta and Guinevere, but for the sake of policy, Henrietta, who
came first, is down in the family records as six, Guinevere as five,
although Mrs. Bingle herself confesses that they came but six weeks
apart, and at a time when a few weeks, either way, make little or no
difference in the computation. This was the nearest that Mr. and Mrs.
Bingle ever came to being blessed with twins. For awhile they hoped
that they could make twins out of these infants, but, as the children
grew older, the impracticability of such a thought--or ambition--
became clear to them, and they reluctantly abandoned the project.
Henrietta revealed all the characteristics of being of Italian
extraction, while Guinevere was unmistakably Irish.

If you were to take a motor-ride along the North Shore of Long Island
Sound and feel your way back into private lanes that appear to lead
nowhere in particular, they are so deviously circuitous, you would
pass by the lodge gates of two magnificent estates. One of them
belonged to Mr. Bingle, the other to Sydney Force--or, more strictly
speaking, to Mrs. Sydney Force. It is worthy of mention that Mr. Force
lived up to his theory of regeneration by selling to Mr. Bingle, at a
tremendous profit, one hundred acres off of the least desirable end of
his late father-in-law's estate, thereby proving to himself that the
early bird is a much smarter creation than the one which is satisfied
to possess a mere nest-egg. Of course, the selling of that "parcel" of
land was provocative of most acrimonious disputes between Mr. and Mrs.
Force. Mrs. Force, while not averse to the sale of the land, was
frightfully cut up by the fact that she was to have the impossible
Bingles as neighbours, and Mr. Force, who was the prince of snobs,
berated her soundly for petty snobbishness.

"Bingle is such a hopelessly common name," she said.

"It happens to be a proper name," remarked Mr. Force, resorting to a
rather lame sort of wit.

"If it only had been Mrs. Bransone or Mrs. Mortimer," she sighed.
"They are awfully smart, don't you know. One meets them everywhere."

"We couldn't have sold that piece of land to either one of 'em," said
he. "They are much too smart for that."

Mr. Bingle erected a very costly and magnificent house, much against
his will, and spent a great deal of time thereafter in wishing that he
was back in the five-room apartment where he could put his hand on
anything he wanted without having to call for a servant to tell him
where to find it. He was so stupendously rich and so completely awed
by the importance of being acquainted with Mrs. Force that he became a
most desirable neighbour, from that lady's point of view. She
experienced a great deal of pleasure in association with a man who
could be made to feel as small as he gave every sign of being when in
her august presence. It was really a joy to her. With all his money,
he could not induce his wife's gowns to hang as Mrs. Force's hung; he
could not make her boots fit as neatly, nor her hats sit as naturally;
he could not buy style or majesty for Mrs. Bingle. So he was the kind
of neighbour to have. Any woman will tell you that.

Diggs was telling Watson, the footman, just where to put the
mistletoe. Watson's position was precarious. He was at the top of a
step-ladder, struggling to reach the lowest crystal pendant on the
enormous chandelier, and the ladder was wobbling.

"It's all tommy-rot," muttered Watson, apropos of nothing that had
gone before.

"Wot's all tommy-rot?" demanded Mr. Diggs severely.

"Christmas Eve," said Watson. "I have no objection to Christmas
morning, but 'ang me if I can see any sense in Christmas Eve. What's
it good for, anyway?"

"You'd better get a taller ladder," said Mr. Diggs. "It's getting on
towards 'alf-past eight. We can't be all night 'anging that bunch of
mistletoe, you know."

Melissa paused in her work long enough to devote an appraising look
upon Watson.

"You look very handsome up there, Watson. It gives you a very good
height. Straighten your legs out a bit. If you stand up as straight as
you can you'll be as tall as Mr. Diggs THINKS he is."

"See here, my fine lady," began Diggs, annoyed.

"Oh, I beg pardon, Mr. Diggs," cried Melissa. "I didn't see you."

"You'll get your walking papers if you don't keep your place," said
Diggs ominously.

"And I'll keep my place if I don't get my walking papers," retorted
Melissa, airily.

"And what's more," went on the butler, "you'll get the sack anyway if
you don't stop filling the kids up with them yarns of yours. The
nurses were telling Mrs. Bingle that the children didn't go to sleep
for hours last night, they were that scared."

"Seeing ghosts, dragons and goblins all night long," said Hughes, the
second footman, shoving a big chair into position. Chairs from all
parts of the house had been brought to the drawing-room and arranged
in a semi-circle in front of the huge fireplace, at one corner of
which stood Mr. Bingle's reading lamp, accurately placed at the edge
of a costly little Italian table. There were big chairs and little
chairs, soft chairs and hard ones, chairs of velvet and chairs of
silk, chairs of ancient needle-point and chairs that could not be sat
upon.

"I didn't tell any ghost stories yesterday," said Melissa. "I told 'em
about robbers and kidnappers."

"Get the ladder, Watson," said Diggs. "What are you standing there
for? Do you think it's a pedestal you're on?"

"I just wanted to say that three of the kids saw sea-serpents and
crocodiles in their dreams--"

"Don't lay it to me, Watson," broke in Melissa. "I'm not to blame if
they had delirium tremens. I didn't give them anything to drink."

"I--I shall have to speak to Mrs. Bingle about you, Melissa,"
exclaimed Diggs severely.

"Do! She is always complimented when you condescend to speak to her,
Mr. Diggs."

"Don't scrap," put in the gardener mildly. "Remember it's Christmas
Eve."

"Oy-yoy!" groaned Watson. "We've all got to listen to Mr. Bingle read
Dickens again. It will be the sixth time I've 'eard The Christmas
Carol in this 'ere room." He departed in quest of the tall step-
ladder, banging Hughes on the shins with the small one as he swung
past.

Hughes said something under his breath and then, with a quick glance
at Melissa, went on: "I will say this for the old boy, he makes
Christmas a merry one for all of us."

"Must I remind you again, Hughes, not to speak of the master as 'the
old boy'? Please remember that you were engaged as a TRAINED servant."

"Well, I'd have you to know, Mr. Diggs, that I'm not one of your bally
English servants. I'm as good an American as any one, and I say what I
please."

"You were engaged as an English footman. I distinctly told you that at
the intelligence office when I engaged you. You may be as American as
you please on your days out, but while you are on duty in this 'ouse,
you've got to be as English as I am, or--"

"Oh, I can drop 'em as well as any one, Mr. Diggs," said Hughes
scornfully. "'Ulloa! 'Ere comes the lidy governess!" He was peering
into the hall, the corners of his mouth drawn down in the most
approved English fashion.

Whatever may have been Mr. Bingle's taste in the selection of rugs and
furniture, he could be charged with no lack of it in his choice of a
governess for the young Bingles. Miss Fairweather was as pretty as a
picture. In fact, you would go a long way before you found a picture
as pretty as Miss Fairweather. Her serene beauty was disturbed,
however, by a perplexed frown, as she hurriedly entered the room and
paused just inside the door for a furtive, agitated glance down the
hall.

"Diggs, who is in the library with Mr. Bingle?" she inquired,
unconsciously lowering her voice as if fearing the sharpness of
distant ears. It was a very pleasing, musical voice, a fact which no
one appreciated more than Diggs, who boasted of his ability to know a
lady when he heard one.

"A newspaper chap, Miss Fairweather. To interview Mr. Bingle about
the--"(here he sighed faintly)--"about the Christmas jollities."

Miss Fairweather sent another futile look in the direction of the
library. She was plainly distressed by her failure to see through the
walls that intervened.

"What--what name did he give?"

"I can't say, Miss. I didn't quite catch it myself."

"But you must have announced him. He gave you his card or--something,
didn't he?"

"No, Miss. He announced 'imself over the telephone this afternoon. It
sounded like Blinkers, or, even more nearly, on his repeating it, like
Rasmussen. At any rate, Mr. Bingle was expecting 'im, and came out
into the 'all before I had the chance to learn his name proper, so to
speak, Miss."

She bit her lip, annoyed. "Was it Flanders, Diggs?"

Mr. Diggs reflected. "It was," said he. "Now that you mention it, it
was. Richard, I think."

Miss Fairweather lowered her eyes suddenly and grasped the back of a
chair as if to steady herself. The next instant, she had recovered,
except that a queer, hunted look had settled in her eyes.

"Thank you, Diggs. Please say to Mrs. Bingle that I shall not be down
again this evening. I have a splitting headache." She moved rapidly
toward the door.

"Won't you be here for the reading, Miss?"

"No. I always cry when I hear about Tiny Tim." "Beg pardon, Miss, but
as this is your first Christmas Eve 'ere, you'll excuse me for saying
that the entire 'ousehold is expected to be present for the reading.
It is a rule, Miss. Even the cook comes up."

"Thank you, Diggs. Please give my message to Mrs. Bingle."

"Very good, Miss."

"By the way, is this Mr. Flanders tall and fair, with dark grey eyes,
a rather broad mouth and just the tiniest sort of a wave in his hair--
especially above the ears? And a small white scar on his left thumb?"

Diggs arose to the demands of the occasion, as he always did. "Yes,
Miss. Quite accurate, I'm sure. And a very pleasant voice, I may add
if you don't mind."

"Thank you, Diggs," said Miss Fairweather for the third time, and then
scurried across the hall and up the broad staircase, accelerating her
speed materially as the library door was thrown open and lively
masculine voices came booming up from behind her.

"Sounds like a scene from a novel," said Melissa to Diggs, "A
mysterious stranger appears to disturb the peace and quiet of our
heroine. She runs off and hides in her room, shivering with dread lest
this spectre out of her dark past---"

"Rubbish!" said Mr. Diggs.

"Sure," said Melissa. "That's what most novels are. It's my opinion
that that young lady's been on the stage, Mr. Diggs. She acts just
like an actress. I've noticed that in her from the beginning. And the
other day she had a letter from a theatrical manager. I saw the name
on the envelope."

"I dare say," observed Diggs, inattentively. Watson appeared with the
tall step-ladder. "Be a bit lively, Watson. I 'ear Mr. Bingle in the
'all. Go and open the door for Mr. Flanders, Hughes."

Melissa happened to be standing directly beneath the mistletoe. Hughes
took advantage of an opportunity that has become historic. Then he
passed swiftly out of the room, followed by Melissa's astonished: "Oh,
you!" Watson came nimbly down the ladder and emulated the example of
the astonishing Hughes quite before Melissa could recover herself. He
received a resounding smack in return, but from the young woman's open
hand.

"Don't stand under it," he grumbled ruefully, "unless you want to play
the game."

"I'll stand under it as long as I please," said Melissa defiantly,
planting herself firmly on the spot from which Watson had hastily
removed the ladder. She faced Mr. Diggs.

Mr. Diggs coloured. He cleared his throat and then glared at Watson,
who went grinning from the room. Melissa was a very pretty, rosy young
woman, and her eyes flashed dangerously.

"It's a fine old custom," said Mr. Diggs persuasively. "In merry
England we hobserve it--er--you might say religiously, and without
fear of future complications. It can be done in a dignified fashion
if--"

"I don't want to have it done in a dignified fashion," protested
Melissa, lifting her round little chin and pursing her lips
invitingly. "Do it as if you liked it, not as if you wanted to be
religious."

Mr. Diggs became human at once. He laid aside his austerity, and was
no longer a butler but a good-looking chap of thirty-five who had the
"very Old Nick" in him. It was the sort of kiss that has nothing in
common with mistletoe--the sort that DOES lead to future
complications. It proved something to Melissa, and she uttered a
little sigh of happiness. Mr. Diggs kissed her because he was in love
with her.

Unfortunately, Mr. Bingle entered the room at the very instant of
least resistance, and coughed.

"Oh, I--I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Mr. Bingle, genuinely
distressed. It is worthy of note that it was the good little man who
apologised, not Diggs.

As the master was accompanied by the tall young newspaper chap, who
grinned abominably, both Diggs and Melissa forgot their moment of
bliss and fell from a great height. Needless to say, they were
speechless.

"It's quite all right, Diggs," said Mr. Bingle, affecting a vast
geniality. "What's a mistletoe for if not to--yes, yes, Melissa, it's
quite all right. Ahem! Don't you agree with me, Mr. Flanders?"

"Thoroughly," said Mr. Flanders with conviction. "And what's more, Mr.
Bingle, I agree with Diggs."

Melissa, crimson to her throat, fled. Mr. Diggs passed his hand over
his brow, as if to clear his brain, and then stammered in a voice that
strove hard to regain its former impressiveness:

"Yes, sir, it--it is all right, sir. Quite all right, sir. As right as
can be, sir."

"Right as rain," proclaimed Mr. Bingle, resorting to a habit of
imitation that had marked his progress during the past few years of
observation. He had heard the imposing Diggs say it, many times over.
It was quite the proper thing to say, of course--apparently on any and
all occasions--but, for the life of him, Mr. Bingle couldn't grasp the
significance of the simile. "And now, Diggs, THAT being settled, is
everything else all right?" He surveyed the great, gaily bedecked room
with an eye that took in the smallest detail.

"I think so, sir," said Diggs, slowly recovering. "You will hobserve,
sir, that I have added the necessary new chair--the 'igh-chair over
here, sir, for little Miss Him--Imogene."

"I see. We make it a point, Mr. Flanders, to get a new baby at least
once a year. The first year, as I explained, we had three. Two or
three years ago, one came in May and another in September."

"Mental arithmetic gives you twelve in all," said young Mr. Flanders.

"Eleven. We lost one in 1906. Little Harriet."

"Eleanor, sir, begging your pardon," corrected Diggs.

"Right. Thank you, Diggs. Malnutrition. We never should have had her.
There goes the door-bell, Tell Mrs. Bingle that Mr. and Mrs. Force
have arrived, and give Mr. Force a drink before she comes down."

"Very good, sir." Diggs retired with gravity.

"President of our bank, you know. Mr. Sydney Force," explained Mr.
Bingle.

"I know. The husband of Mrs. Sydney Force," said Flanders, a twinkle
in his grey eyes.

"Sit down, Mr. Flanders. I'd ask you to have a cigar, but the nurses
say that smoke isn't good for the children. Force always smokes here.
I can't tell him not to, you see. He wouldn't come again." In that bit
of ingenuousness, Mr. Bingle exposed the family state of mind in
respect to their aristocratic neighbours. "Now, this is where we have
the reading. Permit me to call your attention to the way we arrange
the--er--the auditorium, you might say. That's where I sit--over
there. I'm glad you've decided to stay and hear The Christmas Carol.
It will do you good, Mr. Flanders. You'll be a better man for it.
There is a train in at nine-fifty-five. We'll not be interrupted here,
so fire away. I'm ready to be interviewed."

They seated themselves on the broad, luxurious couch that marked the
precise centre of the semi-circle and was evidently intended to be the
section of honour. Mr. Bingle leaned back, stretched out his slender
legs, crossed his feet, and looked over his tortoise-shell glasses
with a fine assumption of tolerance. He was still trying, after many
years, to enjoy his own importance. Sad to relate, he still expected
to wake up and find that he had but half an hour in which to eat his
breakfast and get across town to the bookkeeper's stool he had
occupied the day before. He sometimes felt of his ears reminiscently,
for they seemed in some way to clearly connect him with his last
waking hours. He never quite got over listening for the alarm clock.

At fifty-three, he was no older in appearance than when he was forty-
three. If anything, he seemed younger, for the harassed, care-worn
expression had disappeared, leaving him bland, benign of countenance,
although the same imperishable wrinkles lined his pinched cheeks. He
was just as careless about his sparse hair as in the days of old. It
was never by any chance sleek and orderly. The habit of running his
fingers through his thatch still clung to him, significant reminder of
the perplexities that filled his daily life over the ledgers and day-
books. In all other respects, however, he was a re-made man.

His trim little frame was clothed in expensive garments; his patent
leather pumps were the handiwork of the most fashionable of
bootmakers, and quite uncomfortable; his hosiery was of the finest
silk and his watch-chain was of platinum; there were pearl studs in
his unpolished shirt front and four shining black buttons on his neat
white waistcoat; his clawhammer coat had a velvet collar and fitted
him about the shoulders as if it had been constructed for a man who
possessed much more of a figure than he; and his trousers were primly
pressed. Not the same old Bingle outwardly, you will say, but you are
wrong. He was, and always will be, like the leopard.

A certain briskness of manner, inspired by necessity, had come to him
in these days of opulence. His position in life made its demands, and
one of the most exacting of these denied him the privileges of
familiarity. He would have liked nothing better than an hour or two a
day of general conversation with Mrs. Bingle and Melissa--say while
the latter was tidying up the library--but that was utterly out of the
question under the new order of things. He was compelled, by virtue of
exaltation, to be very crisp, succinct, positive in his treatment of
the most trivial matters; as for conversing amiably with a single
servant in his establishment, something told him more plainly than
words that it would not be tolerated--not for an instant. He would
have given a great deal to be able to just once shout a glad,
cheerful, heart-felt "good morning" to Diggs--or to any one of the
servants, for that matter--but custom and the surprising dignity of
his employees compelled him to utter the greeting in a casual, bored
manner, quite as if he did it automatically and always as if he was on
the point of clearing his throat. He sorely missed Melissa's
spontaneous, even vulgar "Morning, Mist' Bingle," and the rattle of
cutlery and chinaware. Melissa had acquired a fine but watchful
dignity. She now said "good morning, sir" in the hushed, impersonal
voice of the trained servant. She never "joked" with him, as of yore,
although he was by way of knowing that she bubbled over with fun in
the regions "below stairs."

"I haven't heard The Christmas Carol since I was twelve years old,"
said Richard Flanders. He had his note paper on his knee. "What I
want, Mr. Bingle, is a good Christmas story from you. We shall play it
up, of course, and--well, it ought to be good reading. Your own story,
sir, from the beginning. All about the Hooper millions and the
children that just grew."