Edward Stratemeyer - "Richard Dare's Venture"

St. George Rathborne - "The House Boat Boys"

P. G. Wodehouse - "Psmith in the City"

Alexandre Dumas, Pere - "The Man in the Iron Mask"

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




"Do nothing of the sort," snapped Force. "She doesn't like me, and
that's all there is to it. I've taken a fancy to the child, Bingle--I
never liked a kid before in all my life. I've got a little present for
her, but--oh, well, never mind. I'll put it in her stocking, if you'll
tell me which is hers. But I say, why doesn't she like me, Bingle?" He
was staring at the back of Kathleen's brown, curly head, and his eyes
were filled with perplexity.

"Bashful--just bashful," explained Mr. Bingle.

"Do you really think so?" demanded the other eagerly.

"Sure," said Mr. Bingle, delighted. "All girls go through that stage
of development. I don't mind saying to you, Force, she's my favourite.
It's a dreadful thing to say, but I'd rather lose any one of them--or
all of them--than to lose Kathie. I love her with all my heart."

Flanders was shaking hands with the small boys, Mrs. Bingle looking on
with placid approval.

"What's your name, my little man?"

"Abraham."

"Ahem!" coughed Mrs. Bingle, with a violent start.

"Reginald, sir," gasped he whose memory was still faithful when under
the pressure of excitement.

"I see," said Flanders, smiling down into Mrs. Bingle's embarrassed
eyes. "Lapsus linguae, Mrs. Bingle."

"My French is very--" began Mrs. Bingle plaintively.

"Do you like Santa Claus, Reginald?" interrupted Flanders.

"I like him better'n I do Dickens," confessed Reginald with
considerable positiveness. "Say, what's your name?"

"My name is Dick."

"Gee! Deadwood Dick, the road-agent? The feller Melissa is always
telling us about? Hey, kids, here's--"

"Sh!" hissed Flanders, clapping his hand over Master Reginald's mouth.
"Never mind that!"

"Did I understand Mr. Bingle to say, Mr. Flinders, that you report for
the Banner?" It was Mrs. Force who spoke. She was inspecting the young
man through a bejewelled lorgnette, held at an angle which was meant
to establish beyond dispute the fact that she was looking down upon
him from a superior height. She was a tall woman and she had been
married to Mr. Force for twelve long years. Looking down on him had
become such a habit that it was quite impossible for her to look up to
any one of his sex.

"Yes, Mrs. Force, the Banner."

"Can you tell me who put that disgusting item in the paper about my
little gathering last week?" She regarded him with severity.

"Gathering? Oh, I daresay it was one of the hospital reporters, Mrs.
Force," said Flanders suavely. She spent the rest of the evening in
cogitation.

Three words describe Mrs. Force. She detested children.

Joe, the coachman, and Watson were waiting for an opportunity to speak
to Mr. Bingle. They appeared to be crowding each other.

"I beg pardon, Mr. Bingle," began Joe, hurriedly, as the master turned
in response to Watson's cough.

"What is it, Joseph?"

Watson succeeded in speaking first. "If you please, sir, my
grandmother is dying in the city. I've just been sent for, sir. I
think it is possible for me to catch the eight-forty--"

"I beg pardon, sir," broke in Joe. "I've just heard that my sister is
expecting a baby to-night, and I thought I'd speak to you about
getting off--"

"Just a moment," said Mr. Bingle, blinking rapidly. "Wasn't your
grandmother dying last Christmas Eve, Watson?"

"No, sir. It was Hughes's grandmother."

"Did she die?"

"She did, sir," said Watson, with a pleased smile. "Hughes can attend
to my--"

"And your sister, Joe: didn't you get off last month for three days to
attend her wedding? Your only sister, I think you said."

"Yes, sir. Poor girl," said the coachman, without shame or conscience.

Mr. Bingle looked hard at the two men. They coloured. "Very well. You
may go, both of you, but don't let it happen again. I am sorry that
you will not be here to receive your Christmas presents. I shall
distribute the envelopes to-night. By the way, the grandmother season
ends about the middle of October, Watson. Good night, and--a Merry
Christmas to both of you."

"Beg pardon, sir," stammered Watson, sheepishly. "I'm ashamed of
myself, sir. It shan't 'appen again, not so long as I'm in your
service." The coachman shuffled his left foot uneasily and appeared to
find something of great interest in the rug on which he was standing.
At any rate, he scrutinised it very intently. Mr. Bingle smiled as he
turned away.

Miss Fairweather suddenly leaned over and whispered into the ear of
young Wilberforce. He paid no attention to her, so she shook him
gently by the arm. A moment later, obeying an unspoken command, he
sheepishly removed two large wads of cotton from his ears.

"Don't you want to hear about Old Scrooge and Tiny Tim?" she
whispered.

"I wish I'd thought of doing that," lamented Mr. Force audibly. He had
witnessed the little incident.

"I'd sooner hear about Melissa's pirates and sea-cooks," whispered
Wilberforce shrilly.

"Order, please!" commanded Mr. Bingle, taking his place at the
reading-table. "Please be seated, Mr. Force. Hi! Look out! Not on top
of Rosemary."

"Good heavens! I might have squashed her--or him. What are you? A boy
or a girl?"

"I'm a woming," piped up Rosemary from the depths of the biggest chair
in the room.

Mr. Bingle cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles. Then he
benignly surveyed the audience. The row of servants bobbed their heads
and shifted from one foot to the other.

"Friends all," began the master, "I give you greeting. On this glad
evening no line is drawn between master and man, no--What is it,
Delia?"

The cook had stepped forward. "Excuse me for interruptin', sor, but
for sivin years I've stud through the Christmas Carol, from ind to
ind, and I'm sivin years older than whin I began. I'm no longer young
and hearty. I'm--"

"Well, why do you hesitate? Go on. Do you mean to say you don't want
to hear it again?"

"God knows, sor, I'm willing to give up wan evenin' to society. We all
are, for that matter. But it takes an hour an' a half to read the
blissed story. If we could only sit down during the recital, sor, it--
it wouldn't be so bad. But as it is, sor, we have to stand and only
our legs and feet can go to sleep. If--"

"I see!" cried Mr. Bingle. "You put me to shame, Delia. I never
thought of it in that light. You must have chairs. We will delay the
reading while you go to the dining-room and--"

"It's all right, sor. We've got the dining-room chairs in the hall. It
was me as thought of thim, sor. Go wan wid yez now, lads, and rush
thim in."

Mrs. Bingle took advantage of this unusual delay--or respite--and
explained to Mrs. Force that she would never go back to Madame Marie
for another gown. All one had to do was to look at the dress she was
wearing to-night for the first time. "It has just come and it cost--
well, you know what a gown like that would cost at Marie's! And just
look at it!" Mrs. Force did look at it--commiseratingly--and said she
would be pleased to take Mrs. Bingle in to see her dressmaker, and so
on and so forth. Mrs. Bingle expressed some doubt as to any modiste's
ability to make her look like Mrs. Force and Mrs. Force pooh-poohed
graciously.

Mr. Force bit off the end of a cigar and glumly watched the revivified
servants arranging the chairs. Occasionally he sent a puzzled glance
at little Kathleen.

Mr. Bingle rubbed his spectacles, while Mr. Flanders confined his
attention solely to the slim, graceful head and neck of the new
governess. He wore the look of one who has much to do to contain
himself in patience. As for Miss Fairweather, a warm glow had settled
upon her fair cheek and her eyes were bright.

"I always cry when any one reads aloud about Tiny Tim," she said to
Mr. Force, who, for obvious reasons, failed to hear her above the
chattering of the children. But Flanders heard.

"Tiny Tim always makes me cry too," he said, very distinctly. He was
rewarded by a slightly increased colour in the young lady's cheek.

"I cry my eyes out over Tiny Tim," Miss Quinlan was saying to Miss
Stokes, and at the same instant Miss Brown was telling Miss Wright
that Tiny Tim was always good for a bucketful, so far as she was
concerned.

Imogene was sound asleep, and there were faint sobs in her breathing.

"Before we begin, Swanson," said Mr. Bingle, addressing the furnace-
man, "you might put a couple of fresh Yule logs on the fire. Pick out
good, big ones while you're about it."

"Will dose har fance-post do, Mast' Bingle?" whispered Swanson
hoarsely, as he held up a chunk of firewood for approval.

The fire was crackling merrily by the time the servants were seated
and Diggs had turned out the ceiling and wall lights from the switch,
leaving the big room in semi-darkness. The blazing logs sent a bright,
nickering glow into the faces of Mr. Bingle's auditors. He bowed
gravely and took up the cherished well-worn book.

"My dear friends, we have once more reached a milestone in the march
of Christendom. As you know, children, it comes but once a year, like
New Year's and Fourth of July."

"Hear! Hear!" volunteered three or four of the men-servants
diffidently.

"We are all servants of the Lord whose anniversary we celebrate. We
gather here about a warm fireside, with the historic yule log blazing--
er--figuratively speaking, of course. These logs, naturally, are not
historic. They--er--ahem! Ahem!" He floundered. "Still, we gather
about them, just the same, warm and snug and full of good cheer.
Outside, the night is cold and blustery. The wind howls around the--"

The door-bell jangled in the distance. Mr. Bingle hesitated for an
instant and then went on:

"Howls around the corners with the fury of the wintry--ahem!--blast.
And it snows. 'It snows, cries the schoolboy!' You remember the
verses, children. You--See who's there, Diggs. Perhaps it is some
neighbour come to wish us--and, Diggs, no matter who it is, ask him--
or them--to come right in here. I'll--I'll wait a few minutes. Hurry
along, please." Resuming his address he beamed upon the row of
wriggling children. "We have before us eleven little ladies and
gentlemen, all eager for the Christmas dawn. See the stockings? To-
morrow morning you will find that Santy has filled them to the top.
Next year Santy will come provided with gifts for twelve, an even
dozen. How many are eleven and one, Reginald? Speak up. Eleven and
one. Good! That's right, my lad. The year after he will bring gifts
for fourteen. We shall avoid the unlucky number thirteen. Remember,
children, that next Christmas you are to have a little brother. You--"

"I want a sister," shouted Wilberforce.

"Sh!" said four nurses at once.

"As for you, my faithful servitors, it will not be necessary for you
to hang up your little stockings. Santy will find a way to--What is
it, Diggs?"

"If you please, sir, may I speak with you for a moment?" said Diggs
mysteriously, from the doorway. He appeared to be under the strain of
a not inconsiderable excitement.

Mr. Bingle hesitated. "If it's your grandmother who is ill, Diggs, I'm
afraid--"

"It's a man, sir, who says he must see you at once," said Diggs,
lowering his voice and sending a cautious glance over his shoulder.

"If he is seeking food or shelter, do not turn him away. Give freely
from my purse and larder. It is Christmas Eve. We--"

"I'll step out and see him, Bingle," volunteered Mr. Force, with some
alacrity. "Go ahead with the reading."

"He says he must see you, Mr. Bingle," said Diggs. "He isn't after
halms, sir."

"Ask him to come in and hear the story. I've no doubt he would be
benefitted--"

"Go and see what he wants, Thomas," said Mrs. Bingle. "It may be
important. I am sure Mr. and Mrs. Force will not mind the delay. Will
you?"

"Not at all," said Mrs. Force resignedly.

"I shan't mind, if the rest don't," added Mr. Force, turning an ironic
eye upon the row of servants.

"Well, I'll just step out and see what it's all about," said Mr.
Bingle reluctantly.

"Better see that the chap isn't a bomb-thrower, come to demand money
of you, Bingle," said Force. Mr. Bingle waved his hand airily as he
threaded his way among the chairs. "Does he look like a black-hander,
Diggs?"

"No, sir," replied Diggs. Then he let the truth slip out. "He says he
is from a detective agency, but I couldn't catch the name of it."

Mr. Bingle halted. "Detective agency, Diggs?"

"So he said, sir."

Flanders arose. "Perhaps you'd like to have me go with you, Mr.
Bingle. I know most of these fellows. If I can be of any assistance--"

"Thank you, no," said Mr. Bingle nervously. I--I think I'd better see
him alone. Now, Mary, don't look frightened. I haven't the remotest
idea what he wants, but as I haven't been up to anything--ahem! Keep
your seat, Frederick!"

"I want to see a detective," pleaded Frederick. "Is he disguised,
Diggs? Has he got on false whiskers? Please, daddy--"

"Maybe it's old Santy," cried Wilberforce in a voice that thrilled.

Mr. Bingle left a pleasant atmosphere of excitement behind him when he
disappeared between the portieres. At once the company broke into
eager, speculative whispers that soon grew to a perfect storm of
shrill inquiry. Every one was guessing, and every one was guessing as
loudly as possible in order to be heard above the clamour. It might
have been observed that at least three or four of the servants shot
furtive glances in the direction of the hall, and appeared to be
anxious and uncomfortable.

While the excitement was at its height, Flanders deliberately planted
himself at Miss Fairweather's elbow. She looked up into his face.
Every vestige of colour had left her own. Her eyes were wide with
alarm.

"Come with me, Amy," he said in a low tone. "I must have a word with
you. Make believe that you are showing me the--the pictures. We can
talk safely in that corner over there."

She arose without a word and followed him to a far corner of the room,
where they would be quite free from interruption.

"Oh, Dick!" she murmured, in great distress.

"Do you know anything? Who is this detective? Has he come to--"

"Sh! Why, you're actually shivering! Here, sit down in the window
seat--behind the curtain, dearest. What have you to be afraid of?
You've done no wrong."

She sank down on the window seat. The thick lace curtain shielded her
agitated face from the view of all inquiring eyes save those of the
tall, eager young man who sat down beside her.

"They don't know that I was on the stage, Dick. They wouldn't have me
here if they knew that I've been an actress. I--Oh, I hope--"

"Brace up, darling! This detective isn't interested in you. What
motive could he have in looking you up? Bingle is in the dark, so it's
evident he hasn't hired any one to investigate your past. Forget it!
That isn't what I want to talk to you about. I've been half-crazy,
dear, for the past eight months. Why did you run away without giving
me a chance to square myself after that miserable night? Don't get up!
I've found you and I'm determined to have it out with you, Amy. You've
just got to hear what I have to say." His hand was upon her arm, a
firm restraining grasp that checked her attempt to escape. Undismayed
by the look of scorn that leaped into her eyes, he leaned closer and
spoke in quick agitated whispers.

Fully half an hour elapsed before Mr. Bingle returned to the room. His
face was noticeably grey and pinched, and all of the ebullience of
spirit had disappeared. His wife eyed him anxiously, apprehensively.
Slowly, almost with an effort, he made his way to the reading-table,
purposely avoiding the gaze of the inquiring assemblage. His hand
shook perceptibly as he took up the book and cleared his throat--this
time feebly and without the usual authority, it might have been
observed.

"Anything wrong, Bingle?" inquired Force, regarding him curiously.

"Nothing, nothing at all," said Mr. Bingle, vainly affecting a smile
that was meant to put every one at ease. "No crime has been committed,
so don't be nervous, any of you. Just a little private matter of--of"
--His gaze went swiftly to the eager, uplifted face of little Kathleen,
and he never completed the sentence. As he turned his face away,
ostensibly to find his place in the book, his lower lip trembled, and
a mist came over his eyes.

The dramatic enthusiasm with which he was wont to read the Dickens
story was sadly lacking. He read lifelessly, uncertainly, and at times
almost inaudibly. There was a queer huskiness in his voice that made
it necessary for him to clear his throat frequently.

[Illustration with caption: Amy Fairweather and Flanders]

Under ordinary conditions, he would have observed the singular
aloofness of Miss Fairweather and the reporter who was there by virtue
of an assignment. They retained their somewhat sequestered position in
the window seat, effectually screened by the curtains, and whispered
softly to each other, utterly oblivious to the monotonous drone of the
reader, quite in a little world of their own.

Flanders was pleading earnestly with the rigid-faced girl. Her
cautious, infrequent responses were not of an encouraging nature, that
was plain to be seen, but he too was obdurate. He held one of her slim
hands in a grip that could not be broken, as she had discovered to her
dismay. Mr. Bingle read on, ignorant of the little drama that went on
under his very nose, so to speak, and those of his auditors who were
not nodding their heads in frank drowsiness, were so completely
wrapped up in extraneous thoughts concerning the visit of the
detective that they had eyes for no one except the person who could
explain the mystery.

Mr. Bingle's voice began to quaver much earlier in the story than
usual. He was always moved to tears, but as a rule he was able to
suppress them until along toward the end of the story. But now he was
in distress from the beginning. He choked up completely, in a most
uncalled-for manner and at singularly unexpected places. He managed to
struggle through the first twenty or thirty pages, and then, seeing
for himself that he was nearing the first of the weepy places and
realising that he was sure to burst into tears if he continued, he
deliberately closed the book, keeping his forefinger between the
leaves, and announced in a strained voice that he would skip over to
the final chapter if the audience did not object. He gave no excuse.
It is doubtful, however, if he was gratified by the profound sigh of
relief that went up from the group of listeners.

At last, he came to the end of the story. He had no voice at all for
the concluding paragraphs: a hoarse, grotesque whisper, that was all.
When the servants had departed and the children were scampering off to
bed, thrilled by promises of the morrow, Mr. Single's arm stole about
his wife's shoulders and she was drawn suddenly, even violently close
to his side. He avoided her puzzled, worried gaze and resolutely
addressed himself to Mr. and Mrs. Force and Mr. Flanders. Miss
Fairweather had disappeared.

"That man was a detective," said he, without preamble. "His agency was
employed nearly a year ago to discover the whereabouts of a certain
child, whose father, repenting a wrong perpetrated years ago, desires
to do the right thing by his luckless offspring. After all these
months, this detective has located the little girl. She is in this
house. She is my favourite--and yours, Mary, God help us."

"Kathleen?" whispered Mrs. Bingle dully.

"Kathleen?" repeated Sydney Force, staring blankly at the little man.

"Yes," said Mr. Bingle, and sat down suddenly in a big arm chair,
burying his face in his hands.

No one spoke for many minutes. Flanders had the grace to turn away
from the group. He was an unusual type of newspaper reporter. Here was
something that would make a splendid "story," and yet he was fine
enough to turn his back upon the opportunity that lay open to him.

Mr. Force's hands were gripping the back of a chair so rigidly that
the knuckles were white and gleaming.

"For a year, did you say, Bingle?" he questioned, steadying his voice
with an effort.

"Almost a year," gulped the little man, looking up through streaming
eyes. "Her mother died when Kathie was about a year old. The father
never saw his child. He had deceived the woman. He cast her off and--
married another, I take it, although I am a bit hazy. I was so upset
that I--I scarcely remember what the man said. Now the--the father
wants to find his child. He--he wants to give her a home--Oh, Lordy,
Lordy! I can't bear the thought of it. Sh! Don't cry, Mary. Maybe
he'll let us keep her. He is married. Perhaps he can't afford to
acknowledge her as his child under the circumstances. I--I put it up
to the detective. He actually grinned in my face and said he was quite
positive his client would be as sensible as most men have to be in
similar straits."

"Are you sure that Kathleen is the one he is looking for, Mr. Bingle?"
inquired Mrs. Force. "They sometimes follow false clues, or something
of the sort. I once heard of a detective who--"

"No such luck," groaned Mr. Bingle. "He has Kathie's history from the
day she was born. There--there isn't any chance for a mistake. She is
the one. Our eldest, our loveliest--Oh, Mary!"

Force shot an unmistakable look of alarm at the newspaper man who
stood in the doorway, staring out into the hall.

"Do you know the mother's name, Bingle?" he inquired. His voice
sounded so strange and unnatural that his wife glanced at him sharply.

"Yes. I know her real name. On the records at the hospital she was
known as Mrs. Hinman. But, you see, she wasn't married. Her name was
Glenn."

Sydney Force's face was bloodless.




CHAPTER VIII

THE AFFAIRS OF AMY AND DICK


The affairs of Amy Fairweather and Richard Flanders require
explanation. When two good-looking young people meet as these two met,
and betray such surprising emotion, it goes without saying that at
least one episode in their joint history deserves the undivided
attention of the onlooker, who, in this case, happens to be you, kind
reader. It must be perfectly clear to you that Miss Fairweather and
Mr. Flanders were, at one time in their lives, more than moderately
interested in each other. That part of their story does not require
elucidation. Indeed, only an intelligence of the most extraordinary
denseness would demand the bald, matter-of-fact declaration that they
had been in love with each other. What we are concerned about,
therefore, is an episode of the early spring in the present year of
our story.

It is quite simple, after all. We have only to go back a year to get
to the bottom of the matter. Miss Fairweather and Mr. Flanders were
fellow lodgers in a boarding-house not far removed from Times Square.
She was playing a small part in one of the Broadway theatres and was
known on the programme as Amy Colgate, the customary sop to "family
feelings" causing her to abandon her own name during the neophytic
period of her career. This was a temporary concession, however; she
intended to make the family name famous as soon as she got a "part"
that would give her a real chance. Flanders was on the newspaper, but
his aspirations were quite as lofty as any one's: he was writing a
play. He had already written two novels, both of which remained
unpublished.

At the outset, his play was intended for Miss Barrymore, but after the
second week of his acquaintance with the attractive Miss Colgate his
ambitions proved fickle: he discarded Miss Barrymore and substituted
Miss Colgate for the star part in the piece. Fortunately he had
written but six or eight pages of the first act, so the transfer was
not a deleterious undertaking. He could see no one else in the part;
he could think of no one else as he dreamed of the play's success.
Moreover, Miss Colgate was as pleased as Punch over this flattering
tribute to her magnetism--for the part, as described, was one that
would not "get over" unless created by an actress of pronounced
magnetic appeal--and lost no time in falling deeply in love with the
manly playwright. They were serious-minded, ambitious young people. It
is of small consequence that he was an untried, unskilled dramatist,
and of equally small moment that she was little more than an amateur.
They saw a bright light ahead and trudged steadily toward it, prodding
themselves--and each other--with all the vain-glorious artifices known
to and employed by the young and undefeated. The young man's dramatic
aspirations were somewhat retarded, however, by the fact that he was
so desperately enamoured that he couldn't confine his thoughts to the
play; so the growth of the first act was slow and tortuous. Under
other conditions he would have despaired of ever completing the thing.
As it was, his despair was of an entirely different character and had
to do with the belief that Miss Colgate loved some one else instead of
him.

But even doubt and uncertainty possess virtue in that they often lead
to rashness, sometimes folly. In this case, Mr. Flanders proposed
marriage, albeit he couldn't, for the life of him, see how he was
going to manage on a salary of twenty-five dollars a week. That was
the rashness of it. Miss Colgate attended to the folly. She said she
would marry him if it meant starvation. So there you are.