"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