"Good heavens!" gasped Mr. Bingle. "Where did you learn such language
as that?"

"It isn't language, daddy," said Kathie. "It's just slang. Everybody
uses it. Don't people give you a pain sometimes?"

"Never!" said he. "I don't believe in slang," he added, as if to
fortify himself against a conviction. "You needn't go, deary. Stay and
see Mr. Force."

"I don't want to see him. I want to see Fairy. Oh, daddy, what are you
going to let her get married for? I know Freddie will commit suicide
if she marries that old Flanders."

"Freddie? What business is it of his?"

"I mustn't tell," she said, suddenly realising that she had been on
the point of betraying a grave secret. An instant later she was off
like the wind, whisking out of one door as Mr. Force entered by the
other.

"Dear me, dear me," sighed Mr. Bingle, staring at his wife helplessly;
"what do you suppose has happened to Frederick? A boy of his age
talking of suicide is--Oh, good morning, Mr. Force. Merry Christmas!
'Pon my word, you're an early bird. Come up to the fire. You look half
frozen. Why, by George, your teeth are chattering. Diggs! Throw on a
couple of logs, will you, and get the whiskey. We keep it for
medicinal purposes and--"