in the aperture; sharp, piercing eyes under thick grey eyebrows
searched the room in a swift, almost unfriendly glance.

"The infernal brats gone, Tom?" demanded Uncle Joe harshly.

Mr. and Mrs. Bingle stiffened in their chairs. The tall old man came
down to the fireplace, disgustedly kicking a stray, crumpled sheet of
tissue paper out of his path.

"Oh, they are perfect dears, Uncle Joe," protested Mrs. Bingle, trying
her best not to bristle.

"I wish you had come in for a look at 'em--" began Mr. Bingle, but the
old man cut him off with a snort of anger.

"Cussed little nuisances," he said, holding his thin hands to the
blaze.

"I don't see how you can say such things about children you don't know
and can't--" began Mrs. Bingle.

He glared at her. "You can't tell me anything about children, Mary.
I'm the father of three and I know what I'm talking about. Children
are the damnedest curse on earth. You ought to thank God you haven't
got any."




CHAPTER II