"Well then," said Mr. Bingle, slamming his fist upon the dining-table
so violently that the cutlery bounced, "why the dickens does he object
to burying you? If I discovered a relative that had been dead for
fifteen years, I'd see to it that he was buried, if only for the good
of the community."

"He doesn't object to burying me," explained Uncle Joe. "He implies
that he'll do that much for me with pleasure. As a matter of fact, he
said that if I'd arrange to have some one notify him when I was
literally dead, he would see to it that I was buried. But I told him
he needn't bother his head about it, because I was quite sure you
would do it even more cheerfully than he and undoubtedly with less
secrecy."

"Cheerfully?" gasped the Bingles.

"Cheerfully," repeated Uncle Joe firmly. "And now, can't we talk about
something else? I've done my best to make peace with my son and
daughters, and now I wash my hands of 'em. I never intended to weaken
in my resolve, but I--I just couldn't help it, Tom. I swore I'd never
look into their faces again, but, after all, I AM their father, you
see, and I suppose I'm getting weak and childish in my old age. I gave
in, that's all. I thought they might have some little feeling for me,
and--" He did not finish the sentence, and as the Bingles took that
instant to blow their noses and to look so intently at the electric
chandelier that their eyes smarted, it was perhaps just as well that
he ended his ruminations when he did.

All this happened six weeks prior to Christmas Eve, and they were six