long, trying weeks for the two Bingles. The old man was sick two-
thirds of the time and had to have a physician. He insisted on having
the now famous Dr. Fiddler, one of the most expensive practitioners in
New York, obstinately refusing to listen to reason. Fiddler had been
the Hooper family physician years ago and that was all there was to be
said. He WOULD have him. So poor Tom Bingle sent for the great man,
who came and prescribed for his old friend and client. After a week
the Bingles began to count the number of visits, and grew lean and
gaunt-faced over the prospect ahead of them. Fiddler's fee was ten
dollars a visit--to a friend, he explained, in accounting for the
ridiculously low figure--and he came twice a day for nearly two weeks.
The Bingles did not complain. As Mr. Bingle said, they took their
medicine, even as Uncle Joe took his--only he thrived on it and they
withered. Dr. Fiddler was very nice about it, however. He assured Mr.
Bingle that he was in no hurry for his money. Any time before the
first of February would be perfectly satisfactory. He was only too
glad to have been instrumental in dragging his old friend, Joseph
Hooper from the very edge of the grave.

"And if he has a recurrence of the--" he began suavely.

"There's no danger of THAT, is there, Doctor? cried Mr. Bingle,
gripping his fingers tightly in his coat pockets.

"Don't hesitate a moment, Mr. Bingle. Send for me. You may depend upon
it, I will come on the instant. I think your poor uncle has been very
badly--er--treated, Mr. Bingle."

"Do you attend the families of his son and daughters--I mean to say,
as their regular--"