Further investigation showed that he had walked down the six tortuous
flights of stairs instead of ringing for the elevator, and that he was
clad in Mr. Bingle's best overcoat, an ulster of five winters, to say
nothing of his arctics, gloves and muffler.

No one, not even Mr. Bingle, could deny that it was a very shabby
thing to do on a Christmas morning, and for once the gentle bookkeeper
lost faith in his fellow-man. In all probability he would have excused
Uncle Joe's early morning stroll in garments that did not belong to
him had it not been for the fact that the old gentleman also took away
with him all of his own scanty belongings neatly wrapped in the
morning newspaper, an almost priceless breakfast possession from Mr.
Bingle's way of looking at it.

At first Mrs. Bingle insisted on having the police notified. It was so
evident that Uncle Joe had departed without even contemplating an
early return that she couldn't see why her husband shouldn't at least
recover what belonged to him before the old ingrate could get to a
pawn-shop, notwithstanding the family shame that would attend an
actual arrest.

"He is an old scamp, Tom, and I don't see why you should put up with
the scurvy trick he has played on you," she protested, almost in
tears. "After all we've done for him, it really seems--"

"I swear to goodness, Mary, I believe I'd do it if--if it wasn't
Christmas," groaned Mr. Bingle, who sat dejectedly over the fire, his
hands jammed deep into his pockets, his chin on his breast. "But
really, my dear, I--I can't--I just can't set the police after him on
Christmas Day. Besides, he may come back of his own accord."