"We'll see what turns up," said he, somewhat defiantly, "I don't
believe in condemning a man unheard. I have a feeling that he--"

"What do you expect to wear when you go down to the bank in the
morning?" she demanded, still eyeing him severely. "Your spring
overcoat? People will think you're crazy. It's below zero."

"Oh, I'll get along all right," said he stoutly. "Don't you worry
about me, Mary. By hokey, I wish he'd come back this afternoon, just
to prove to you that it isn't safe to form an opinion without--"

"There you go, Tom Bingle, wishing as you always do that somebody
would do something good just to show me that no one ever does anything
bad. You dear old goose! Only the meanest man in the world could have
the heart to rob you. That's what Uncle Joe is, my dear--the meanest
man in the world."

Mr. Bingle sighed. He was in no position to argue the point. Uncle Joe
had not left him very much to stand upon in the shape of a theory.
There was nothing to do but to concede her the sigh of admission.

"It's possible," he said hopefully, "that the poor old man is--is out
of his head. Let us hope so, at any rate." And with this somewhat
doubtful sop to the family honour, he lapsed into the silence of one
who realizes that he has uttered a foolish remark and shrinks from the
consequences.

Mrs. Bingle said "Humph," and no more, but there is no word in any
vocabulary that represents as much in the way of sustained argument as