Mr. Bingle was late at the bank the morning after their return from
the North. Not in all the years of his connection with the institution
had such a thing happened to him--or to the bank, for that matter. He
made it a point to be punctual. In his opinion, a man was taking
something that did not belong to him when he failed his employer in
the matter of promptness. Working AFTER hours to make up the lost time
was, in his estimation, a rather cowardly form of penance; it was
simply a confession that the delinquent had robbed his master of a
certain number of fresh minutes earlier in the day, and was trying to
restore them at the end of the day, when he was in no condition to
give as good as he had taken.

One could set his watch by Thomas Bingle. All of the clocks, and all
of the watches, and all of the clerks in the bank might be late, but
NEVER Thomas Bingle. He kept absolutely perfect time, year in and year
out. And so, when he came dashing into the bank on this particular
morning nearly forty minutes late, every man in the long counting-room
jerked out his watch and glanced at its face with an expression of
alarm in his eyes, absolutely convinced that he had made the heart-
breaking mistake of getting down to work forty minutes too soon. Such
a thing as Mr. Bingle getting down forty minutes too late was
infinitely more improbable than that all the rest of them should have
reported that much too early.

The tardy one was conscious of the concentrated stare of sixty eyes as
he slid onto the stool in front of his desk and began to fumble with
the pens and blotters. The man at his left elbow said "well, well!"
and the man at his right elbow said "st! st! st!" with his tongue in a
most reproachful manner. They could understand Mr. Bingle's absence