for three whole days, having got wind of a death in the family, but,
for the life of them, they couldn't see what he meant by spoiling a
perfectly clean record for punctuality when he might have remained
away for the entire day, just as well as not, instead of upsetting a
hallowed tradition in the bank by coming in forty minutes late.

Moreover, Mr. Bingle was confident that all of the high officials in
the bank, from the president down to the seventh assistant cashier,
had noticed his tremendous shortcoming, and that they were even now
whispering among themselves that he ought to be discharged forthwith.
He could feel people glaring at him from behind; he could feel the
president's eyes, and the four vice-presidents' eyes, and the chairman
of the board's eyes and all of the directors' eyes boring holes
through the partitions to fix their accusing gaze upon him as he bent
nervously over the huge ledger and tried to shrink into invisibility.
He had committed a heinous, inexcusable, unpardonable offence. He
would have to pay the penalty. After all these years of faithful
service, he would be kicked out in disgrace; some one else would be
sitting in his place after luncheon and some one else would be hanging
his coat and hat in the locker he had used for fifteen years without--
His eyes grew misty as he bent a little closer to the page and tried
to focus his thoughts on what was actually before him.

What difference would it make to these heartless plutocrats and
overlords when he told them that his wife was ill and that he could
not leave his home until the doctor had come to reassure him? What did
they know about connubial happiness and connubial obligations? They
would stare at him coldly--or perhaps laugh in his face--and say that
the fate of a great banking institution could not be put in jeopardy
just because Mrs. Bingle happened to be critically ill. Mr. Bingle,