They fairly shrivelled in their skins as they stood beside the open
grave and saw, through blurred eyes, the last of Uncle Joe. Both of
Mr. Bingle's ears were frozen quite stiff. A much be-furred
undertaker's assistant rubbed snow on them with what seemed to be
unnecessary vigour and told him to have 'em looked after when he got
back to New York. They were ugly things, those ears of his, and Mr.
Bingle was acutely conscious of their size and colour as he sat at his
desk and waited for word to come to "the office." A sudden and almost
insupportable itching of his heels filled him with fresh alarm, and
for one ghastly moment he forgot his ears and his crime. Were his
heels frost-bitten? If so--then, what was to become of him?

"Get your uncle buried all right?" inquired his left-hand neighbour,
suddenly speaking out of the void. Mr. Bingle's reply was a guilty,
bewildered start. The man went on: "What did he die of?"

"Oh," said Mr. Bingle hazily, "most assuredly."

"I said, what ailed him?"

"Why, he was dead," said Mr. Bingle, vaguely surprised by the other's
obtuseness. "That's why we buried him."

"I see," said the questioner, after staring hard for a moment. He
edged a little farther away from Mr. Bingle and shot a swift glance of
apprehension in the direction of the door.

"I couldn't help being late," ventured Mr. Bingle, his first apology
in fifteen years. "My wife is sick, Jenkins--mighty sick. The doctor