The proverbial church-mouse was no worse off than Mr. Bingle at the end of the fifth month of his reduction. Indeed, it is more than probable that the church-mouse would be conceded a distinct advantage in many particulars. A very small nest will accommodate a very large family of growing mice; the tighter they are packed in the nest the better off they are in zero weather. Moreover, in a pinch, the parental church-mouse may stave off famine by resorting to a cannibalistic plan of economy, thereby saving its young the trouble of growing up to become proverbial church-mice. It may devour its young when it becomes painfully hungry, and not be held accountable to the law. With commendable frugality, the church-mouse first eats off the tail of its offspring. Then, if luck continues to be bad, the remainder may be despatched with due and honest respect for the laws of nature.

Now, with Mr. Bingle, it was quite out of the question for him to devour even so small a morsel as Napoleon without getting into serious trouble with the law, and it was equally impossible to obtain the same degree of comfort for his young by packing them into a four room flat. And then the church-mouse doesn't have to think about shoes and stockings and mittens and ear-muffs, to say nothing of frocks and knickerbockers. So he who speaks of another as being "as poor as a church-mouse" does a grave injustice to a really prosperous creature, despite the fact that it lives in a church and is employed in the rather dubious occupation of supporting a figure of speech. Look carefully into the present law of economics, if you please, and then grant the church-mouse the benefit of the doubt.

Mr. Bingle's flat could be found by traversing a very mean street in the lower east side not far removed from the Third Avenue Elevated tracks. Discovery required the mounting of four flights of stairs by foot, and two turns to the right in following the course of the narrow, dark hallway which led in a round-about sort of way to a fire escape that invited a quicker and less painful death than destruction by flames in case one had to choose between the two means of perishing.

Four rooms and a kitchen was all that Mr. Bingle's flat amounted to. The four rooms contained beds; in the kitchen there was a collapsible cot. In one of the rooms (ordinarily it would have been the parlour), there was a somewhat futile sheet-iron stove in which soft coal or wood could be used provided the wind was in the right direction. This was, in fact, the parlour. The bed, by day, assumed the dignity of a broad but saggy lounge, exceedingly comfortable if one was careful to sit far enough forward to avoid slipping into its cavernous depths from which there was no escape without assistance. Besides being the parlour, it was also the library, the study-room, the dining-room and reception hall. By night, it was the bed-chamber of Mr. Bingle.

At the beginning of the cold snap that arrived quite early in December, it also became the sleeping place of Rutherford, Rosemary and Harold, the tiniest of the children, who piled in with the uncomplaining occupant and kept him awake three-fourths of the night trying to determine whose legs were uncovered and whose were not. With six exceedingly active little legs wriggling in as many different directions in pitch darkness, it was no easy matter, you may be sure, to decide whether any two belonged to the same individual, and when it came to pass that three of them were exposed at the same time the puzzle was indeed a difficult one.

Napoleon's crib also made its way into the parlour when the cold weather came; and while Napoleon's legs stayed under cover pretty well his voice, like Chanticleer's, arose before the sun. Frederick, Wilberforce and Reginald slept in one room, Marie Louise, Henrietta and Guinevere in another. In pleasant weather, Rosemary joined her sisters, while Harold and Rutherford fell in with the other boys. There never was a time, however, when Mr. Bingle did not have a bed-fellow in the shape of one or the other of the two small boys.

The fourth room was occupied by the maid-of-all-work, and as it was primarily intended to be the servant's bedroom it is not necessary to state that there was space for but one full grown person inside its four walls. The collapsible cot in the kitchen represented the foundation of an emergency guest chamber. Up to the present it had not been called into use, but it was always there in readiness for the expected and unexpected.

It will be observed that no account is taken of Mrs. Bingle. The explanation is quite simple. She went to live with her mother and sister at Peekskill on the advice of Dr. Fiddler almost immediately after the Supreme Court's opinion was handed down. Later on, she came down to the city with her mother, who now received a small but sufficient income through the death and will of a fairly well-to-do bachelor brother. The old lady took a house in the Bronx and once a week Mr. Bingle journeyed northward by subway and surface lines to visit his wife. A smart little doctor from Dr. Fiddler's staff made occasional visits to the Bronx and looked the part of a wiseacre when Mr. Bingle appealed to him for encouragement. He smiled knowingly and refused to commit himself beyond a more or less reassuring squint, a pursing of the lips, and the usual statement that if nothing happened she would be as fit as ever in the course of time.

The cot in the kitchen was for Mr. Bingle in case Mrs. Bingle decided to come back to him in health as well as in person. He consoled himself with the daily hope that she would come dashing in upon him, as well as ever and in perfect sympathy with his decision to protect the helpless children they had gathered about them in their years of affluence.

He had stood out resolutely against all contention that the children should be cast upon the world once more. Harsh words were used at times by interested friends in their efforts to bring him to his senses. They urged him to let them find homes or asylums for the rapacious youngsters; they described them as so many Sindbads; they spoke of them as millstones about the neck of a man who could never get his head above water unless he cut loose from them; they argued long and insistently about his mistaken ideas of justice, responsibility, affection. He came back at them always with the patient declaration that he would stand by the bargain made by himself and his wife so long as God saw fit to give him the strength to earn a living for their charges.

"Why, confound you, Bingle," said Mr. Force to him one day at the bank, "one would think that you still regard yourself as a millionaire, the way you hang onto those kids. Cut them adrift, old fellow. Or if you won't do that, at least let some of us help you in a pecuniary way. Don't be so infernally proud and self-satisfied. It wouldn't be charity. It would be justice. Now, see here, I've argued this thing with you for three months or more and I'm getting tired of your everlasting serenity. I know you are hard put to find enough money to clothe and feed these kids, besides buying what your wife may need. You are beginning to look shabby and you certainly are thinner and greyer. What you ought to do, Bingle, is to turn those kids over to a Home of some sort and settle down to a normal way of living. Winter is coming on. You will have a devil of a time providing for ten small children and a sick wife on the salary you are getting here. Now, for heaven's sake, old fellow, take my advice. Get rid of 'em. You owe it to your wife, Bingle. She ought—"

"I owe it to my wife to take care of them alone, now that she is unable to do her part," said Mr. Bingle simply. "We took them as partners, so to speak. She is unable to manage her share of the liability. Well, I'll do her part for her, Mr. Force, so long as I'm able. The time may come when I shall have to appeal for help, or give up the struggle altogether, but it isn't here yet. I can manage for a while, thank you. Besides," and his face brightened, "we may have a very mild winter, and the new tariff is just as likely as not to reduce the cost of living, no matter what you croakers say to the contrary. I've talked it over with Mrs. Bingle. She says she can't come home until she is very much better, and I'll admit that the children would be a dreadful strain upon her nerves at present. But she says I'm to do just as I think best in regard to them. She thinks I'm foolish—in fact, she says so—but I think I understand her better than any one else. Down in her heart she knows I'm doing the right thing. We'll wait, like old Micawber, for something to turn up. If it doesn't turn up in a reasonable length of time, then I'll consider what is best to do with the children."

"Are you considering your own health, Bingle?" demanded Force bluntly.

"No," said Mr. Bingle simply. "I've lived a decent, sensible life, so what's the use worrying over something that can't be helped?" His smile was cheerful, the twinkle in his eyes was as bright as though it had never known a dim moment.

"You should accept the standing offer of the Hooper heirs," said Force. "They are disposed to be fair and square, Bingle. Three thousand a year isn't to be sneezed at."

"The Hooper heirs are sneezing at it, so why shouldn't I?" said Mr. Bingle cheerily.

"I suppose you'll read that ridiculous Christmas Carol on Christmas Eve," said Force sarcastically.

"Certainly," said Mr. Bingle. "That reminds me; I wish you'd let Kathleen come down to see us on Christmas Eve. I think she'd enjoy the reading."

"I'll do it, Bingle," said Force after a moment. "Since she has been allowed to go down to see you and those kids of yours, her whole view of life has changed. You were right, old fellow. I believe she likes me better as time goes on. At any rate, she is quite gay and happy, and she doesn't look at me with scared eyes any longer. She kissed me as if she really meant it the other day when I told her she could have Freddy up to tea. I'd like to suggest, however, that you see to it that the flat is thoroughly aired and all the germs blown out before she comes down again to—"

"You needn't worry, Mr. Force," said Bingle without a sign of resentment in his manner. "We can't help airing the flat. Our greatest problem is to keep from airing it. There isn't a minute of the day that it isn't being aired."

Besides Mr. Force, who was a friend by circumstance and not from choice, Bingle possessed two loyal and devoted friends in Diggs and Watson, proprietors of the Covent Garden Consolidated Fruit Company of Columbus Avenue, Manhattan. They would have supplied him with vegetables and cured meats without charge if the thing could have been accomplished without his knowledge. They came often to see him, Watson bringing his wife, the former Miss Stokes, and many a night was made cheerful for the little man by these good sprites from another world.

Mr. Diggs resignedly awaited the day when Mr. Bingle's maid-of-all-work could see her way clear to become Mrs. Diggs, and the equal of Mrs. Watson, if not her superior by virtue of the position of her husband's name on the firm's business cards. But if Diggs was devotedly loyal to Melissa, Melissa was equally loyal to Mr. Bingle. Fifteen years of kindness had not been wasted on this extraordinary servant. She was as true as she was unique in this age of abominations.

The older children went to a public school not far away, and Melissa looked after the young ones through the long, slow days, relieved only from her self-imposed duties when Mr. Bingle came home from the bank. Neither Melissa nor Mr. Bingle had had a full day off in all these months, and neither complained. When Sunday came, he always urged her to spend it with friends, leaving him to attend to the midday meal and dinner, but she firmly, even arrogantly, refused to permit any one to meddle with her kitchen. She forced him to go to the Bronx every Sunday afternoon, whether he would or no, and demanded a staggering decrease in wages.

"Why, Mr. Bingle," she said, "you can't expect me to work for the same pay I was getting out at Seawood. Don't be silly, sir; wasn't I getting more out there than the butler got? And didn't I save nearly every cent of it for eight years and more? I was getting twenty-five dollars a week out there, wasn't I? And Mr. Diggs was getting only a hundred dollars a month, wasn't he? Well, how much could you afford to pay a butler now if you had one, sir? Two dollars a week at the outside, find himself. Well, I still feel I'm worth more to you than any butler you could get, so I'll have to insist on three dollars a week when convenient. I put away about eight thousand dollars while I was working for you at Seawood. It's in the savings banks now, every nickel of it, drawing three and a half and four per cent., or about twenty-five dollars a month, sir. Twelve and twenty-five makes thirty-seven a month, don't it? That's more than most girls are getting, and it's certainly more than any of 'em is worth, judging from what I've seen. So if you'll just consider that I'm getting thirty-seven a month out of you, Mr. Bingle, we won't argue any longer."

"But, my dear Melissa, we must consider poor Diggs. It isn't fair to keep him waiting. I fear I shall have to discharge you. It seems to be the only way to make you and Diggs happy. I shall discharge you without a recommendation, too. We can't have Diggs dying of old age while we are discussing what is to become of him. It is your duty to marry Diggs at once. You must remember that I do not want you in my employ. You must not forget that I told you so six months ago and that I even tried to lock you out. Now, you certainly do not care to work for a man who despises you, who doesn't want you around, who is doing his level best to get rid of you, who—"

"Oh, shucks, Mr. Bingle!" cried Melissa, with her comely grin. "Sit down and have your breakfast now. Don't worry about Mr. Diggs. He is having the time of his life courting me. At least, he acts as if he is. It won't hurt him to be engaged for a couple of years."

"But see how happy Watson is."

"I see all right," she said shrewdly; "and it won't hurt Mr. Diggs to see how happy he is, either."

"You are the most selfish girl I've ever known, Melissa," said he quaintly. "You won't let anybody else have a thing to say about it, will you?"

"No, sir," said Melissa. "I'm a perfect brute."

Mr. Epps was a regular visitor. He came once a month and never later than the first. The rent was twenty-two dollars a month. Mr. Epps was always expecting that it wouldn't be paid. He never failed to make a point of telling Mr. Bingle that he was what you might call a soft-hearted lummix and for that reason it always went hard with him to evict a tenant for not paying his rent on the minute. He talked a great deal about the people he had chucked out into the street and how unhappy the life of a renting agent could be at times. Once he gave Mr. Bingle a cigar.

"Sure I'm not robbing you?" said Mr. Bingle.

"No," said Mr. Epps. "I don't smoke."

There was one Broadway theatre in which it was impossible to obtain seats unless they were applied for weeks in advance. The leading lady in the company playing there was not so important a personage that she could deny herself the pleasant sensation of being a real woman, and the author of the play was not so high and mighty that one had to use a ten-foot pole in touching him.

Mr. and Mrs. Richard Sheridan Flanders paid frequent visits to the home of Mr. Bingle. The beautiful and popular Miss Colgate, the sensation of the early season and a certain candidate for stellar honours, never came to see the young Bingles without betraying a spirit of generosity which sometimes caused Mr. Bingle to sit up half the night treating stomach-aches of all ages and degrees. She brought candy and cakes and fruit for the children, and flowers for Mr. Bingle. She would have come laden with more substantial and less pernicious presents but for the gentle objections of her old friend and benefactor. In the face of his kindly protests, she abandoned certain well-meant, even cherished ideas, and was often sore at heart.

Dick Flanders had found a producer after all. His hopes, considerably dashed by the Supreme Court of the United States of America, were at a low ebb when a practically unknown manager from the Far West concluded that there was more to his play than the wise men of the East were able to discern at a glance. With more sense than intelligence, the Westerner leaped into the heart of New York with a new play by a new author and scored a success from the opening night. Amy Colgate, an unknown actress, became famous in a night, so to speak. After the holidays, there would be a company playing the piece in Chicago, and another doing the "big stands" throughout the length and breadth of the land. So much for Mr. Flanders' play and Miss Amy Colgate.

Mr. Bingle never ceased congratulating himself and his two successful friends on the fact that he had not invested a cent of the Hooper fortune in the production. For, said he, if he had put a penny into it, the Hooper heirs would now be dividing the profits with Flanders.

"Luck was with us for once, Dick," he was prone to repeat. "A week later and we would have been desperately involved. I would have put up the initial ten thousand dollars for the production and you would have been saddled with Geoffrey and his sisters, perhaps for life—and I can't imagine anything more unnecessary than that. Yes, sir, the smash came just in the nick o' time. What at first appeared to you to be a calamity turned out to be a God-send, my boy. The Supreme Court behaved handsomely by you."

This always brought out a vigorous protest from Mr. and Mrs. Flanders. They stoutly maintained that Mr. Bingle was an original partner in the enterprise, and, when it came right down to tacks, had put quite as much capital into the business as either of them. They contended that he should have a share in the royalties, if not in the profits.

"As a matter of fact, Mr. Bingle, you made so many valuable suggestions in respect to the play—dialogues, construction and so forth—that you really ought to take some of the consequences," said Flanders. "It isn't fair to put all the blame upon me. For instance, who was responsible for cutting out that scene in the second act?"

"Mrs. Bingle," said the other promptly. "She thought it was too suggestive."

"Well, it certainly was you, sir, who advised me to make more of the scene between Deborah and the old gentleman in the last act. As you know, it is now the great scene in the play. You will not pretend to deny—"

"Advice is one thing, Dick, and following it is quite another. No, you can't make me believe that I did anything toward writing that play. A man who didn't know the difference between a cue line and a back drop can't very well be indicted for complicity. To tell you the truth, Mrs. Flanders, I don't know to this day what those initials, 'L. U. E.' stand for, and a lot of other initials as well. Pride kept me from inquiring. I didn't want to expose my ignorance about a thing that you and Dick talked about so glibly. What does 'L. U. E.' mean?"

"'Left Upper Entrance,' Mr. Bingle," said she with a laugh.

"Well, I'm glad the mystery is revealed at last. I've laid awake nights trying to conjure up words to fit those letters. 'R. U. E.' means 'right,' I suppose. Dear me, how simple it seems, after all."

"Now, see here, Mr. Bingle," Flanders would say, "you went into partnership with me last winter, that's the long and short of it. It wasn't your fault that you couldn't put up the money according to our agreement, but I want to say to you that if it hadn't been for your encouragement and advice I never would have finished the play and I certainly could not have scraped up the courage to get married when I did. Amy and I have always looked upon you as a partner in our success. Now, I'll tell you precisely what we've decided upon as a fair division of the royalties that I am receiving. You are to take the author's royalty from the number three company—the one that is to play the 'road' for this season and next. It is to be a three cornered arrangement. Amy helped to develop the play, so she is to have the royalty from the Chicago company, while I shall receive all that comes out of the New York run. This arrangement will hold good for two seasons. After that, we'll make a new arrangement, taking in the stock rights, moving pictures and—"

But Mr. Bingle would listen to no more. Always when Flanders got just so far in his well-meant, earnest propositions, the object of his concern would stop him in such a gentle, dignified manner that the young playwright would flush with the consciousness that he had given offence to an honest soul.

Mr. Bingle defeated every enterprise on the part of his few friends that had the appearance of charity. He accepted their good intentions, he delighted in their thoughtfulness and esteem, but he never permitted them to go beyond a certain well-defined line. The argument that he had been generous, even philanthropic, in his days of prosperity was invariably met by the quaint contention that while the Good Book teaches charity, the dictionary makes a point of defining it, and "you can't spell charity, my friend, with the letters that are allotted to generosity. So don't quote the Bible to me."

He put a stop to the cunning schemes of Diggs and Watson, who, with Melissa's connivance, began a regular and systematic attempt to smuggle bacon, eggs, butter and potatoes into the kitchen. This project of theirs at first comprehended vegetables of every description and fruits as well, but the sagacious house-maid vetoed anything so wholesale as all that. She agreed that the accidental delivery of a side of bacon, or a mistake in the counting of a dozen eggs, or the overweighing and undercharging of a pound of butter, or the perfectly natural error of sending a peck and a half of potatoes when only a peck was ordered, might escape the keen observation of Mr. Bingle, but that anything more noticeable would cause the good gentleman to take his trade elsewhere. As she said to the distressed Diggs one evening, after carefully observing that the kitchen door was closed: "When I order a half ton of coal from you for the parlour stove, there's no sense in you weighing it out by ounces. Guess at it, and then after you've guessed as near right as you know how, double the amount. Mr. Bingle isn't going to weigh the coal, you know. And when it comes to rice and hominy and cooking apples and all such things, just let your imagination do the measuring. If a pound of coffee happens to look like a pound and a half to you, don't forget the extra cups you used to have every afternoon at Seawood. And if I should happen to send for the cheapest tea you've got in stock, don't overlook the fact that there is an expensive kind. Once in a while you might make ME a present of a couple of dozen oranges, some bananas and nuts, and you might sometimes ask Mr. Bingle to sample a new brand of smoking tobacco you're thinking of carrying."

"But we sha'n't carry tobaccos," said Mr. Diggs, who aside from being a good soul was also British.

"All the more reason why you should be THINKING of carrying 'em, isn't it, you stupid?"

Mr. Bingle saw the opening performance of the Flanders play and went behind the scenes afterward. He did this, he explained, so that he could describe his sensations to Mrs. Bingle. He was introduced to all of the players and they were so uniformly polite that he fell into a fine fury the next morning on reading the newspaper review in which they were described as "unintentionally adequate."

He knew as well as every one else that it would be impossible for him to keep the children on the salary he was receiving at the bank. He knew that the day was not far off when he would have to give them up. His fellow bookkeepers harangued him from morning till night. They made themselves obnoxious with their everlasting talk about being unable to support families one-fourth the size of his; and one or two slyly inquired whether he hadn't "salted away" a part of the Hooper money for a perpetual spell of rainy weather. In justice to the children themselves it would be necessary for him, before long, to set about finding suitable, respectable homes for them. It was this unhappy sense of realisation that put the new furrows in his brow and took the colour out of his cheek, the lustre from his eyes.

One day he was approached by Rouquin, volatile and cheery as in the days of old. The sprightly Frenchman was beaming with friendliness and good spirits. He conveyed a startling bit of personal news to Mr. Bingle without the slighest trace of shame or embarrassment.

"Well, Mr. Bingle, I have married her," he said shrugging his shoulders in a manner that might have signified either extreme satisfaction with himself or lamentation over the inevitable. "The day before yesterday. I am now a proud and happy father, old friend."

"Father?" murmured Mr. Bingle, bewildered. "You—mean bridegroom, Rouquin."

"So I do," cried Rouquin amiably. "But you forget Napoleon—little Napoleon," he went on gaily.

"You have married Napoleon's mother?"

"Le diable! But who else, M'sieur? The charming, adorable Mademoiselle Vallemont. Ah, my good friend, I am so happy. I am—"

"Vallemont? But Madame Rousseau—you seem to forget that she is the mother of Napoleon. You—"

"Nevertheless," said Rouquin, with a gay sweep of his hand before laying it tenderly upon his heart, "I have married the mother of Napoleon. Alas, my good friend, Madame Rousseau is no more. She died when she was but one day old. And her excellent husband, the splendid Jean, he also is a thing of the past. Now there is no one left but Madame Rouquin and me and that adorable Napoleon. Vive l'Emperor! Come, M'sieur, congratulate me. See! This cablegram provides Napoleon with a father. But for what this little bit of paper says, the poor enfant might have gone fatherless to his grave. See! It says here that my wife has died. Read for yourself, M'sieur. It is in French, but what matter? I shall translate. 'Raoul Rouquin: Blanche died to-day. Good luck.' See, it is signed 'Pierre.' Pierre he is my brother. He lives in Paris. Ah, so long have I waited! You may never know my despair—never, M'sieur. But my wife she has died, so all is well. The day before yesterday I was married. I take—"

"For heaven's sake, Rouquin," gasped Mr. Bingle; "not so fast! I don't know what you are talking about."

"Ah, it is so simple," sighed Rouquin, looking upon Mr. Bingle with pity in his eyes. "Can you not see? So long as my wife was alive I could not be married. Is that not plain to you? Then she dies. Quick! Instantly I am married. Voila! It is so simple."

Mr. Bingle comprehended at last. "I see. You have had a wife in Paris all these years, eh?"

"Mon Dieu! Yes, all these years," groaned Rouquin, rolling his eyes. "See! See what my brother Pierre says: 'Blanche died to-day. Good luck.' Good luck! Mon Dieu, M'sieur, is it possible that you do not know what 'good luck' means?"

"And you have married Madame Rous—or whatever her name is?"

"So quick as that!" cried Rouquin, snapping his fingers. "And now, M'sieur, when may I come to take little Napoleon home to his mother?"

Thus it came about that Napoleon was the first to go. Amid great pomp and ceremony, he departed from the home of the many Bingles on a bright, clear day in December, shortly after banking hours, attended by his own mother and father.