"Go out into the kitchen, Mr. Diggs," commanded Melissa sharply. "God gave you a tongue, but he didn't give you anything to hold it with."
"Quite so, quite so," agreed the flustered Mr. Diggs, edging toward the kitchen whence through the open door came sounds of rattling pans and the penetrating but comforting scent of stewed chicken.
"It is good of you and Watson to come down this evening, Diggs," said Mr. Bingle, speaking with difficulty. "This must be the busiest night of the year for you. How could you afford to get away?"
"Well, sir," said Diggs, after looking to Melissa for approval or inspiration, "we decided as how Christmas comes but once a year, and as the boys in the shop can manage very nicely without us for a couple of hours, we says to ourselves we would come down and 'ear the 'Christmas Carol' if you don't mind, sir, for old times' sake. Miss Stokes—I mean to say, Mrs. Watson, will be along presently, sir. She stopped for a spell, to relieve the cashier while she went to supper. And—"
"That's enough, Mr. Diggs," interrupted Melissa. "You'll spoil it if you go on."
"Oh, I say, Melissa—"
"Out to the kitchen with you, and get out of that fur coat. You are perspiring like everything."
Mr. Bingle called Diggs back just as he was on the point of disappearing through the door.
"By the way, Diggs," he said, smiling broadly, "have you heard the news?"
"The news, sir? Is—is Mrs. Bingle—"