"That you had a scar on your thumb, sir. By the way, HAVE you?"
"I have!" exclaimed the young man. "Well, by George! Will wonders never cease? Where is she? You say she isn't coming down—but, of course, not! She couldn't think of it, knowing that I am here. I say, will you—will you see that she gets a message from me? Wait a second. I'll write it now. Just slip a note to her—Great Scott! What's that?"
The house seemed to be clattering down about his head.
"That, sir," responded Diggs, drawing a deep breath, "is the charge of the light brigade. Hinfants in arms, you might say. There's no stopping them now. 'Ere they come."
And down the wide stairway streamed the shrieking vanguard of the Christmas revellers—seven or eight unrestrained youngsters who had snatched liberty from the nurses the instant Mr. Bingle opened the play-room door at the top of the house. Down the steps they came, regardless of stumbles and tumbles—an avalanche of joy.
Diggs, from the doorway, raked the stairway and its squirming horde with an exploring eye.
"She is coming, sir. Fairly tall and slender, sir, and—"
"Good Lord!" gasped Flanders, helplessly. "This is more than I can stand. Diggs, do—do men ever faint?"
There was no reply. Three sturdy youngsters collided with Diggs. There was nothing he could say—with lucidity.