ADVENTURES OF BINDLE

WHAT THIS BOOK IS ABOUT

This Bindle Book deals with the further adventures of Joseph Bindle,
furniture remover. One of the criticisms levelled at "The Night Club"
was that there was not enough of Bindle in it. In the new volume
Bindle is there all the time.

The story is told of how he helped Mr. Hearty to advertise his new
shop; how Lady Knob-Kerrick's drawing-room was, without her knowledge,
turned into billets for soldiers; how Mrs. Bindle decided to take a
lodger and what came of it; how Bindle became a porter at the Fulham
Square Mansions and let the same flat to two people, and the
complications that ensued; how he discouraged the Rev. Andrew MacFie's
attentions to his niece, Millie Hearty.

In this volume reappear practically all those in the previous volume,
including the gloomy Ginger, Wilkes, Huggles, Lady Knob-Kerrick, Dick
Little, "Guggers," Mr. and Mrs. Hearty, "Millikins," together with a
number of new characters.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

THE BINDLES ON THE ROCKS

BINDLE

THE NIGHT CLUB

JOHN DENE OF TORONTO

MALCOLM SAGE, DETECTIVE

MRS. BINDLE

PATRICIA BRENT, SPINSTER

THE RETURN OF ALFRED

THE RAIN GIRL

THE STIFFSONS

and other stories

ADVENTURES OF BINDLE

by

HERBERT JENKINS

HERBERT JENKINS LIMITED

3 DUKE OF YORK STREET, ST. JAMES'S

LONDON, S.W.I

Twelfth printing, completing 167,461 copies

MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY PURNELL AND SONS LTD.,

PAULTON (SOMERSET) AND LONDON

[Pg v]

TO

THE CHILDREN OF THE DEAD END

[Pg vi]

[Pg vii]

CONTENTS

[Pg viii]

All the characters in this book are entirely imaginary and have
no relation whatsoever to any living persons.

[Pg 9]

ADVENTURES OF BINDLE

CHAPTER I

THE COMING OF THE LODGER

Bang! Even Bindle was startled by the emphasis with
which Mrs. Bindle placed upon the supper-table a large
pie-dish containing a savoury-smelling stew.

"Anythink wrong?" he enquired solicitously, gazing at Mrs.
Bindle over the top of the evening paper.

"Wrong!" she cried. "Is there anything right?"

"Well, there's beer, an' Beatty, an' the boys wot's fightin',"
began Bindle suggestively.

"Don't talk to me!" Mrs. Bindle banged a plate of stew in
front of Bindle, to which he applied himself earnestly.

For some minutes the only sound was that occasioned by
Bindle's enjoyment of his supper, as he proceeded to read the
newspaper propped up in front of him.

"You're nice company, aren't you?" cried Mrs. Bindle, making
a dive with the spoon at a potato, which she transferred to her
plate. "I might be on a desert island for all the company you
are."

Bindle gazed at Mrs. Bindle over the small bone from which
he was detaching the last vestiges of nutriment by means of his
teeth. He replaced the bone on the edge of his plate in silence.

"You think of nothing but your stomach," Mrs. Bindle continued
angrily. "Look at you now!"

"Well, now, ain't you funny!" remarked Bindle, as he replaced
his glass upon the table. "If I'm chatty, you say, ''Old your
tongue!' If I ain't chatty, you ask why I ain't a-makin' love
to you."

After a moment's silence he continued meditatively: "I kept
rabbits, silkworms, an' a special kind o' performin' flea, an' I
seemed to get to understand 'em all; but women—well, you may
search me!" and he pushed his plate from him as a sign of
repletion.

Mrs. Bindle rose from the table. Bindle watched her curiously;
it was never wise to enquire what course was to follow.[Pg 10]

"I answered an advertisement to-day," she announced, as she
banged an apple-pie on the table.

With difficulty Bindle withdrew his interest from the pie to
Mrs. Bindle's statement.

"You don't say so," he remarked pleasantly.

"And about time, I should think, with food going up as it is,"
she continued, as she hacked out a large V-shaped piece of
pie-crust which she transferred to a plate, and proceeded to dab
apple beside it.

Bindle regarded her uncomprehendingly.

"In The Gospel Sentinel." She vouchsafed the information
grudgingly and, rising, she fetched a paper from the dresser and
threw it down in front of Bindle, indicating a particular part of
the page with a vicious stab of her fore-finger.

Bindle picked up the paper. The spot indicated was the
column headed "Wanted." He read:

Bindle looked up from the paper at Mrs. Bindle.

"Well?" she challenged.

He turned once more to the paper and re-read the advertisement
with great deliberation, forgetful of his fast-cooling plate.

"Well," remarked Bindle judicially, "this is a Christian 'ome
right enough, plenty of soap an' water, with an 'ymn or two
thrown in so as you won't notice the smell. Cookin's good likewise,
an' as for 'ome-comforts, if we ain't got 'em, who 'as?
There's sweepin' an' scrubbin' an' mats everywhere, mustn't
smoke in the parlour unless you 'appen to be the chimney, and
of course there's you, the biggest 'ome-comfort of all. Yes! Mrs.
B.," he concluded, shaking his head with gloomy conviction,
"we got enough 'ome comforts to start a colony, I'm always
trippin' over 'em."

"Eat your pie," snapped Mrs. Bindle, "perhaps it'll stop your
mouth."

Bindle applied himself to the apple-pie with obvious relish,
glancing from time to time at The Gospel Sentinel.

"Well?" demanded Mrs. Bindle once more.

"I was jest wonderin'," said Bindle.

"What about?"[Pg 11]

"I was jest wonderin'," continued Bindle, "why we want a
lodger, us like two love-birds a-singin' an' a-cooin' all day long."

"What about the housekeeping?" demanded Mrs. Bindle
aggressively.

"The 'ousekeepin'?" enquired Bindle innocently.

"Yes, the housekeeping," repeated Mrs. Bindle with rising
wrath, as if Bindle were directly responsible, "the housekeeping,
I said, and food going up like—like——"

"'Ell," suggested Bindle helpfully.

"How am I to make both ends meet?" she demanded.

"I suppose they must meet?" he enquired tentatively.

"Don't be a fool, Bindle!" was the response.

"I ain't goin' to be a fool with that there lodger 'angin' about,"
retorted Bindle. "If 'e starts a-playin' about wi' my 'Ome Comfort,
'e'll find 'is jaw closed for alterations. I'm a desperate
feller where my 'eart's concerned. There was poor 'ole 'Orace
only the other day. Jest back from the front 'e was."

Bindle paused and shook his head mournfully.

"Horace who?" demanded Mrs. Bindle.

"'Orace Gaze," replied Bindle. "Nice cove too, 'e is.

"''Ullo! 'Orace,' I calls out, when I see 'im jest a-comin'
from the station with all 'is kit.

"'Cheerio,' says 'e.

"'The missis'll be glad to see you,' I says.

"'She don't know I'm 'ere yet,' 'e says.

"'Didn't you send 'er a telegram?' I asks.

"'Telegram!' says 'e, 'not 'arf.'

"'Why not?'

"'Lord! ain't you a mug, Joe!' says 'e; 'you don't catch me
a-trustin' women, I got my own way, I 'ave,' says 'e, mysterious
like.

"'What is it?' I asks 'im.

"'Well, I goes 'ome,' says 'e, ''er thinkin' me at the front,
rattles my key in the front door, then I nips round to the back,
an' catches the blighter every time!'"

"I won't listen to your disgusting stories," said Mrs. Bindle
angrily.

"Disgustin'?" said Bindle incredulously.

"You've a lewd mind, Bindle."

"Well, well!" remarked Bindle, "it's somethink to 'ave a mind
at all, it's about the only thing they don't tax as war profits."

"You'll have to be careful when the lodger comes." There was
a note of grim warning in Mrs. Bindle's voice.[Pg 12]

"Lodgers ain't to be trusted," said Bindle oracularly. "If you
expects 'em to pinch your money-box, orf they goes with your
missis; an' if you're 'opin' it'll be your missis, blowed if they
don't pouch the canary. No!" he concluded with conviction,
"lodgers ain't to be depended on."

"That's right, go on; but you're not hurting me," snapped
Mrs. Bindle, rising to clear away. "You always oppose me,
perhaps you'll tell me how I'm to feed you on your wages." She
stood, her hands on her hips, looking down upon Bindle with
challenge in her eye.

"My wages! why, I'm gettin'——"

"Never mind what you're getting," interrupted Mrs. Bindle.
"You eat all you get and more, and you know it. Look at the
price of food, and me waiting in queues half the day to get it for
you. You're not worth it," she concluded with conviction.

"I ain't, Mrs. B.," replied Bindle good-humouredly, "I ain't
worth 'alf the love wot women 'ave 'ad for me."

Mrs. Bindle sniffed. "You always was fond of your food,"
she continued, as if reluctant to let slip a topic so incontrovertible.

"I was, Mrs. B.," agreed Bindle; "an' wot is more I probably
always shall be as long as you go on cookin' it. Wot I shall do
when you go orf with the lodger, I don't know," and Bindle
wagged his head from side to side in utter despondency.

Mrs. Bindle made an unprovoked attack upon the kitchen fire.

"Well," said Bindle after a pause, "if it's rations or a lodger,
I suppose it's got to be a lodger," and he drew a deep sigh of
resignation. He turned once more to The Gospel Sentinel.
"Musical, too, ain't 'e," he continued. "I wonder wot 'e plays,
the jews' 'arp or a drum? Seems a rare sport 'e does, chapel-goer,
temperance, quiet, musical, fond of 'ome-comforts, good
cookin'; an' don't want to pay much; regular blood I should
call 'im."

"He's coming to-night to see the place," Mrs. Bindle announced,
"and don't you go and make me feel ashamed. You'd better
keep out of the room."

"'Ow could you!" cried Bindle reproachfully, as he proceeded
to light his pipe. "Me——"

"Don't do that!" snapped Mrs. Bindle.

Bindle regarded her over the flaming match with eyebrows
raised interrogatingly.

"Perhaps he doesn't smoke," she explained.

"But I ain't goin' to give up tobacco," said Bindle with
decision. "'Oly Angels! me with a wife an a lodger an' no pipe!"[Pg 13]

He looked about him as if in search of sympathy. Then
turning to Mrs. Bindle, he demanded:

"You mean to say I got to give up smokin' for a lodger!"
Indignation had smoothed out the wrinkles round his eyes and
stilled the twitchings at the corners of his mouth.

"It doesn't matter after he's here," Mrs. Bindle responded
sagely.

Slowly the set-expression vanished from Bindle's face; the
wrinkles and twitches returned, and he breathed a sigh of elaborate
relief.

"Mrs. B.," he said admiringly, "you 'aven't lived for nineteen
years with your awful wedded 'usband, lovin', 'onourin' an'
obeyin' 'im—I don't think—without learnin' a thing or two."
He winked knowingly.

"Yes," he continued, apparently addressing a fly upon the
ceiling, "we'll catch our lodger first an' smoke 'im afterwards,
all of which is good business. Funny 'ow religion never seems
to make you too simple to——"

Bindle was interrupted by a knocking at the outer-door.
Mrs. Bindle performed a series of movements with amazing
celerity. She removed and folded her kitchen-apron, placing it
swiftly in the dresser-drawer, gave a hasty glance in the looking-glass
over the mantelpiece to assure herself that all was well with
her personal appearance and, finally, slipped into the parlour
to light the gas. She was out again in a second and, as she
passed into the passage leading to the outer-door, she threw back
at Bindle the one word "Remember," pregnant with as much
meaning as that uttered two and a half centuries before in
Whitehall.

"Nippy on 'er feet is Mrs. B.," muttered Bindle admiringly,
as he listened intently to the murmur of voices and the sound
of footsteps in the passage. Presently the parlour-door closed
and then—silence.

Bindle fidgeted about the kitchen. He was curious as to what
was taking place in the parlour and, above all, what manner of
man the prospective lodger would turn out to be. He picked up
the evening paper, endeavouring to read what the Austrian Prime
Minister thought of the prospects of peace, what Berlin thought
of the Austrian Prime Minister, what the Kaiser thought of the
Almighty, and what the Almighty was permitted to think of the
Kaiser. But international politics and the War had lost their
interest. Bindle was conscious that he was on the eve of a crisis
in his home life.[Pg 14]

"'Ow the injiarubber ostridge can a cove read when 'e ain't
smokin'?" he muttered discontentedly as he paused to listen. He
had detected a movement in the parlour.

Yes; the door had been opened. There was again the murmur
of voices, steps along the passage and, finally, the sound of the
outer-door closing. A moment later Mrs. Bindle entered.

Bindle looked up expectantly; but remembering that curiosity
was the last thing calculated to open Mrs. Bindle's set lips, he
became engrossed in his paper.

Mrs. Bindle seated herself opposite to him and, smoothing
her skirt, "folded 'er 'ands on 'er supper," as Bindle had once
expressed it.

"He's coming Monday," she proclaimed with the air of one
announcing an event of grave national importance.

"Does 'e smoke?" enquired Bindle anxiously.

"He does not," replied Mrs. Bindle with undisguised satisfaction;
"but," she added, as if claiming for some hero the virtue
of self-abnegation, "he doesn't object to it—in moderation," she
added significantly.

"Well, that's somethink," admitted Bindle as he proceeded
to light his long-neglected pipe. "There was pore 'ole Alf Gorley
wot beer made sick; but 'e used to like to see other coves with a
skinful."

"Don't be disgusting, Bindle," snapped Mrs. Bindle, piqued
that his apparent lack of interest in the lodger gave her no
opportunity of imparting the information she was bursting to
divulge.

"Wot's disgustin'?" demanded Bindle.

"Him, watching men making beasts of themselves," retorted
Mrs. Bindle.

"Them makin' beasts o' themselves!" Bindle exclaimed. "If
you'd ever seen Alf after 'alf a pint o' beer, you wouldn't 'ave
said it was them wot was makin' beasts o'——"

"Mr. Hearty will like him," interrupted Mrs. Bindle, unable
longer to keep off the subject of the lodger. Mr. Hearty had
married Mrs. Bindle's sister, and had become a prosperous greengrocer.

"'Earty like Alf! 'Old me, 'Orace!" cried Bindle.

"I meant Mr. Gupperduck," said Mrs. Bindle with dignity.

"Mr. Wot-a-duck!" Bindle cried, his interest too evident for
concealment.

"Mr. Josiah Gupperduck," repeated Mrs. Bindle with unction.
"That is his name."[Pg 15]

Bindle whistled, a long low sound of joy and wonder. "Well,
I'm damned!" he exclaimed.

"Don't you swear before me, Joseph Bindle," cried Mrs. Bindle
angrily; "for I won't stand it."

"Gupperduck!" repeated Bindle with obvious enjoyment.
"Sounds like a patent mackintosh."

"Oh! you may laugh," said Mrs. Bindle, drawing her lips,
"you may laugh; but he'll be company for me. He plays too."
She could no longer restrain her desire to tell all she knew about
Mr. Gupperduck.

"Is it the jew's 'arp, or the drum wot 'e plays?" enquired
Bindle presently.

"It's neither," replied Mrs. Bindle, "it's the accordion."

Bindle groaned. Mentally he visualised Mr. Hearty's hymn-singing
Sunday evenings, plus Mr. Gupperduck and his accordion.

"Well, well!" he remarked philosophically, "I suppose we're
none of us perfect."

"He's a very good man, an' he's goin' to join our chapel,"
announced Mrs. Bindle with satisfaction.

Bindle groaned again. "'Earty, an' Mrs. B., an' Ole Buttercup," he
muttered. "Joe Bindle, you'll be on the saved-bench before you know
where you are"; and rising he went out, much to the disappointment of
Mrs. Bindle, who was prepared to talk "lodger" until bed-time.

To Bindle the lodger was something between a convention and
an institution. He was a being around whom a vast tradition had
accumulated. In conjunction with the mother-in-law he was, "on
the halls," the source from which all humour flowed. His red
nose, umbrella and bloater were ageless.

He was a sower of discord in other men's houses, waxing fat
on the produce of a stranger's labour. He would as cheerfully go
off with his landlord's wife for ever, as with the unfortunate man's
shirt or trousers for a few hours, thus losing him a day's work.

Nemesis seemed powerless to dog the footsteps of the lodger,
retribution was incapable of tracking him down. He was voracious
of appetite, prolific of explanation, eternally on the brink
of affluence, for ever in the slough of debt.

He was a prince of parasites, a master of optimism, a model
of obtuseness, he could achieve more, and at less cost to himself,
than a Gypsy. He was as ancient as the hills, as genial as the
sunshine, as cheerful as an expectant relative at the death-bedside
of wealth. He was unthinkable, unforgettable, unejectable, living
on all men for all time.[Pg 16]

Nations rose and declined, kings came and went, emperors
soared and fell; but the lodger stayed on.

Bindle looked forward to the coming of Mr. Gupperduck with
keen interest. Since the evening of his call, Mrs. Bindle had
become uncommunicative.

"Wot's 'e do?" Bindle had enquired.

"He's engaged upon the Lord's work," she had replied, and
proved unamenable to all further interrogation.

On the Monday Bindle was home from work early, only to be
informed that Mr. Gupperduck would not arrive until eight
o'clock.

"Now you just be careful what you say, Bindle," Mrs. Bindle
had admonished him as she busied herself with innumerable
saucepans upon the stove.

"Don't you be nervous, Mrs. B.," he reassured her, sniffing
the savoury air with keen anticipation, "there ain't nothink
wrong with my conversation once I gets goin'. Wot about drink?"
he demanded as he unhooked from the dresser the blue and white
jug with the crimson butterfly just beneath the spout.

"He's temperance," replied Mrs. Bindle with unction.

"Well, I 'ope 'e looks it," was Bindle's comment as he went out.

When time permitted, Bindle's method of fetching the supper-beer
was what he described as "'alf inside and 'alf in the jug,"
which meant that he spent half an hour in pleasant converse with
congenial spirits at The Yellow Ostrich.

When he returned to Fenton Street, Mr. Gupperduck had
arrived. Depositing the jug upon the table with deliberation,
Bindle turned to welcome the guest.

"Pleased to see you, Mr. Gutter——" He paused, the name
had momentarily escaped him.

"Gupperduck, Mr. Josiah Gupperduck," volunteered the
lodger.

"It ain't easy, is it?" said Bindle cheerfully. "Must 'ave caused
you a rare lot o' trouble, a name like that."

Mr. Gupperduck eyed him disapprovingly. He was a small,
thin man, with a humourless cast of face, large round spectacles,
three distinct wisps of overworked hair that failed to conceal his
baldness, a short brown beard that seemed to stand out straight
from his chin, and a red nose. His upper lip was bare, save for
a three days' growth of bristles.

"Looks like a owl wot's been on the drink," was Bindle's
mental comment. "You can read 'is 'ole 'istory in the end of
'is nose."[Pg 17]

"Been a pleasant day," remarked Bindle conversationally,
quite forgetful that it had rained continuously since early
morning.

"Pleasant!" interrogated Mr. Gupperduck.

Bindle suddenly remembered. "For the ducks, I mean," he
said; then with inspiration added, "not for Gupperducks."

"Bindle!" admonished Mrs. Bindle. "You forget yourself."

"Oh, don't mind me, Mr. G.," said Bindle; "there ain't no
real 'arm in me."

Bindle proceeded to put "an 'ead on the beer." This he did
by pouring it into the glass from a distance of fully a yard and
with astonishing accuracy. Catching Mr. Gupperduck's eye,
he winked.

"Can't get an 'ead like that on lemonade," he remarked
cheerfully.

The atmosphere was constrained. Mr. Gupperduck was tired
and hungry, Bindle was hungry without being tired, and Mrs.
Bindle was grimly prepared for the worst.

"Well, 'ere's long legs to the baby!" cried Bindle, raising his
glass and drinking thirstily.

Mrs. Bindle cast a swift glance at Mr. Gupperduck, who gazed
at Bindle wonderingly over the top of the spoon he was raising
to his mouth.

The meal continued in silence. Bindle was hypnotised by
Mr. Gupperduck's ears. They stood out from each side of his
head like sign-boards, as if determined that nothing should
escape them.

After a time Mr. Gupperduck began to show signs that the
first ardour of his appetite had been appeased.

"If it ain't a rude question, mister," began Bindle, "might I
ask wot's your job?"

"I'm in the service of the Lord," replied Mr. Gupperduck in
a harsh tone.

"Trade union wages?" queried Bindle with assumed innocence.

"Bindle!" admonished Mrs. Bindle, "behave yourself."

"I am a sower of the seed," said Mr. Gupperduck pompously
and with evident self-satisfaction.

"Well, personally myself," said Bindle, "I ain't much belief
in them allotments. You spend all your time in diggin', gettin'
yourself in an 'ell of a mess, an' then somebody comes along
an' pinches your bloomin' vegetables."

"I refer to the spiritual seed," said Mr. Gupperduck. "I preach
the word of God, the peace that passeth all understanding."[Pg 18]

Bindle groaned inwardly, and silence fell once more over the
board.

"Mrs. Bindle," said Mr. Gupperduck at length, "you have given
me a most excellent supper."

Mrs. Bindle's lips became slightly visible.

"The Lord shall feed his flock," remarked Mr. Gupperduck
apropos of nothing in particular, "and——"

"'E keeps a few little pickin's for 'Is Gupperducks," flashed
Bindle.

"Bindle!" Mrs. Bindle glanced across at Mr. Gupperduck.
The two then entered into a conversation upon the ways of the
Lord, about which they both seemed to possess vast stores of
the most intimate information. From their conversation Bindle
gathered that Mr. Gupperduck was a lecturer in the parks,
mission-halls and the like, being connected with the Society for
the Suppression of Atheism.

"And what are the tenets of your spiritual faith, Mr. Bindle?"
Mr. Gupperduck suddenly turned and addressed himself to
Bindle.

"Wot's my wot?" enquired Bindle with corrugated forehead.

"He's a blasphemer, Mr. Gupperduck, I'm sorry to say,"
volunteered Mrs. Bindle.

Mr. Gupperduck regarded Bindle as if Mrs. Bindle had said
he was the "Missing Link."

"Mr. Bindle," he said earnestly, "have you ever thought of
the other world?"

"Thought of the other world!" Bindle exclaimed. "If you
lived with Mrs. B., you wouldn't 'ave much time for thinkin' of
anythink else. She's as dotty about 'eaven as an 'en over a
'shop-egg,' an' as for 'Earty, that's my brother-in-law, well,
'Earty gets my goat when 'e starts about 'eaven an' angels."

"I fear you speak lightly of serious things, Mr. Bindle," said
Mr. Gupperduck harshly. "Think of when the trumpet shall
sound incorruptible and——!"

"Think o' when the all-clear bugle sounds in Fulham," responded
Bindle.

Mr. Gupperduck looked at Mrs. Bindle in horror.

"I'm a special, you know," explained Bindle. "I got to be on
the listen for that bugle after the air-raids. My! don't they jest
nip back into their little beds again, feelin' 'ow brave they've
all been."

Mr. Gupperduck seemed to come to the conclusion that Bindle
was hopeless. For the next half-hour he devoted himself to con[Pg 19]versing
with Mrs. Bindle about "the message" he was engaged in delivering.

"You plays, don't you?" enquired Bindle, as Mr. Gupperduck
rose.

"I am very fond of my accordion," replied Mr. Gupperduck.

"I suppose you couldn't give us a tune?" ventured Bindle.

"Not to-night, Mr. Bindle," said Mr. Gupperduck. "I have
a lot to do to-morrow." Then, as if suddenly remembering his
pose, he added, "There is the Lord's work to be done on the
morrow, and His servant hath need of rest."

Bindle stared. Mrs. Bindle regarded her lodger with admiration
tinctured with awe. When Mr. Gupperduck could not call to mind an
appropriate passage from the Scriptures, he invented one.

"I'm sorry," remarked Bindle, as Mr. Gupperduck moved
towards the door. "I wanted you to play a thing I picked up
at The Granville the other night. It was a rare good song, 'If
You Squeeze Me Tighter, Jimmie, I Shall Scream.' I can whistle
it if——" but Mr. Gupperduck was gone.

Then the storm burst.

"You're a disgrace to any respectable 'ome, Joseph Bindle,
that you are," Mrs. Bindle broke out as soon as Mr. Gupperduck's
bedroom door was heard to close.

"Me?" enquired Bindle in obvious surprise.

"What must he think of us?" demanded Mrs. Bindle. "You
with your lewd and blasphemous talk."

"Wot 'ave I done now?" enquired Bindle in an injured tone.

"Talkin' about babies' legs, and—and—oh! you make me
ashamed, you do." Mrs. Bindle proceeded to bang away the
supper things.

"Steady on," admonished Bindle, "or you'll 'ave the Duck
out o' bed."

"What must 'e think of me with such an 'usband?" Mrs.
Bindle's aitches were dropping from her under the stress of her
pent-up feelings.

"Well! speakin' for myself," said Bindle, relighting his pipe,
which had gone out, "he most likely thinks you're an uncommon
lucky woman. You see, Lizzie," Bindle continued evenly,
"you're fickle, that's wot's the matter with you."

Mrs. Bindle paused in the act of pouring water over the piled-up
dishes in the sink.

"As soon as you sees another cove wot takes your fancy, you
sort o' loses your taste for your own 'usband."[Pg 20]

Bindle seated himself at the table and spread out the evening
paper.

"First it's 'Earty, then it's Gupperduck. Now I ask you,
Mrs. B., wot would you think if I was to say we must 'ave a
woman lodger? Now I ask you!"

"That's quite different," cried Mrs. Bindle angrily. "Mr.
Gupperduck is——"

"A sort o' prayer-'og in trousers, judgin' from 'is talk," interrupted
Bindle. "Me an' 'im ain't goin' to fall out, though you
did give 'im a extra dose o' gravy; at the same time we ain't
goin' to fall in love with each other. If 'e pays 'is rent an'
behaves quiet like, then I 'aven't nothink to say, for wot's an
'ome without a lodger; but it's got to be 'ands orf my missis,
see!"

"Bindle, you're a dirty-minded beast," retorted Mrs. Bindle,
snapping her jaws viciously.

"That may, or may not be," replied Bindle as he walked
towards the door on his way to bed; "but if you an' 'im start
givin' each other the glad-eye, then I'm 'urt in my private feelin's,
an' when I'm 'urt in my private feelin's, I'm 'ot stuff,"
and he winked gravely at the text on the kitchen wall containing
some home truths for the transgressor.

CHAPTER II

A DOWNING STREET SENSATION

"Me ride eight miles on an 'orse!" exclaimed Bindle,
looking up at the foreman in surprise. "An' who's
a-comin' to 'old me on?"

Bindle stood in the yard of Messrs. Empsom & Daley, cartage
contractors, regarding a pair of burly cart-horses, ready-harnessed,
with the traces thrown over their backs.

The foreman explained in the idiom adopted by foreman that
"orders is orders."

"You can ride on top, run beside, or 'ang on be'ind; but you
got to be at Merton at twelve o'clock," he said. "We jest 'ad
a telephone message that a van's stranded this side o' Merton,
'orses broken down, an' you an' Tippitt 'ave got to take these
'ere and deliver the goods. Then take the van where you're[Pg 21]
told, an' bring back them ruddy 'orses 'ere, an' don't you forget
it."

Bindle scratched his head through the blue and white cricket
cap he habitually wore. Horses had suddenly assumed for him
a new significance. With elaborate intentness he examined the
particular animal that had been assigned to him.

"Wot part d'you sit on, ole son?" he enquired of Tippitt, a
pale, weedy youth, with a thin dark moustache that curled into
the corners of his mouth. Tippitt's main characteristic was that
he always had a cigarette either stuck to his lip or behind his
ear. Sometimes both.

"On 'is tail," replied Tippitt laconically, his cigarette wagging
up and down as he spoke.

"Sit on 'is wot?" cried Bindle, walking round to the stern of
his animal and examining the tail with great attention. "Sit on
'is wot?"

"On 'is tail," repeated Tippitt without manifesting any interest
in the conversation. "Right back on 'is 'aunches," he added by
way of explanation; "more comfortable."

"Oh!" said Bindle, relieved, "I see. Pity you can't say wot
you mean, Tippy, ain't it? Personally, meself, I'd sooner sit
well up, so as I could put me arms round 'is neck. Hi! Spotty!"
he called to an unprepossessing stable-hand. "Bring a ladder."

"A wot?" enquired Spotty dully.

"A ladder," explained Bindle. "I got to mount this 'ere
Derby winner."

Spotty strolled leisurely across the yard towards Bindle, and
for a moment stood regarding the horse in a detached sort of
way.

"I'll give you a leg up, mate," he said accommodatingly.

Bindle looked at the horse suspiciously and, seeing there were
no indications of vice, at the same time realising that there was
nothing else to be done, he acquiesced.

"Steady on, ole sport," he counselled Spotty. "Don't you
chuck me clean over the other side."

With a dexterous heave, Spotty landed him well upon the
animal's back. Bindle calmly proceeded to throw one leg over,
sitting astride.

"Not that way," said Tippitt, "both legs on the near side."

"You can ride your nag wot way you like, Tippy," said Bindle;
"but as for me, I likes to 'ave a leg each side. 'Ow the 'ell am
I goin' to 'old on if I sit like a bloomin' lady. My Gawd!" he
exclaimed, passing his hand along the backbone of the animal,[Pg 22]
"if I don't 'ave a cushion I shall wear through in two ticks.
'Ere, Spotty, give us a cloth o' some sort, then you can back
me as a two-to-one chance."

Tippitt, more accustomed than Bindle to such adventures,
vaulted lightly upon his animal, and led the way out of the
yard. For some distance they proceeded at an ambling walk,
which Bindle found in no way inconvenient. Just as they had
entered the Fulham Road, where it branches off from the Brompton
Road, an urchin gave Bindle's horse a flick on the flank with
a stick, sending it into a ponderous trot, amidst the jangle and
clatter of harness. Bindle clutched wildly at the collar.

"'Ere, stop 'im, somebody! 'Old 'im!" he yelled. "I touched
the wrong button. Whoa, steady, whoa, ole iron!" he shouted.
Then turning his head to one side he called out: "Tippy, Tippy,
where the 'ell is the brake? For Gawd's sake stop 'im before
'e shakes me into a jelly!"

Tippitt's animal jangled up beside that on which Bindle was
mounted, and both once more fell back into the ponderous lope
at which they had started. With great caution Bindle raised
himself into an upright position.

"I wonder wot made 'im do a thing like that," he said
reproachfully. "Bruised me all over 'e 'as. I shan't be able
to sit down for a month. 'Ere, stop 'im, Tippy. I'm gettin'
orf."

Tippitt stretched out his hand and brought both horses to a
standstill. Bindle slipped ungracefully over his animal's tail.

"You can 'ave 'im, Tippy, ole sport, I'm goin' to walk," he
announced. "When I get tired o' walking, I'll get on a bus.
I'll meet you at Wimbledon Common;" and Tippitt, his cigarette
hanging loosely from a still looser lower lip, reached over, caught
the animal's bridle and, without comment, continued on his
way westward.

"Well, live 'an learn," mumbled Bindle to himself. "I don't
care wot a jockey gets; but 'e earns it, every penny. Fancy an
'orse bein' as 'ard as that. Catch you up presently, Tippy,"
he cried. "Mind you don't fall orf," and Bindle turned into
The Drag and Hounds "for somethink to take the bruises out,"
as he expressed it to himself.

"Catch me a-ridin' of an 'orse again without an air-cushion,"
he muttered as he came out of the public-bar wiping his mouth.
He hailed a west-bound bus, and, climbing on the top and
lighting his pipe, proceeded to enjoy the morning sunshine.

When Tippitt reached the extreme end of Wimbledon Common,[Pg 23]
Bindle rose from the grass by the roadside, where he had been
leisurely smoking and enjoying the warmth.

"'Ad quite a pleasant little snooze, Tippy," he yawned, as
he stretched his arms behind his head. "Wonder who first
thought o' ridin' on an 'orse's back," he yawned. "As for me,
I'd jest as soon ride on an 'and-saw."

They jogged along in the direction of Merton, Bindle walking
beside the horses, Tippitt silent and apathetic, his cigarette still
attached to his lower lip.

"You ain't wot I should call a chatty cove, Tippy," remarked
Bindle conversationally; "but then," he added, "that 'as its
points. If you don't open your mouth, no woman can't say
you ever asked 'er to marry you, can she?"

"Married, mate!" Tippitt vouchsafed the information without
expression or interest.

Bindle stood still and looked at him.

Tippitt unconcernedly continued on his way.

"Well, I'm damned!" remarked Bindle, as he continued after
the horses. "Well, I'm damned! They'd get you if you was
deaf an' dumb an' blind. Pore ole Tippy! no wonder 'e looks
like that."

Just outside Merton they came upon a stranded pantechnicon.
Drawn up in front of it was a motor-car containing two ladies.

"This the little lot?" enquired Bindle as they pulled up beside
the vehicle, which bore the name of John Smith & Company,
Merton.

"Are you from Empson & Daleys?" enquired the elder of the
two ladies, a sallow-faced, angular woman with pince-nez.

"That's us, mum," responded Bindle.

"I suppose those are the horses," remarked the same lady,
indicating the animals with an inclination of her head.

"You ain't got much to learn in the way o' guessing, mum,"
was Bindle's cheery response.

The lady eyed him disapprovingly. Her companion at the
wheel smiled. She was younger. Bindle winked at her; but she
froze instantly.

"The horses that were in this van were taken ill," said the
lady.

"Wot, both together, mum!" exclaimed Bindle.

"Yes," replied the lady, looking at him sharply.

"Must 'ave been twins or conchies,"[1] was Bindle's explanation
of the phenomenon. "If one o' Ginger's twins 'as the measles,
sure as eggs the other'll get 'em the next day. That's wot makes
Ginger so ratty."

[Pg 24]

Bindle walked up to the van and examined it, as if to assure
himself that it was in no way defective.

"An' where are we to take it, mum?" he enquired.

"To Mr. Llewellyn John, Number 110, Downing Street," was
the reply.

Bindle whistled. "'E ain't movin', is 'e, mum?"

"The van contains a presentation of carved-oak dining-room
furniture," she added.

"An' very nice too," was Bindle's comment.

"Outside Downing Street," she continued, "you will be met
by a lady who will give you the key that opens the doors of
the van."

"'Adn't we better take the key now, mum?" Bindle enquired.

"You'll do as you're told, please," was the uncompromising
rejoinder.

"Right-o! mum," remarked Bindle cheerily. "Now then,
Tippy, let's get these 'ere 'orses in. Which end d'you begin on?"

Tippitt and Bindle silently busied themselves in harnessing
the horses to the pantechnicon.

"Now you won't make any mistake," said the lady when
everything was completed. "Number 110, Downing Street, Mr.
Llewellyn John."

"There ain't goin' to be no mistakes, mum, you may put
your 'and on your 'eart," Bindle assured her.

"Cawfee money, mum?" enquired Tippitt. "It's 'ot." Tippitt
never wasted words.

"Tippy, Tippy! I'm surprised at you!" Bindle turned upon
his colleague reproachfully. "Only twice 'ave you spoke to-day,
an' the second time's to beg. I'm sorry, mum," he said, turning
to the lady. "It ain't 'is fault. It's jest 'abit."

The lady hesitated for a moment, then taking her purse from
her bag, handed Bindle a two-shilling piece.

Tippitt eyed it greedily.

With a final admonition not to forget, the lady drove off.

Bindle looked at the coin, spat on it, and put it in his pocket.

"Funny thing 'ow a woman'll give a couple o' bob, where a
man'll make it 'alf a dollar," he remarked.

"Wot about me?" enquired Tippitt.

"Wot about you, Tippy?" repeated Bindle. "Well, least said
soonest mended. You can't 'elp it."

"But I asked 'er," persisted Tippitt.[Pg 25]

"Ah! Tippy," remarked Bindle, "it ain't 'im wot asks; but
'im wot gets. 'Owever, you shall 'ave a stone-ginger at the
next stoppin' place. Your ole pal ain't goin' back on you,
Tippy."

Without a word, Tippitt climbed up into the driver's seat,
whilst Bindle clambered on to the tail-board, where he proceeded
to fill his pipe with the air of a man for whom time has no
meaning.

"Good job they ain't all like me," he muttered. "I likes a
day in the country, now and then; but always! Not me." He
struck a match, lighted his pipe and, with a sigh of contentment,
composed himself to bucolic meditation.

One of the advantages of the moving-profession in Bindle's
eyes was that it gave him hours of leisured ease, whilst the goods
were in transit. "You can slack it like a Cuthbert," he would
say. "All you 'as to do is to sit on the tail of a van an' watch
the world go by—some life that."

Bindle was awakened from his contemplation of the hedges
and the white road that ribboned out before his eyes by a man
coming out of a gate. At the sight of the pantechnicon he grinned
and, with a jerk of his thumb, indicated the van as if it were the
greatest joke in the world.

Bindle grinned back, although not quite understanding the
cause of the man's amusement.

"'Ot little lot that, mate," remarked the man, stepping off
the kerb and walking beside the tailboard.

Bindle looked at him, puzzled at the remark.

"Wot exactly might you be meanin', ole son?" he enquired.

"Oh! come orf of it," said the man. "I won't tell your missis.
Like a razzle myself sometimes," and he laughed, obviously
amused at this joke.

Bindle slipped off the tail-board and joined the man, who
had returned to the pavement.

"You evidently seen a joke wot's caught me on the blind
side," he remarked casually.

"A joke," remarked the man; "a whole van-load of jokes,
if you was to ask me."

"Well, p'raps you're right," remarked Bindle philosophically,
"but if there's as many as all that, I should 'ave thought there'd
'ave been enough for two; but as I say, p'raps you're right.
These ain't the times for givin' anythink away, although," he
added meditatively, "I 'adn't 'eard of their 'avin' rationed jokes
as well as meat and sugar. We shall be 'avin' joke-queues soon,"[Pg 26]
he added. "You seem to be a sort of joke-'og, you do." Bindle
turned and regarded his companion with interest.

"You mean to say you don't know wot's inside that there
van?" enquired the man incredulously.

"Carved-oak dinin'-room furniture, I been told," replied
Bindle indifferently.

The man laughed loudly. Then turned to Bindle. "You
mean to say you don't know that van's full o' gals?" he
demanded.

"Full o' wot?" exclaimed Bindle, coming to a dead stop. His
astonishment was too obvious to leave doubt in the man's mind
as to its genuineness.

"Gals an' women," he replied. "Saw 'em gettin' in down the
road, out of motors. Dressed in white they was, with coloured
sashes over their shoulders. Suffragettes, I should say. They
didn't see me though," he added.

Bindle gave vent to a low, prolonged whistle as he resumed
his walk.

"'Old me, 'Orace!" he cried happily. "Wot 'ud Mrs. B. say
if she knew." Suddenly he paused again, and slapped his knee.

"Well, I'm damned!" he cried. "A raid, of course."

The man looked anxiously up at the blue of the sky.

"It's all right," said Bindle reassuringly. "My mistake; it was
a bird."

A few minutes later the man turned off from the main road.

"Hi! Tippy," Bindle hailed, "don't you forget that stone-ginger
at the next dairy."

A muttered reply came from Tippitt. Five minutes later he
drew up outside a public-house on the outskirts of Wimbledon.
Bindle took the opportunity of climbing up on the top of the
van, where he gained the information he required. Every inch
of the roof was perforated!

"Air-'oles," he muttered with keen satisfaction; "air-'oles, as
I'm a miserable sinner," and he clambered down and entered
the public-bar, where he convinced Tippitt that his mate could
be trusted with money.

When Bindle had drained to the last drop his second pewter,
his mind was made up.

"Number 110, Downing Street," he muttered. "White
dresses an' coloured sashes. That's it. Well, Joe Bindle, you
can't save the bloomin' British Empire from destruction; but you
can save the Prime Minister from 'avin' 'is afternoon nap spoilt,
leastwise you can try.[Pg 27]

"I'm a-goin' for a little stroll, Tippy," he remarked, as he
walked towards the door. "Back in ten minutes. If you gets
lonely, order another pint an' put it down to me."

"Right-o! mate," replied Tippitt.

Bindle walked along Wimbledon High Street and turned into
an oil-shop.

"D'you keep lamp black?" he enquired of the young woman
behind the counter.

"Yes," she replied. "How much do you want, we sell it in
packets?"

"Let's 'ave a look at a packet," said Bindle.

When he had examined it, he ordered two more.

"Startin' a minstrel troupe," he confided to the young woman.

"But you want burnt cork," she said practically; "lamp black's
greasy. You'll never get it off."

"That's jest why I want it," remarked Bindle with a grin.

The young woman looked at him curiously and, when he had
purchased a pea-puffer as well, she decided that he was a harmless
lunatic; but took the precaution of testing the half-crown he
tendered by ringing it on the counter.

"Shouldn't be surprised if we was to 'ave an 'eavy shower
of rain in a few minutes," remarked Bindle loudly a few minutes
later, as he rejoined Tippitt, who was engaged in watering the
horses.

Tippitt looked at Bindle, his cigarette wagging. Then turning
his eyes up to the cloudless sky in surprise, he finally reached
the same conclusion as the young woman at the oil-shop.

"Now up you get, Tippy," admonished Bindle, "an' there's
another drink for you at The Green Lion." Bindle knew his
London.

As the pantechnicon rumbled heavily along by the side of
Wimbledon Common, Bindle whistled softly to himself the refrain
of "The End of a Happy Day."

Whilst Tippitt was enjoying his fourth pint that morning at
The Green Lion, Bindle borrowed a large watering-can, which was
handed up to him on the roof of the pantechnicon by a surprised
barman. Bindle emptied the contents of one of the packets of
lamp-black into the can, and started to stir it vigorously with a
piece of twig he had picked up from the side of the Common.
When the water had reluctantly absorbed the lamp-black to
Bindle's entire satisfaction, he called out loudly:

"I knew we was goin' to 'ave a shower," and he proceeded
to water the top of the pantechnicon. "Now I must put this[Pg 28]
'ere tarpaulin over, or else the water'll get through them 'oles,"
he said.

He clearly heard suppressed exclamations as the water penetrated
inside the van. Having emptied the can, he proceeded to
drag the tarpaulin over the roof, leaving uncovered only a small
portion in the centre.

The barman of The Green Lion had been watching Bindle
with open-mouthed astonishment.

"What the 'ell are you up to, mate?" he whispered.

Bindle put his forefinger of the right hand to the side of his
nose and winked mysteriously. Then going inside The Green
Lion he, in a way that did not outrage the regulations that there
should be no "treating," had Tippitt's tankard refilled, and called
for another for himself.

"If you watch the papers," Bindle remarked to the barman,
"I shouldn't be surprised if you was to see wot I was a-doin' on
the top of that there van," and again he winked.

The barman looked from Bindle to Tippitt, then touching
his forehead with a fugitive first finger, and glancing in the
direction of Bindle, made it clear that another was prepared
to support the diagnosis of the young woman at the oil-shop.

Bindle completed the journey on the top of the van, industriously
occupied in puffing lamp-black through the holes in the
roof. His method was to dip the end of the pea-puffer into the
packet, then insert it in one of the holes and give a sharp puff.
This he did half a dozen times in quick succession. Then he
would pause for a few minutes to allow the lamp-black to settle.
He argued that if he puffed it all in at once, it would in all
probability choke the occupants.

By the time they turned from the King's Road into Ebury
Street, Bindle's task was accomplished—the lamp-black was
exhausted.

"Victoria Station," he called out loudly to Tippitt. "Shan't
be long now, mate. Another shower a-comin', better cover up
these bloomin' 'oles," and he drew the tarpaulin over the rest
of the roof. "Let 'em stoo a bit now," he muttered to himself.
"That'll make 'em 'ot."

He had been conscious of suppressed coughing and sneezing
from within, which he detected by placing his ear near the holes
in the roof.

Opposite the Houses of Parliament, a lady came up to Bindle
and handed him a key. "This is the key of the pantechnicon,"[Pg 29]
she said loudly. "You are not to undo it until you reach Number
110, Downing Street. Do you understand?"

"Right-o!" remarked Bindle, "I got it."

"Now don't forget!" said the lady, and she disappeared
swiftly in the direction of Victoria Street.

"No, I ain't goin' to forget," murmured Bindle to himself,
"an' I shouldn't be surprised if there was others wot ain't goin'
to forget either."

He watched the lady who had given him the key well out of
sight, then slipping off the tail-board of the van he walked
swiftly along Whitehall.

A few yards south of Downing Street, an inspector of police was
meditatively contemplating the flow of traffic north and south.

Bindle went up to him. "Pretend that I'm askin' the way,
sir. I'm most likely bein' watched. I got a van wot's supposed
to contain carved-oak furniture for Mr. Llewellyn John, 110,
Downing Street. I think it's full o' suffragettes goin' to raid 'im.
You get your men round there, the van'll be up in two ticks.
Now point as if you was showing me Downing Street."

The inspector was a man of quick decision and, looking keenly
at Bindle, decided that he was to be trusted.

"Right!" he said, then extending an official arm, pointed out
Downing Street to Bindle. "Don't hurry," he added.

"Right-o!" said Bindle. "Joseph Bindle's my name. I'm
a special, Fulham district."

The inspector nodded, and Bindle turned back to the van. A
moment later the inspector strolled leisurely through the archway
leading to the Foreign Office.

"That's Downing Street on the left," shouted Bindle to Tippitt
as he came up, much to Tippitt's surprise. He was at a loss
to account for many things that Bindle had done and said that
day.

As they turned into Downing Street, Bindle was a little disappointed
at finding only two constables; but he was relieved a a moment later
by the sight of the inspector to whom he had spoken, hurrying through
the archway, leading from the Foreign Office.

"Where are you going to?" called out the inspector to Tippitt,
taking no notice of Bindle.

Tippitt jerked his thumb in the direction of Bindle, who came
forward at that moment.

"Number 110, Downing Street, sir," responded Bindle.
"Some furniture for Mr. Llewellyn John."[Pg 30]

"Right!" said the inspector loudly; "but you'll have to wait
a few minutes until that motor-car has gone."

Bindle winked as a sign of his acceptance of the mythical
motor-car and, drawing the key of the pantechnicon from his
pocket, showed it to the inspector, who, by closing his eyes and
slightly bending his head, indicated that he understood.

Tippitt had decided that everybody was mad this morning.
The police inspector's reference to a motor-car outside Number
110, whereas his eyes told him that there was nothing there but
roadway and dust, had seriously undermined his respect for the
Metropolitan Police Force. However, it was not his business.
He was there to drive the horses, who in turn drew a van to
a given spot; there his responsibility ended.

After a wait of nearly ten minutes, the inspector re-appeared.
"It's all clear now," he remarked. "Draw up."

As the pantechnicon pulled up in front of Number 110, Bindle
glanced up at the house and saw Mr. Llewellyn John looking
out of one of the first-floor windows. He had evidently been
apprised of what was taking place.

Bindle noticed that the doors of Number 110 and 111 were both
ajar. He was, however, a little puzzled at the absence of police.
The two uniformed constables had been reinforced by three
others, and there were two obviously plain-clothes men loitering
about.

"Now then, Tippy, get ready to lend me a 'and with this 'ere
furniture," called out Bindle as he proceeded to insert the key
in the padlock that fastened the doors of the van.

Tippitt, who had climbed down, was standing close to the
tail-board facing the doors.

With a quick movement Bindle released the padlock from
the hasp and, lifting the bar, stepped aside with an agility that
was astonishing.

"Votes for Women! Votes for Women!! Votes for Women!!!"

Suddenly the placid quiet of Downing Street was shattered.
The doors of the pantechnicon were burst open and thrown back
upon their hinges, where they shivered as if trembling with fear.
From the interior of the van poured such a stream of humanity
as Downing Street had never before seen.

Following Bindle's lead the inspector had taken the precaution
of stepping aside; but Tippitt, unconscious that the van contained
anything more aggressive than carved-oak furniture, was
in the direct line of exit. At the moment the doors flew open
he was in the act of removing his coat and, with his arms
en[Pg 31]tangled in its sleeves, sat down with a suddenness that caused
his teeth to rattle and his cigarette to fall from his lower lip.

Synchronising with the opening of the doors of the pantechnicon was a
short, sharp blast of a police whistle. The effect was magical. Men
seemed to pour into Downing Street from everywhere: from the archway
leading to the Foreign Office, up the steps from Green Park, from
Whitehall and out of Numbers 110 and 111. Plain-clothes and uniformed
police seemed to spring up from everywhere; but no one took any notice
of the fall of Tippitt. All eyes were fixed upon the human avalanche
that was pouring from the inside of the pantechnicon. For once in its
existence the Metropolitan Police Force was rendered helpless with
astonishment. Women they had expected, women they were prepared for;
but the extraordinary flood of femininity that cascaded out of the van
absolutely staggered them.

There were short women and tall women, stout women and
thin women, young women and—well, women not so young.
The one thing they had in common was lamp-black. It was
smeared upon their faces, streaked upon their garments; it had
circled their eyes, marked the lines of their mouths, had collected
round their nostrils. The heat inside the pantechnicon had
produced the necessary moisture upon the fair faces and with
this the lamp-black had formed an unholy alliance. Hats were
awry, hair was dishevelled, frocks were limp and bedraggled.

The cries of "Votes for Women" that had heralded the
triumphant outburst from the van froze upon their lips as the
demonstrators caught sight of one another. Each gazed at the
others in mute astonishment, whilst Tippitt, from his seat in the
middle of the roadway, stared, wondering in a stupid way whether
what he saw was the heat, or the five pints of ale he had consumed
at Bindle's expense during the morning.

The inspector looked at Bindle curiously, and Bindle looked at
the inspector with self-satisfaction, whilst the constables
discovered that their unhappy anticipation of a rough and tumble
with women, a thing they disliked, had been turned into a most
delectable comedy.

At the first-floor window Mr. Llewellyn John watched the
scene with keen enjoyment.

For a full minute the women stood gazing from one to the
other in a dazed fashion. Finally one with stouter heart than the
rest shouted "Votes for Women! This is a woman's war!"

But there was no answering cry from the ranks. Slowly it
dawned upon each and every woman that in all probability she[Pg 32]
was looking just as ridiculous as those she saw about her. One
girl produced a small looking-glass from a hand-bag. She gave
one glance into it, and incontinently went into hysterics, flopping
down where she stood.

The public, conscious that great events were happening in
Downing Street, poured into the narrow thoroughfare, and the
laughter denied the official police by virtue of discipline was heard
on every hand.

"Christy Minstrels, ain't they?" enquired one youth of another
with ponderous humour.

It was at the moment that one of them had raised a despairing
cry of "Votes for Women," and had received no support.

"Votes for Women!" remarked one man shrewdly. "Soap
for Women! is what they want."

"Fancy comin' out like that, even in wartime," commented
another.

"'Ow'd they get like that?" enquired a third.

"Oh, you never know them suffragettes," remarked a fourth
sagely; "they're always out for doing something different from
what's been done before."

"Well, they done it this time," commented a little man with
grey whiskers. "Enough to make Gawd 'Imself ashamed of us,
them women is. Bah!" and he spat contemptuously.

The inspector felt that the time for action had arrived. Walking
up to the unhappy group of twenty, he remarked in his most
official tone:

"You cannot stand about here, you must be moving on."

"Moving on; but where?" They looked into each other's eyes
mutely. Suddenly an idea seemed to strike them and they turned
instinctively to re-enter the van; but Bindle had anticipated this
manœuvre, and had carefully closed, barred and padlocked the
doors.

The inspector nodded approval. He had formed a very high
opinion of Bindle's powers, although greatly puzzled by the
whole business. At a signal from their superior, a number of
uniformed constables formed up behind the forlorn band of
females, several of whom were in tears.

"Move along there, please," they chorused, dexterously splitting
up the group into smaller groups, and, finally, into ones
and twos. Thus they were herded towards Whitehall.

"Will you call some cabs, please," said she who was obviously
the leader. The inspector shook his head, whereat the woman
smacked the face of the nearest constable, obviously with the[Pg 33]
intention of being arrested. Again the inspector shook his head.
He had made up his mind that there should be no arrests that
day. Nemesis had taken a hand in the game, and the inspector
recognized in her one who is more powerful than the Metropolitan
Police Force.

Slowly amidst the jeers of the crowd the twenty women were
shepherded into Whitehall.

"Oh, please get me a taxi," appealed a little blonde woman
with a hard mouth and what looked like a dark black moustache.
"I cannot go about like this."

Suddenly one of their number was taken with shrieking hysterics.
She sat down suddenly, giving vent to shriek after shriek,
and beating a tattoo with the heels of her shoes upon the roadway;
but no one took any notice of her and soon she rose and
followed the others.

In Whitehall frantic appeals were made to drivers of taxicabs
and conductorettes of omnibuses. None would accept such
fares.

"It 'ud take a month to clean my bloomin' cab after you'd
been in it," shouted one man derisively. "What jer want to get
yourself in such a dirty mess for?"

"Go 'ome and wash the baby," shouted another.

Nowhere did the Black and White Raiders find sympathy or
assistance. Two of the leaders of the Suffragette Movement, who
happened to be passing down Whitehall, were attracted by the
crowd. On learning what had happened, and seeing the plight
of the demonstrators, they continued on their way.

"This is war-time," one of them remarked to the other, "and
they're disobeying the rules of the Association." With this they
were left to their fate.

Some made for the Tube, others for the District Railway,
whilst two sought out a tea-shop and demanded washing facilities;
but were refused. The railway-stations were their one source
of hope. For the next three hours passengers travelling to
Wimbledon were astonished to see entering the train forlorn
and dishevelled women, whose faces were rendered hideous by
smears of black, and whose white frocks, limp and crumpled,
looked as if they had been used to clean machinery.

"A pleasant little afternoon's treat for you, sir," remarked
Bindle to the inspector, when the last of the raiders had
disappeared. "Mr. John seemed to enjoy it." Bindle indicated
the first-floor window of Number 110, with a jerk of his thumb.

"Was that your doing?" enquired the inspector.[Pg 34]

"Well," replied Bindle, "it was an' it wasn't," and he explained
how it had all come about.

"And what am I goin' to do with this 'ere van?" he queried.

"Better run it round to 'the Yard,' then you can take home
the horses," replied the inspector.

"Right-o!" said Bindle.

"By the way," added the inspector, "I'm coming round myself.
I should like you to see Chief-Inspector Gunny."

Bindle nodded cheerily. "'Ullo, Tippy!" he cried, "knocked
you down, didn't they?"

Tippitt grinned, he had thoroughly enjoyed the entertainment
and bore no malice.

"That's why you got the watering-can, mate?" he remarked.

Bindle surveyed him with mock admiration.

"Now ain't you clever," he remarked. "Fancy you a-seein'
that. There ain't no spots on you, Tippy;" whereat Tippitt
grinned again modestly.

That afternoon Bindle was introduced to the Famous Chief-Inspector
Gunny of Scotland Yard, who, for years previously, had been the head
of the department dealing with the suffragist demonstrations. He
was a genial, large-hearted man, who had earned the respect, almost
the liking of those whose official enemy he was. When he heard
Bindle's story, he roared with laughter, and insisted that Bindle
should himself tell about the Black and White Raiders to the
Deputy-Commissioner and the Chief Constable. It was nearly four
o'clock when Bindle left Scotland Yard, smoking a big cigar with
which the Deputy-Commissioner had presented him.

Chief-Inspector Gunny's last words had been, "Well, Bindle,
you've done us a great service. If at any time I can help you,
let me know."

"Now I wonder wot 'e meant by that," murmured Bindle to
himself. "Does it mean that I can 'ave a little flutter at bigamy,
or that I can break 'Earty's bloomin' 'ead and not get pinched
for it. Still," he remarked cheerfully, "it's been an 'appy day,
a very 'appy day," and he turned in at The Feathers and ordered
"somethink to wet this 'ere cigar."

[Pg 35]

CHAPTER III

THE AIR-RAID

I

"There wasn't no 'ome life in England until the Kayser started
a-droppin' bombs in people's back-yards," remarked Bindle oracularly.
"Funny thing," he continued, "'ow everybody seemed to find out 'ow
fond they was of settin' at 'ome because they was afraid o' goin'
out."

Mr. Hearty looked at Mr. Gupperduck and Mr. Gupperduck
looked at Mrs. Bindle. They required time in which to assimilate
so profound an utterance.

Mr. Gupperduck had firmly established himself in the good
graces of Mr. Hearty and the leaders of the Alton Road Chapel.
He was a constant visitor at the Heartys', especially at meal
times, and at the chapel he prayed with great fervour, beating
all records as far as endurance was concerned.

"I don't agree with you," remarked Mr. Gupperduck at length,
"I do not agree with you. The Scriptures say, 'Every man to
his family.'"

Mr. Hearty looked gratefully at his guest. It was pleasant
to find Bindle controverted.

"You know, Alf, you never been so much at 'ome," wheezed
Mrs. Hearty, hitting her chest remorselessly. "You never go out
on moonlight nights."

"You trust 'im," said Bindle. "'Earty an' the moon ain't
never out together."

"We are told to take cover," said Mr. Hearty with dignity.

"An' wot about us pore fellers wot 'as to be out in it all?"
demanded Bindle, looking down at his special constable's uniform.

"You should commend yourself to God," said Mr. Gupperduck
piously. "He that putteth his trust in Him shall not be afraid."

"Ain't you afraid then when there's a raid on?" demanded
Bindle.

"I have no fear of earthly things," replied Mr. Gupperduck,
lifting his eyes to the ceiling.

"'E's all Gupperduck an' camelflage, ain't 'e, Millikins?"
whispered Bindle to his niece. Then aloud he said: "Well, Mrs.
B. ain't like you! She's afraid like all the rest of us. I don't[Pg 36]
believe much in coves wot say they ain't afraid. You ask the
boys back from France. You don't 'ear them a-sayin' they ain't
afraid. They knows too much for that."

"There is One above who watches over us all, Joseph," said Mr. Hearty,
emboldened to unaccustomed temerity by the presence of Mr. Gupperduck.

"Mr. Bindle," said Mr. Gupperduck, "our lives and our happiness
are in God's hands, wherefore should we feel afraid?"

"Well, well!" remarked Bindle, with resignation, "you an'
'Earty beat me when it comes to pluck. When I'm out with all
them guns a-goin', an' bombs a-droppin' about, I'd sooner be
somewhere else, an' I ain't a-goin' to say different. P'raps it's
because I'm an 'eathen."

"The hour of repentance should not be deferred," said Mr.
Gupperduck. "It is not too late even now."

"It's no good," said Bindle decisively. "I should never be
able to feel as brave as wot you are when there's a raid on."

"'Oh ye of little faith!'" murmured Mr. Gupperduck mournfully.

"Think of Daniel in the lions' den," said Mrs. Bindle.
"And Jonah in the—er—interior of the whale," added Mr.
Hearty with great delicacy.

"No," remarked Bindle, shaking his head with conviction,
"I wasn't made for lions, or whales. I suppose I'm a bit of a
coward."

"I don't feel brave when there's a raid, Uncle Joe," said
Millie Hearty loyally. She had been a silent listener. "And
mother isn't either, are you, mums?" she turned to Mrs. Hearty.

"It's my breath," responded Mrs. Hearty, patting her ample
bosom. "It gets me here."

"That's because you don't go to chapel, Martha," said Bindle.
"If you was to turn up there three times on Sundays you'd be as
brave as wot Mr. Gupperduck is. Ain't that so?" he enquired,
turning to Mr. Gupperduck.

"You're always sneering at the chapel," broke in Mrs. Bindle,
without giving the lodger time to reply. "It doesn't do us any
harm, whatever you may think."

"That's jest where you're wrong, Mrs. B.," remarked Bindle,
settling himself down for a controversy. "I ain't got nothink to
say against the chapel, if they'd only let you set quiet; but it's
such an up an' down sort o' life. When you ain't kneelin' down
a-askin' to be saved from wot you know you deserves, or kept
from doin' wot you're nuts on doin', you're a-standin' up a[Pg 37]singin'
'ymns about all sorts of uncomfortable things wot you says you 'opes
to find in 'eaven."

"You have a jaundiced view of religion, Mr. Bindle," said
Mr. Gupperduck ponderously. "A jaundiced view," he repeated,
pleased with the phrase.

"'Ave I really?" enquired Bindle anxiously. "I 'ope it ain't
catchin'. No," he continued meditatively, "I wasn't meant for
chapels. I seem to be able to think best about 'eaven when I'm
settin' smokin' after supper, with Mrs. B. a-bangin' at the stove
to remind me that I ain't there yet."

"Wot does me," he continued, "is that I never yet see any
of your chapel coves 'appier for all your singin' an' prayin'.
Why is it? Look at you three now! If you was goin' to be
plucked and trussed to-morrow, you couldn't look more fidgety."

Instinctively each of the three looked at the other two. Mr.
Gupperduck shook his head hopelessly.

"You don't understand, Joseph," murmured Mr. Hearty with
mournful resignation.

"I can understand Ruddy Bill gettin' drunk," Bindle continued,
"because 'e do look 'appy when 'e's got a skin-full; but
I can't understand you a-wantin' to pray, 'Earty, I can't really.
I only once see a lot o' religious people 'appy, an' that was
when they got drunk by mistake. Lord, didn't they teach me
an' ole 'Uggles things! 'E blushes like a gal when I mentions
it. 'Uggles 'as a nice mind, 'e 'as.

"Well, I must be goin', 'Earty, in case them 'Uns come over
to-night. You ought to be a special, 'Earty, there's some rare
fine gals on Putney 'Ill."

"Do you think there'll be an air-raid to-night?" asked Mr.
Gupperduck with something more than casual interest in his
voice.

"May be," said Bindle casually, "may be not. Funny things,
air-raids, they've changed a rare lot o' things," he remarked
meditatively. "Once we used to want the moon to come out,
sort o' made us think of gals and settin' on stiles. Mrs. B. was
a rare one for moons and stiles, wasn't you, Lizzie?"

"Don't be disgusting, Bindle." There was anger in Mrs.
Bindle's voice.

"Now," continued Bindle imperturbably, "no cove don't want
to go out an' set on a stile a-'oldin' of a gal's 'and: not 'im.
When 'is job's done, 'e starts orf for 'ome like giddy-o, an' you
don't see 'is nose again till the next mornin'."

Bindle paused to wink at Mr. Hearty.[Pg 38]

"If there's any gal now," he continued, "wot wants 'er 'and
'eld on moonlight nights, she'll 'ave to 'old it 'erself, or wait till
peace comes."

"If you would only believe, Mr. Bindle," said Mr. Gupperduck
earnestly, making a final effort at Bindle's salvation.
"'If thou canst believe, all things are possible.' Ah!"

Mr. Gupperduck started into an upright position with eyes
dilated as a loud report was heard.

"What was that?" he cried.

"That," remarked Bindle drily, as he rose and picked up his
peaked cap, "is the signal for you an' 'Earty to put your trust
in Gawd. In other words," he added, "it's a gun, 'im wot Fulham
calls 'The Barker.'"

Bindle looked from Mr. Hearty, leaden-hued with fright, to
Mr. Gupperduck, whose teeth were chattering, on to Mrs. Bindle,
who was white to the lips.

"Well, I must be orf," he said, adjusting his cap upon his
head at a rakish angle. "If I don't come back, Mrs. B., you'll
be a widow, an' widows are wonderful things. Cheer-o! all."

Bindle turned and left the room, his niece Millie following him
out into the passage.

"Uncle Joe," she said, clutching hold of his coat sleeve, "you
will be careful, won't you?" Then with a little catch in her
voice, she added, "You know you are the only Uncle Joe I've
got."

And Bindle went out into the night where the guns thundered
and the shrapnel burst in sinister white stabs in the sky,
whilst over all brooded the Great Queen of the heavens, bathing
in her white peace the red war of pigmies.

II

Two hours later Bindle's ring at the Heartys' bell was answered
by Millie.

"Oh, Uncle Joe!" she cried joyfully, "I'm so glad you're back
safe. Hasn't it been dreadful?" Her lower lip quivered a little.

"You ain't been frightened, Millikins, 'ave you?" enquired
Bindle solicitously.

"A soldier's wife isn't afraid, Uncle Joe," she replied bravely.
Millie's sweetheart, Charlie Dixon, was at the front.

"My! ain't we gettin' a woman, Millikins," cried Bindle,
putting his arm affectionately round her shoulders and kissing her
cheek loudly. "Everybody all right?" he enquired.[Pg 39]

"Yes, I think so, Uncle Joe, but," she squeezed his arm,
"I'm so glad you're back. I've been thinking of you all the
time. Every time there was a big bang I—I wondered——"

"Well, well!" interrupted Bindle, "we ain't goin' to be down-'earted,
are we? It's over now, you'll 'ear the 'All Clear' in a
few minutes."

Bindle walked into the Heartys' parlour, where Mrs. Hearty
was seated on the sofa half asleep.

"'Ullo, Martha!" he cried.

"Ah! Joe," she said, "I'm glad you're back. I'm afraid
there's been a lot of——" Her breath failed her, and she broke
off into a wheeze.

Bindle looked about him curiously.

"'Ullo! wot's 'appened to them three little cherubs?" he
enquired.

Mrs. Hearty began to shake and wheeze with laughter, and
Millie stood looking at Bindle.

"Wot's 'appened, Millikins?" he enquired. "Done a bunk,
'ave they?"

"They're—they're in the potato-cellar, Uncle Joe," said Millie
without the ghost of a smile. Somehow it seemed to her almost
like a reflection on her own courage that her father and aunt
should have thought only of their personal safety.

Bindle slapped his leg with keen enjoyment. "Well, I'm
blowed!" he cried, "if that ain't rich. Three people wot was
talkin' about puttin' their trust in Gawd a-goin' into that little
funk-'ole. Well, I'm blowed!"

"Don't laugh, Uncle Joe," began Millie, "I—I——" She
broke off, unable to express what was in her mind.

"Don't you worry, Millikins," he replied as he moved towards
the door. "I'd better go and tell 'em that it's all right."

Mr. Hearty's potato-cellar was reached through a trap-door
flush with the floor of the shop.

With the aid of an electric torch, Bindle looked about him.
His eyes fell on a large pair of scales, on which were weights up
to 7 lbs. This gave him an idea. Carefully placing a box beside
the trap-door, he lifted the scales and weights in his arms and,
with great caution, mounted on to the top of the box. Suddenly
he let the scales and weights fall with a tremendous crash, full
in the centre of the trap-door, at the same time giving vent to
a shout. Millie came running in from the parlour.

"Oh! Uncle Joe, what has happened?" she cried. "Are
you hurt?"[Pg 40]

"It's all right, Millikins, knocked over these 'ere scales I did.
Ain't I clumsy? 'Ush!"

Moans and cries could be distinctly heard from below.

"'Ere, 'elp me gather 'em up, Millikins. I 'ope I 'aven't
broken the scales."

Having replaced the scales and weights on the counter, Bindle
proceeded to pull up the trap-door.

"All clear!" he shouted cheerily.

There was no response, only a moaning from the extreme
corner of the cellar.

"'Ere, come along, 'Earty. Wot d'you two mean by takin'
my missis down into a cellar like that?"

"Is it gone?" quavered a voice that Bindle assumed must be
that of Mr. Gupperduck.

"Is wot gone?" he enquired.

"The bomb," whispered the voice.

"Oh, come up, Gupperduck," said Bindle. "Don't play the
giddy goat in the potato-cellar. Wot about you puttin' your trust
in Gawd?"

There was a sound of movement below. A few moments later Mr.
Gupperduck's face appeared within the radius of light. He had lost his
spectacles and his upper set of false teeth. His hair was awry and his
face distorted with fear. He climbed laboriously up the steps leading
to the shop. He was followed by Mr. Hearty, literally yellow with
terror.

"Wot 'ave you done with my missis?" demanded Bindle.

"She—she—she's down there," stuttered Mr. Gupperduck.

"Then you two jolly well go down and fetch 'er up, or I'll
kick you down," cried Bindle angrily. "Nice sort of sports you
are, leavin' a woman alone in an 'ole like that, after takin' er
down there."

Mr. Hearty and Mr. Gupperduck looked at Bindle and then at
each other. Slowly they turned and descended the ladder again.
For some minutes they could be heard moving about below, then
Mr. Hearty appeared with Mrs. Bindle's limp form clasped round
the waist, whilst Mr. Gupperduck pushed from behind.

For one moment a grin flitted across Bindle's features, then,
seeing Mrs. Bindle's pathetic plight, his manner changed.

"'Ere, Millikins, get some water," he cried. "Your Aunt
Lizzie's fainted."

Between them they half-carried, half-dragged Mrs. Bindle
into the parlour, where she was laid upon the sofa, vacated by
Mrs. Hearty. Her hands were chafed, water dabbed upon her[Pg 41]
forehead, and a piece of brown paper burned under her nose by
Mrs. Hearty.

She had not lost consciousness; but stared about her in a
vague, half-dazed fashion.

Mr. Hearty and Mr. Gupperduck, who had retrieved his false
teeth, seemed thoroughly ashamed of themselves. It was Mr.
Hearty who suggested that Mrs. Bindle should spend the night
with them, as she was not in a fit condition to go home.

As he spoke, the "All Clear" signal rang out joyfully upon the
stillness without, two long-drawn-out notes that told of another
twenty-four hours of safety. Mr. Gupperduck straightened himself, Mr.
Hearty seemed to revive, and from Mrs. Bindle's eyes fled the
expression of fear.

"Well, I must be orf," said Bindle. "Look after my missis,
'Earty. You comin' along, Mr. G.?" he enquired of Mr. Gupperduck,
as, followed by Millie, he left the room.

"It was sweet of you not to laugh at them, Uncle Joe," said
Millie, as they stood at the door waiting for Mr. Gupperduck.

"Nobody didn't ought to mind sayin' they're afraid, Millikins,"
said Bindle, looking at the serious face before him; "but
I don't like a cove wot says 'e's brave, an' then turns out to 'ave
about as much 'eart as a shillin' rabbit. Come along, Mr. G.
Good night, Millikins, my dear. Are we down-'earted? No!"
and Bindle went out into the night, followed by a meek and
chastened Mr. Gupperduck.

CHAPTER IV

THE DUPLICATION OF MR. HEARTY

I

"You've never been a real husband to me," burst out Mrs.
Bindle stormily.

Bindle did not even raise his eyes from his favourite
dish of stewed-steak-and-onions.

"Cold mutton," he had once remarked to his friend, Ginger,
"means peace, because I don't like it—the mutton, I mean; but
stewed-steak-and-onions means an 'ell of a row. Mrs. B. ain't
able to see me enjoyin' myself but wot she thinks I'm bein'
rude to Gawd."[Pg 42]

Bindle continued his meal in silent expectation.

"Look at you!" continued Mrs. Bindle. "Look at you now!"

Bindle still declined to be drawn into a discussion.

"Look at Mr. Hearty." Mrs. Bindle uttered her challenge with
the air of one who plays the ace of trumps.

With great deliberation Bindle wiped the last remaining vestige
of gravy from his plate with a piece of bread, which he placed
in his mouth. With a sigh he leaned back in his chair.

"Personally, myself," he remarked calmly, "I'd rather not."

"Rather not what?" snapped Mrs. Bindle.

"Look at 'Earty," was the response.

"You might look at worse men than him," flashed Mrs. Bindle
with rising wrath.

"I might," replied Bindle, "and then again I might not."

"Look how he's got on!" challenged Mrs. Bindle.

After a few moments of silence Bindle remarked more to himself
than to Mrs. Bindle:

"Gawd made me, an' Gawd made 'Earty; but in one of us
'E made a bloomer. If I'm right, 'Earty's wrong; if 'Earty's
right, I'm wrong. If they 'ave me in 'eaven, they won't want
'Earty; an' if 'Earty gets in, well, they won't look at me."

Mrs. Bindle proceeded to gather up the plates.

"Thank you for that stoo," said Bindle as he tilted back his
chair contentedly.

"You should thank God, not me," was the ungracious retort.

For a moment Bindle appeared to ponder the remark. "Some'ow,"
he said at length, "I don't think I should like to thank
Gawd for stewed-steak-an'-onions," and he drew his pipe from
his pocket and began to charge it.

"Don't start smoking," snapped Mrs. Bindle, rising from the
chair and going over to the stove.

Bindle looked up with interested enquiry on his features.

"There's an apple-pudding," continued Mrs. Bindle.

Bindle pocketed his pipe with a happy expression on his
features. "Lizzie," he said, "'ow could you treat me like
this?"

"What's the matter now?" demanded Mrs. Bindle.

"An apple-puddin' a-waitin' to be eaten, an' you lettin' me
waste time a-talkin' about 'Earty's looks. It ain't kind of you,
Lizzie, it ain't really."

Mrs. Bindle's sole response was a series of bangs, as she proceeded
to turn out the apple-pudding.

Bindle ate and ate generously. When he had finished he[Pg 43]
pushed the plate from him and once more produced his pipe
from his pocket.

"Mrs. B.," he said, "you may be a Christian; but you're a
damn fine cook."

"Don't use such language to me," was the response, uttered
a little less ungraciously than her previous remarks.

"It's all right, Mrs. B., don't you worry, they ain't a-goin' to
charge that there 'damn' up against you. You're too nervous
about the devil, you are," Bindle struck a match and sucked
at his pipe.

"He's going to open another shop," said Mrs. Bindle.

"Who, the devil?" enquired Bindle in surprise.

"It's going to be in Putney High Street," continued Mrs.
Bindle, ignoring Bindle's remark.

Bindle looked up at her with genuine puzzlement on his
features.

"Putney 'Igh Street used to be a pretty 'ot place at night
before the war," he remarked; "it ain't exactly cool now; but I
never thought o' the devil openin' a shop there."

"I said Mr. Hearty," retorted Mrs. Bindle angrily.

"Oh! 'Earty," said Bindle contemptuously. "'Earty'd open
anythink except 'is 'eart, or a barrel of apples 'e's sellin', knowin'
them to be rotten. Wot's 'e want to open another shop for?
'E's got two already, ain't 'e?"

"Why haven't you got on?" stormed Mrs. Bindle inconsequently.
"Why haven't you got three shops?"

"Well!" continued Bindle, "I might 'ave done so, but wot
should I sell in 'em?"

"You never got on, you lorst every job you ever got. You'd
'ave lorst me long ago if——"

"No," remarked Bindle with solemn conviction as he rose
and took his cap from behind the door. "You ain't the sort o'
woman wot's lorst, Mrs. B., you're one o' them wot's found,
like the little lamb that Ole Woe-and-Whiskers talked about
when I went to chapel with you that night. S'long."

The news about Mr. Hearty's third venture in the greengrocery
trade occupied Bindle's mind to the exclusion of all else as he
walked in the direction of Chelsea to call upon Dr. Richard
Little, whom he had met in connection with the Temperance
Fête fiasco at Barton Bridge. He winked at only three girls
and passed two remarks to carmen, and one to a bus-conductor,
who was holding on rather unnecessarily to the arm of a pretty
girl.[Pg 44]

He found Dick Little at home and with him his brother Tom,
and "Guggers," now a captain in the Gordons.

"Hullo! Here's J.B., gug-gug-good," cried Guggers, hurling
his fourteen stone towards the diminutive visitor.

"Blessed if it ain't ole Spit-and-Speak in petticoats," cried
Bindle. "I'm glad to see you, sir, that I am," and he shook
Guggers warmly by the hand.

Guggers, as he was known at Oxford on account of his inability
to pronounce a "G" without a preliminary "gug-gug," had taken
a prominent part in the Oxford rag, when Bindle posed as the
millionaire uncle of an unpopular undergraduate.

Bindle had christened him Spit-and-Speak owing to Gugger's
habit of salivating his words.

When the men were seated, and Bindle was puffing furiously
at a big cigar, he explained the cause of his visit.

"I ain't 'appy, sir," he said to Dick Little, "and although the
'ymn says ''ere we suffer grief an' woe,' it don't say we got to
suffer grief an' woe an' 'Earty, altogether."

"What's up, J.B.?" enquired Dick Little.

"Well, if the truth's got to be told, sir, I got 'Earty in the
throat."

"Got what?" enquired Tom Little, grinning.

"'Earty, my brother-in-law, 'Earty. I 'ad 'im thrust down my throat
to-night with stewed-steak-and-onions an' apple-puddin'. The
stewed-steak and the puddin' slipped down all right; but 'Earty
stuck."

"What's he been up to now?" enquired Dick Little.

"'E's goin' to open another shop in Putney 'Igh Street, that's
number three. 'Earty with two shops give me 'ell; but with three
shops it'll be 'ell and blazes."

"Gug-gug-gave you hell?" interrogated Guggers.

"Mrs. B.," explained Bindle laconically. Then after a pause
he added, "No matter wot's wrong at 'ome, if the pipes burst
through frost, or the butcher's late with the meat, or if it's a
sixpenny milkman instead of a fivepenny milkman, Mrs. B.
always seems to think it's through me not being like 'Earty, as
if any man 'ud be like 'Earty wot could be like somethink else,
even if it was a conchie. No," continued Bindle, "somethink's
got to be done. That's why I come round this evenin'."

"Can't we gug-gug-get up a rag?" enquired Guggers. "If I
gug-gug-go back to France without a rag we shall never beat
the Huns."

For a few minutes the four men continued to smoke, Dick[Pg 45]
Little meditatively, Bindle furiously. It was Bindle who broke
the silence.

"You may think I got a down on 'Earty, sir?" he said, addressing
Dick Little. "Well, p'rap's I 'ave: but 'Eaven's sometimes
a little late in punishin' people, an' I ain't above lendin' an 'and.
'Earty's afraid o' me because 'e's afraid of wot I may say,
knowin' wot I know."

With this enigmatical utterance, Bindle buried his face in the
tankard that was always kept for him at Dick Little's flat.

"We might of course celebrate the occasion," murmured Dick
Little meditatively.

"Gug-gug-great Scott!" cried Guggers. "We will! Gug-gug-good
old Dick!" He brought a heavy hand down on Dick Little's
shoulder blade. "Out with it!"

For the next hour the four men conferred together, and by the
time Bindle found it necessary to return to his "little grey 'ome
in the west," the success of Mr. Hearty's third shop was assured,
that is its advertisement was assured.

"It'll cost an 'ell of a lot of money," said Bindle doubtfully
as he rose to go.

"Gug-gug-get out!" cried Guggers, whose income was an affair
of five figures. "For a rag like that I'd gug-gug-give my—my——"

"Not your trousers, sir," interrupted Bindle, gazing down at
Guggers' brawny knees; "remember you gone into short clothes.
Wouldn't do for me to go about like that," he added, "me with
my various veins."

And Bindle left Dick Little's flat, rich in the knowledge he
possessed of coming events.

II

"Any'ow," remarked Bindle as he stood in front of the looking-glass
over the kitchen mantelpiece, adjusting his special constable's
cap at a suitable angle. "Any'ow, 'Earty's got a fine day."

Mrs. Bindle sniffed and banged a vegetable-dish on the dresser.
She appeared to possess an almost uncanny judgment as to how
much banging a utensil would stand without breaking.

"Now," continued Bindle philosophically, "it's a fine day, the
sun's shinin', people comin' out, wantin' to buy vegetables; yet
I'll bet my whistle to 'is whole stock that 'Earty ain't 'appy."

"We're not here to be happy," snapped Mrs. Bindle.

"It ain't always easy to see why some of us is 'ere at all,"[Pg 46]
remarked Bindle, as he gave his cap a further twist over to the
right in an endeavour to get a real Sir David Beatty touch to
his appearance.

"We're here to do the Lord's work," said Mrs. Bindle sententiously

"But d'you mean to tell me that Gawd made 'Earty specially
to sell vegetables, 'im with a face like that?" questioned Bindle.

Mrs. Bindle's reply was in bangs. Sometimes Bindle's literalness
was disconcerting.

"Did Gawd make me to move furniture?" he persisted. "No,
Mrs. B.," he continued. "It's more than likely that Gawd jest
puts us down 'ere an' lets us sort ourselves out, 'Im up there
a-watchin' to see 'ow we does it."

"You're a child of Moloch, Joseph Bindle," said Mrs. Bindle.

"A child o' what-lock?" enquired Bindle "Who's 'e?"

"Oh! go along with you, don't bother me. I'm busy," cried Mrs.
Bindle. "I promised Mr. Hearty I'd be round at two o'clock."

"Now ain't that jest like a woman," complained Bindle to a
fly-catcher hanging from the gas-bracket. "Ain't that jest like
a woman. If you're too busy to tell me why I'm a child of ole
What-a-Clock, why ain't you too busy to tell me that I am a child
of ole What-a-Clock?" and with this profound enquiry Bindle
slipped out, assuring Mrs. Bindle that he would see her some
time during the afternoon as he was to be on duty in Putney High
Street, "to see that no one don't pinch 'Earty's veges."

Ten minutes later Bindle stood in front of Mr. Hearty's new
shop, aided in his scrutiny by two women and three boys.

"There ain't no denying the fact," murmured Bindle to himself,
"that 'Earty do do the thing in style. If only 'is 'eart
wasn't wot it is, an' if 'is face was wot it might be, 'e'd make
a damn fine brother-in-law."

At that moment Mr. Hearty appeared at the door of the shop,
bowing out a lady-customer, obviously someone of importance
to judge by the obsequious manner in which he rubbed his hands
and bent his head.

"Cheer-o! 'Earty!" cried Bindle.

Mr. Hearty started and looked round. The three errand boys
and the two women looked round also and fixed their gaze on
Bindle. Mr. Hearty devoted himself more assiduously to his
customer, pretending not to have heard.

"I'll run in about six, 'Earty, and 'ave a look round,"
continued Bindle. "I'm on dooty till then. I'll see they don't
pinch your stock," and he walked slowly down the High Street[Pg 47]
in the direction of the bridge, followed by the grins and gazes
of the errand boys.

Mr. Hearty's new shop was, without doubt, the best of the
three. A study in green paint and brass-work, it was capable of
holding its own with the best shops in the West End. In the
window was a magnificent array of fruits. Outside were the
vegetables. Everything was ticketed in plain figures, figures that
were the envy and despair of other Putney greengrocers.

It was Mr. Hearty's hour.

As Bindle promenaded the High Street, his manner was one
of expectancy. Twice he looked at his watch and, when walking
in the direction of Putney Hill, he would turn and cast backward
glances along the High Street. During his second perambulation
he encountered Mrs. Bindle hurrying in the direction of
Mr. Hearty's new shop. He accorded her a salute that would
have warmed the heart of a Chief Commissioner of the Police.

Meanwhile Mr. Hearty was gazing lovingly at the curved
double brass-rail that adorned his window, looking like a harvest
festival decoration. Mr. Hearty believed in appearances. He
would buy persimmons, li-chis, bread-fruit, and custard-apples,
not because he thought he could sell them; but because they
gave tone to his shop. Those who had not heard of persimmons
and li-chis were impressed because Mr. Hearty was telling them
something they did not know; those who had heard of, possibly
eaten, them were equally impressed, because he was reminding
them of Regent Street and Piccadilly. As Bindle phrased it,
Mr. Hearty was "a damn good greengrocer."

Mr. Hearty was interrupted in his contemplation of the fruity
splendour of his genius by the entry of a customer, at least
something had come between him and the light of the sun.

He turned, started violently and stared. Then he blinked his
eyes and stared again. A man had entered wearing a silk-faced
frock-coat of dubious fit and doubtful age, a turn-down collar, a
white tie and trousers that concertinaed over large ill-shaped
boots. On his head was a black felt hat, semi-clerical in type,
insured against any sudden vagary of the wind by a hat-guard.

Mr. Hearty gazed at the man, his eyes dilated in astonishment.
He stared at the stranger's sunken, sallow cheeks, at his heavy
moustache, at his mutton-chop whiskers. The man was his
double: features, expression, clothes; all were the same.

"'Ullo! 'Earty! Put me down for a cokernut an' an onion."

Bindle, who had entered at that moment, dug the stranger in
the ribs from behind. He turned round upon his assailant, then[Pg 48]
Bindle saw Mr. Hearty standing in the shadow. He looked from
him to the stranger and back again with grave intentness. Both
men regarded Bindle.

"Good afternoon, Joseph," said Mr. Hearty at length in his
toneless voice, that always seemed to come from somewhere in
the woolly distance.

"Good afternoon, Joseph," said the stranger in a voice that
was a very clever imitation of that of Mr. Hearty.

Bindle fumbled in the breast-pocket of his tunic and produced
a box of matches. Going up to Mr. Hearty he struck a match.
Mr. Hearty started back as if doubtful of his intentions. Bindle
proceeded to examine Mr. Hearty's features by the flickering light
of the match, then turning to the stranger, he went through the
same performance with him. Finally pushing his cap back he
scratched his head in perplexity.

"Well, I'm damned!" he ejaculated. "Two 'Earty's."

"I want a cauliflower, please." It was the stranger who spoke.

Bindle once more proceeded to regard the stranger critically.

"I s'pose you're what they call an alibi," he remarked.

The stranger had no time to reply, as at that moment another
man entered. In garb and appearance he was a replica of the
first. Mr. Hearty looked as a man might who, without previous
experience of alcohol, has just drunk a whole bottle of whisky.

Bindle whistled, grinned, then he smacked his leg vigorously.

"My cauliflower, please," said the first man.

"Good afternoon, Joseph," said the new arrival. The voice
was not so good an imitation.

At that moment Smith, Mr. Hearty's right-hand man, thrust
his head through the flap in the floor of the shop that gave access
to the potato-cellar. He caught sight of the trinity of masters.
He gave one frightened glance, ducked his head, and let the flap
down with a bang just as a third "Mr. Hearty" entered. He
was followed almost immediately by a fourth and fifth. Each
greeted Bindle with a "Good-afternoon, Joseph."

Just as the sixth Mr. Hearty entered, Smith pushed up the
flap again, this time a few inches only, and with dilated eyes
looked out. The sight of seven "masters," as he afterwards
confessed to Billy Nips, the errand boy, "shook 'im up crool."
Keeping his eyes fixed warily upon the group of men, each
demanding a cauliflower, Smith slowly drew himself up and out,
letting the cellar-flap down with a bang as he slipped to the
back of the shop away from the group. Was he drunk, or only
dreaming?[Pg 49]

"I woke up with one brother-in-law, an' now I got seven,"
cried Bindle as he walked over and opened the glass-door, with
white lace curtains tied back with blue ribbon, at the back of the
shop.

"Martha," he shouted, "Martha, you're wanted!"

An indistinct sound was heard and a minute later Mrs. Hearty
appeared, enormously fat and wheezing painfully.

"That you, Joe?" she panted as she struck her ample bosom
with clenched hand. "My breath! it's that bad to-day." For
a moment she stood blinking in the sunlight.

"See 'em, Martha?" ejaculated Bindle, pointing to Mr. Hearty
and the "alibis." "Seven of 'em. You're a bigamist, sure as
eggs, Martha, an' Millie ain't never goin' to be an orphan."

As she became accustomed to the glare of the sunlight, Mrs.
Hearty looked in a dazed way at the group of "husbands,"
all gazing in her direction. Then she suddenly began to shake
and wheeze. It took very little to make Mrs. Hearty laugh,
sometimes nothing at all. Now she sat down suddenly on a sack
of potatoes and heaved and shook with silent laughter.

Suddenly Mr. Hearty became galvanised into action.

"How—how dare you!" he fumed. "Get out of my shop,
confound you!"

"'Earty, 'Earty!" protested Bindle, "fancy you a-usin' language
like that. I'm surprised at you."

Mr. Hearty looked about him like a caged animal, then suddenly
he turned to Bindle.

"Joseph," he cried, "I give these men in charge."

The men regarded Mr. Hearty with melancholy unconcern.

"Give 'em in charge!" repeated Bindle in surprise. "Wot for?"

"They're—they're like me," stammered Mr. Hearty in a rage
that, with a man of more robust nature, must have found vent
in physical violence.

"Well," remarked Bindle judicially, "I can't run a cove in for
bein' like you, 'Earty. Although," he added as an afterthought,
"'e ought to be in quod."

"It's a scandal," stuttered Mr. Hearty, "it's a—a——" He
broke off, words were mild things to express his state of indignation.
Turning to Bindle he cried, "Joseph, turn them out of my
shop, in—in the name of the Law," he added melodramatically.

"You 'ear, sonnies?" remarked Bindle, turning to the passive
six. "'Op it, although," he added meditatively as he eyed the
six duplicates, "wot I'm to do with you if you won't go, only
'Eaven knows, an' 'Eaven don't confide in me."[Pg 50]

The six figures themselves settled Bindle's problem by marching
solemnly out of the shop, each with a "Good afternoon, Joseph."

"Joseph, what is the meaning of this?" demanded Mr. Hearty,
turning to Bindle as the last black-coated figure left the shop.
"What is the meaning of this?"

"You may search me, 'Earty," replied Bindle. "I should 'ave
called 'em twins, if there 'adn't been so many. Sort o' litter,
wasn't it? 'Ope they're all respectable, or there'll be trouble
for you, 'Earty. You'd better wear a bit o' ribbon round your
arm, so's we shall know you."

"Bindle, you're at the bottom of this." Mrs. Bindle had come
out of the back-parlour, just as the duplicates were leaving. She
regarded her husband with a suspicion that amounted to certainty.

"Me?" queried Bindle innocently; "me at the bottom of wot?"

"You know something about these men. It's a shame, and
this Mr. Hearty's first day. Look how it's upset him."

"Now 'ow d'you think I could make six alibis like them——"
Bindle's defence was interrupted by the sound of music.

"Well, I'm blowed!" he exclaimed, "if it ain't them alibis."

The "doubles" had all produced tin whistles, which they were
playing as they marched slowly up and down in front of Mr.
Hearty's premises. Five seemed to have selected each his own
hymn without consultation with his fellows; the sixth, probably
a secularist, had fallen back upon "The Men of Harlech."

A crowd was already gathering.

Mr. Hearty looked about him like a hunted rat, he rushed
to the shop door, desperation in his eyes, violence in his mind.
Before he had an opportunity of coming to a decision as to his
course of action, a new situation arose, that distracted his thoughts
from the unspeakable "alibis."

CHAPTER V

THE GATHERING OF THE BANDS

From the direction of Putney Bridge a large crowd was approaching. People
were leaning over the sides of omnibuses, staring out of the windows of
trams, boys were whistling and exchanging comments, the purport of which Mr.
[Pg 51]
Hearty could not quite catch. In this new excitement he forgot the
"alibis," who gradually became absorbed in the growing throng that
collected outside the shop.

Mr. Hearty gazed at the approaching multitude, misgiving in
his soul. He caught a glimpse of what looked like a pineapple
walking in the midst of the crowd, next he saw a carrot, then an
orange. He turned away, blinked his eyes and looked again.
This time he saw, moving in his direction, an enormous bean,
followed by a potato. Yes, there was no doubt about it, fruit
and vegetables were walking up Putney High Street!

As they came nearer he saw that each vegetable was leading
a donkey, on whose back were two boards, meeting at the top,
thus forming a triangle, the base of which was strapped to the
animal's back. People were pointing to the boards and laughing.
Mr. Hearty could not see what was written on them.

The sensation was terrific. A group of small boys who had run
on ahead took up a position near the door of Mr. Hearty's shop.

"That's 'im," cried one, "that's Napoleon."

"No, it ain't," said another, "that's Caesar."

Mechanically Mr. Hearty waved the boys away. They
repeated words that to him were meaningless, and then pointed
to the approaching crowd. Mr. Hearty was puzzled and alarmed.

"Look! guv'nor, there they are," shouted one of the boys.

Instinctively Mr. Hearty looked. At first he beheld only the
donkeys, the animated fruit and the approaching crowd, then
he suddenly saw his own name. A motor omnibus intervened.
A moment later the donkeys and their boards came into full view.
Mr. Hearty gasped.

On their boards were ingenious exhortations to the public to
support the enterprise of Alfred Hearty, greengrocer, of Putney,
Fulham and Wandsworth. Mr. Hearty read as one in a dream:

Alfred Hearty

The Napoleon of Greengrocers



Alfred Hearty

The Caesar of Fruiterers



Alfred Hearty

The Prince of Potato Merchants



Hearty's Two-Shilling Pineapple

Try it in Your Bath

[Pg 52]

Hearty's Jerusalem Artichokes

General Allenby Eats Them



The Germans Fight For

Hearty's Brussels Sprouts

As the six animals filed past, Mr. Hearty was conscious that
hundreds of eyes were gazing in his direction. He read one sign
after another as if hypnotised, then he read them again. Scarcely
had the animals passed him, when the pineapple swung round
leading his donkey, the others immediately followed. As they
came back on the other side of the way, that nearest to Mr.
Hearty, he had the benefit of reading further details about the
wonderful properties of the fruit and vegetables he retailed. The
second set of exhortations to the housewives of Putney ran:

Eat Hearty's Filberts, Oh! Gilbert,

The Nut

Nut-Crackers With Every Bag



Hearty's French Beans

Saved Verdun



Try Hearty's Juicy Cabbages

They Cure Baldness



The Food Controller Recommends Carrots

Try Hearty's—I Have



Alfred Hearty

Known As Pineapple Alf



If You Don't Buy Your Vegetables

From Alfred Hearty

You Will Be What I Am

The last-named was particularly appreciated, everybody being
able to see the joke and, thinking that no one else had been so
clever, each took infinite pains to point it out to his neighbour.

At first Mr. Hearty went very white, then, realising that the
crowd was laughing at him, and that he was being rendered
ridiculous, he flushed crimson,—turning round he walked into[Pg 53]
the shop. There was a feeling in his throat and eyes that
reminded him of what he had felt as a child after a storm of
crying. His brain seemed deadened. From out the general hum
he heard a boy's shrill voice enquiring the whereabouts of his
mate, and the mate's reply was heard in the distance.

Suddenly a new sensation dwarfed that of the donkeys.

"Here's another! here's another!" yelled a shrill voice.

The crowd looked up the High Street towards the bridge. With
stately lope a camel was pursuing its majestic way. On its back
was an enormous water-melon, through which appeared the head
of the driver shaded by leaves, a double stalk concealing his legs.

From the shelter of the double brass-rail Mr. Hearty watched
the camel as if fascinated. The donkeys had come to a standstill
outside the shop. Behind him stood Mrs. Bindle and Smith, the
one very grim, the other grinning expansively, whilst from the
gloom behind, Mrs. Hearty was heard wheezing and demanding
what it was all about.

With stately and indifferent tread the camel approached, with
head poised rather like a snake about to strike. Slung over its
back on each side were notices. The one Mr. Hearty first saw
read:

I've Got the Hump

Through Not Buying Hearty's Vegetables

As the beast swung round, the other motto presented itself:

Eat Hearty's Leeks

They Defy the Plumber

Cheers, cat-calls, loud whistlings and the talk of an eager,
excited Saturday-afternoon crowd formed a background to the
picture.

"Well, I'm blowed!" muttered Bindle, who had read the
notices with keen relish. "Well, I'm blowed! They done it
in style."

The excitement was at its height when the steady pounding of
a drum was heard in the distance. As it drew nearer, the attention
of the crowd was attracted from the donkeys and the camel.
Putney was in luck, and it looked gratefully in the direction of
where Mr. Hearty stood, a shadowy form behind his double
brass-rail.

Bindle recognised the tune the band was playing as that of[Pg 54]
Mr. Hearty's favourite hymn, "Pull for the Shore, Sailor." As
the band entered the High Street, another was heard in the
opposite direction.

Bindle turned into the shop and walked up to his brother-in-law,
who still stood staring at the strange and curious beasts
that were advertising his wares.

"Look 'ere, 'Earty," he said, in his most official manner, "this
may be all very well in the way of business; but you're blocking
the 'ole bloomin' 'Igh Street."

Mr. Hearty gazed at Bindle with unseeing eyes.

"These bands yours, too, 'Earty?" Bindle enquired.

Mr. Hearty shook his head in hopeless negation. Nothing was his, not
even the power to move and rout this scandalous, zoological-botanical
exhibition.

"Well, wot are they a-playin' 'ymns for?" demanded Bindle.

"Hymns?" enquired Mr. Hearty in a toneless voice.

"Yes, can't you 'ear 'em?" Bindle gazed at his brother-in-law
curiously. "Enough to blow your 'ead orf."

The first band was now blaring out its "Pull for the Shore,
Sailor," with full force. At its head walked a man carrying a
representation of a cabbage, on which was painted:

Hearty For Cabbages

The bandsmen wore strangely nondescript clothes. With one
exception they all seemed to possess the uniform cap, that exception
was a man in khaki. Four of them had caps without tunics.
Only one had the full regulation uniform; but he was wearing
odd boots. The bandmaster, in a braided frock-coat, which
reached well below his knees, was spasmodically putting in bits
on a cornet; he was short of stature with a constricted wind, and
the pace was fast.

The second band approached, the man at its head bearing a
carrot with a similar legend as that of the rival concern; but
in relation to carrots. "Onward, Christian Soldiers" was its
melody. The noise became diabolical. The second band had
uniform caps only, and two of its members had taken off their
coats and hung them over their shoulders. It was a hot and
tiring day.

At the moment when the second band was within a hundred
yards of the shop, the camel raised its head and gave vent to its
terrifying roar, a rather indifferent attempt to imitate that of a
lion.

The "Onward, Christian Soldiers" band was the first to reach[Pg 55]
the shop, having a shorter distance to traverse. Its leader was
a tall man with a weary face, and a still more weary moustache.
His waistcoat was unbuttoned, and his face dripping with perspiration
as he blew out what brains he possessed upon a silver cornet. He
marched straight up to the door of the shop, blowing vigorously.
Suddenly a double beat of the drum gave the signal to stop. Taking off
his cap, with the back of his hand he wiped the sweat from his brow.
Pushing past Mr. Hearty he entered, a moment after followed by his
eleven confrères.

For a moment Mr. Hearty stared, then he retreated backwards
before the avalanche of musicians.

"What do you want?" he demanded feebly.

"This the way upstairs, guv'nor?" enquired the tall man.

"Upstairs?" interrogated Mr. Hearty.

"Yus, upstairs, like me to say it again?" queried the man
who was tired and short-tempered.

"But, what——?" began Mr. Hearty.

"Oh, go an' roast yourself!" responded the man. "Come
along, boys," and they tramped through the back-parlour. Mr.
Hearty heard them pounding up the stairs.

The drum, however, refused to go through the narrow door.
The drummer tried it at every conceivable angle. At last he
recognised that he had met his Waterloo.

"Hi, Charlie!" he yelled.

"'Ullo! That you, Ted?" came the reply from above.

"Ruddy drum's stuck," yelled the drummer, equally hot
and exasperated.

"Woooot?" bawled Charlie.

"Ruddy drum won't go up," cried Ted.

"All right, you stay down there, you can 'ear us and keep
time," was the response.

The drummer subsided on to a sack of potatoes. Mr. Hearty
approached him.

"What are you doing here? You're not my band," he said,
eyeing the man apprehensively.

The drummer looked up with the insolence of a man who
sees before him indecision.

"Who the blinkin' buttercups said we was?" he demanded.

"But what are you doing here?" persisted Mr. Hearty.

"Oh!" responded the man with elaborate civility, "we come
to play forfeits, wot jer think?"

At that moment from the room above the shop the band broke
into full blast with "Shall We Gather at the River." The drum[Pg 56]mer
made a grab at his sticks, but was late, and for the rest of
the piece, was a beat behind in all his bangs.

Mr. Hearty looked helplessly about him. Another cheer from
without caused him to walk to the door. Outside, the "Pull for
the Shore, Sailor," faction was performing valiantly. Their
blood was up, and they were determined that no one should
gather at the river if they could prevent it.

In the distance several more bands were heard, and the pounding became
terrific. All traffic had been stopped, and an inspector of police was
pushing his way through the crowd in the direction of Mr. Hearty.
Bindle joined the inspector, saluting him elaborately.

The inspector eyed Mr. Hearty with official disapproval.

"You must send these men away, sir," he said with decision.

"But—but," said Mr. Hearty, "I can't."

"But you must," said the inspector. "There will be a summons,
of course," he added warningly.

"But—why?" protested Mr. Hearty.

The inspector looked at Mr. Hearty, and then gazed up and
down Putney High Street. He was annoyed.

"You have blocked the whole place, sir. We've had to stop the trams
coming round the Putney Bridge Road. Hi!" he shouted to the drummer
who was conscientiously earning his salary.

"Stop that confounded row there!"

The man did not hear.

"Stop it, I say!" shouted the inspector.

The drummer stopped.

"Wot's the matter?" he enquired.

"You're causing an obstruction," said the inspector warningly.

"Ted!" yelled the voice of the leader at the top of the house,
who was gathering at the river upon the cornet in a fine frenzy,
"wot the 'ell are you stoppin' for?"

"It's the pleece," yelled back Ted informatively.

"The cheese?" bawled back Charlie. "Shouldn't eat it; it
always makes you ill. Go ahead and bang that ruddy drum."

"Can't," yelled Ted. "They'll run me in."

The leader was evidently determined not to bandy words with
his subordinate. He could be heard pounding down the stairs
two at a time, still doing his utmost to interpret the pleasures
awaiting Putney in the hereafter. The cornet could be heard
approaching nearer and nearer becoming brassier and brassier.
The leader was a note behind the rest by the time he had got[Pg 57]
to the bottom of the stairs. Arrived in the shop he stopped
suddenly at the sight of the inspector.

"Tell them to stop that infernal row," ordered the officer.

He, who had been addressed as Charlie, looked from Mr.
Hearty to the inspector.

"There ain't no law that can stop me," he said with decision, "I'm on
the enclosed premises. Go ahead, Ted," he commanded, turning to the
drummer, "take it out of 'er," and, resuming his cornet, Charlie
picked up the tune and raced up the stairs again, leaving Ted "taking
it out of 'er" in a way that more than made up for the time he had
lost.

The inspector bit his lip. Turning to Mr. Hearty he said, "You will be
charged with causing obstruction with all this tomfoolery."

"But—but—it isn't mine," protested Mr. Hearty weakly. "I
know nothing about it."

"Nonsense!" said the inspector. "Look at those animals out
there."

Mr. Hearty looked, and then looked back at the inspector, who said
something; but Mr. Hearty could only see the movement of his lips. The
babel became almost incredible. Three more bands had arrived, making
five altogether, and there was a sound in the distance that indicated
the approach of others. For the first time in his life Ted was
experiencing the sweets of being able legally to defy the law, and he
was enjoying to the full a novel experience.

At that moment Mrs. Bindle pushed her way into the shop.
She had been out to get a better view of what was taking place.
She stopped and stared from Mr. Hearty to the inspector, and
then back to Mr. Hearty.

"I—I don't know what it means," he stammered, feeling that
something was required of him; but no one heard him.

Bindle, who had hitherto been quiet in the presence of his
superior officer, now took a hand in matters.

[Pg 58]

"Look 'ere, 'Earty," he shouted during a lull in the proceedings,
"advertisement's advertisement, an' very nice too, but this 'ere is
obstruction. Ain't that right, sir?" he said, addressing the
inspector; but the inspector did not hear him, it is doubtful if Mr.
Hearty heard, for at that moment there had turned into the High Street
from Wandsworth Bridge Road a double-drummed band playing something
with a slight resemblance to "Gospel Bells," a melody that gives a
wonderful opportunity for the trombones.

There were now one band upstairs and five in the High
Street, as near to the shop as they could cluster, and a
seventh approaching. All were striving to interpret Moody
and Sankey as Moody and Sankey had never been interpreted
before.

The inspector walked out on to the pavement, and vainly
strove to signal to two of his men whose helmets could be seen
among the crowd.

Mr. Hearty's eyes followed the officer, but he soon became absorbed in
other things. From the Wimbledon end of the High Street he saw bobbing
about in the crowd a number of brilliant green caps with yellow braid
upon them. The glint of brass in their neighbourhood forewarned him
that another band was approaching. From the bobbing movement of the
caps, it was obvious that the men were fighting their way in the
direction of his, Mr. Hearty's shop.

Glancing in the other direction, Mr. Hearty saw a second
stream of dark green and red caps, likewise making for him.
When the leader of the green and yellow caps, a good-natured
little man carrying a cornet, burst through the crowd, it was
like spring breaking in upon winter. The brilliant green tunic
with its yellow braid was dazzling in the sunlight, and Mr.
Hearty blinked his eyes several times.

"'Ot day, sir," said the little man genially as he took off
his cap and, with the edge of his forefinger, removed the sweat
from his brow, giving it a flick that sent some of the moisture
on to Mr. Hearty, causing him to start back suddenly.

"Sorry, sir," said the man apologetically. "Afraid I splashed you. I
suppose we go right through and up. Come along, Razor," he yelled to
the last of his bandsmen, a thin, weedy youth, who was still vainly
endeavouring to cut his way through the crowd.

Suddenly the little man saw the first drummer banging away
vigorously.

"'Ullo, got another little lot inside! You don't 'alf know
'ow to advertise, mister," he said admiringly.

This reminded Mr. Hearty that he possessed a voice.

"There is some mistake. I have not ordered any band," he
shouted in the little man's ear.

"Wot?" shouted the little man.

Mr. Hearty repeated his assurance.

"Not ordered any band. Seem to 'ave ordered all the bands
in London, as far as I can see," he remarked, looking at the[Pg 59]
rival concerns. "Sort of Crystal Palace affair. You ordered
us, any'ow," he added.

"But I didn't," persisted Mr. Hearty. "This is all a mistake."

"Oh, ring orf!" said the leader. "People don't pay in advance
for what they don't want. Come along, boys," he cried and,
pushing his way along the shop, he passed through the parlour
door and was heard thumping upstairs.

"You can't get through," shouted Ted to the second drummer,
a mournful-looking man with black whiskers.

"Wot?" he bawled dully.

"Can't get through," yelled Ted.

"Why?" roared the whiskered man.

"Ruddy drum won't go up," shouted Ted.

"Oh!" said the second drummer and, without testing the
accuracy of Ted's words, he seated himself upon a barrel of
apples, his drum still in position.

There was a sound of loud altercations from above. After a
minute they subsided, and the volume of tone increased, showing
that Charlie had found expression in his cornet.

"Where's Striker?" came the cry.

"Strikeeeeeeeer!" yelled several voices.

"'Ullo!" howled Striker in a muffled voice.

"We're all ready. Wot the 'ell are you doin', Striker?" came
the response.

"Drum won't come up," bawled Striker.

"Wot?"

"Drum won't come up, too big."

"Right-o! you can pick us up," came the leader's reply.

A moment later "Onward, Christian Soldiers," broke out in
brassy rivalry to "Shall We Gather at the River."

Mrs. Hearty and Mrs. Bindle fled into the parlour.

It is obvious that whatever phenomenon eternity may have
to discover to man, it will not be Christian soldiers gathering at
the river. The noise was stupendous. The stream of brassy
discord that descended from above was equalled only by the
pounding of the two drums that rose from below.

[Pg 60]

Ted had made some reflections upon the whiskers of the second drummer,
with the result that, forgetting their respective bands, they were now
engaged in a personal contest, thumping and pounding against each
other with both sticks. The sweat poured down their faces, and their
mouths were working, each expressing opinions, which, however, the
other could not hear. At that moment the dark green caps with red
braid began to trickle into the shop.

Bindle, who had been a delighted spectator of the arrival of
band after band, suggested to the leader of the eighth band in a
roar that just penetrated to the drum of his ear, "'Adn't you
better start 'ere, there ain't no room upstairs?"

The man gave a comprehensive look round, then by signs
indicated to his men that they were to start then and there. They
promptly broke out into "The Last Noel." Bindle ran from
the shop, his fingers in his ears.

"Oh, my Gawd! they'll bring the 'ole bloomin' 'ouse down,"
he muttered. "I 'ope they don't play 'ymns in 'eaven—them
drums!"

Mr. Hearty, who had been pushed into a corner behind an
apple barrel, stood and gazed about him. There was a dazed
look in his eyes, as of one who does not comprehend what is
taking place. He looked as if at any moment he might become
a jibbering lunatic.

A wild cheer from the crowd attracted his attention. He looked out.
Pushing their way towards the shop was a number of vegetables: a
carrot, a turnip, a cabbage, a tomato, a cucumber, a potato, a marrow,
to name only a few. Each seemed to be on legs and was playing an
instrument of some description.

Was he mad? Could that really be a melon playing the drum?
Did bananas play cornets? Could cucumbers draw music from
piccolos? Mr. Hearty blinked his eyes. Here indeed was a
dream, a nightmare. He saw Bindle with an inspector and a
constable turn the vegetables back, obviously denying them
admission. He watched as one who has no personal interest
in the affair. He saw the inspector enter with three constables,
he saw the green and red band ejected, Ted and the whiskered
man silenced, Charlie and the short genial man brought down
protesting from upstairs.

He saw the inspector's busy pencil fly from side to side of
his notebook, he saw Bindle grinning cheerfully as he exchanged
remarks with the bandsmen, he saw what looked like a never-ending
procession of bandsmen stream past him.

He saw everything, he believed nothing. Perhaps it was brain fever. He
had worked very hard over his new shop. If he were to die, Smith could
never carry on the three businesses. What would become of them? He
further knew that his afternoon trade was ruined, that he would
probably be summoned for something that he had not done, and tears
came to his eyes.[Pg 61]

In Mr. Hearty's soul was nothing of the patience and long-suffering of
the martyr. Behind him, above him and in front of him he still seemed
to hear the indescribable blare of brass. Outside were the cheers of
the crowd and the vain endeavours of the police to grapple with the
enormous problem that had been set them. What could it all mean?

In the kitchen behind the parlour sat Mrs. Hearty wheezing painfully.
Opposite to her stood Mrs. Bindle, tight-lipped and grim.

"That Bindle's done this," she muttered to herself. "It'll kill Mr.
Hearty."

CHAPTER VI

MR. GUPPERDUCK'S MISHAP

"I've been out all day waiting in queues," remarked Mrs.
Bindle complainingly, "and all I got was two candles and
a quarter of a pound of marjarine."

"An' which are we goin' to 'ave for breakfast to-morrow?"
enquired Bindle cheerfully.

"Yes, a lot you care!" retorted Mrs. Bindle, "coming home
regular to your meals and expecting them to be ready, and then
sitting down and eating. A lot you care!" she repeated.

"Wot jer want to take a lodger for," demanded Bindle, "if
you can't get food enough for you an' me?"

"Doesn't his money help us pay our way?" demanded Mrs.
Bindle.

"But wot's the good of 'avin' more money, Mrs. B., if you
can't get enough food to go round?"

"That's right, go on!" stormed Mrs. Bindle. "A lot of
sympathy I get from you, a lot you care about me walking
myself off my feet, so long as your stomach's full."

Bindle scratched his head in perplexity, but forbore to retort;
instead he hummed Mrs. Bindle's favourite hymn "Gospel Bells."

"Look what you done to Mr. Hearty, that Saturday," cried
Mrs. Bindle.

"Me!" said Bindle, cursing himself for reminding her by
humming the hymn.

"Yes, you!" was the reply. "He had to go to the police-court."[Pg 62]

"Well, it's made 'is fortune, an' 'e got orf," replied Bindle.

"Yes, but it might have ruined him. You wouldn't have
cared, and in war-time too," Mrs. Bindle added.

"Well, well! the war'll be over some day," said Bindle cheerfully.

"That's what you always say. Why don't they make peace?"
demanded Mrs. Bindle, as if Bindle himself were the sole obstacle
to the tranquillisation of the world. Mrs. Bindle sat down with
a decisiveness that characterised all her movements.

"Sometimes I wish I was dead," she remarked. "There's
nothin' but inching and pinching and slaving my fingers to the
bone trying to make a shilling go further than it will, and yet
they won't make peace."

"Mrs. B.," remarked Bindle, "you best keep to cookin', you're
a dab at that, and leave politics to them wot understands 'em.
You can't catch a mad dog by puttin' salt on 'is tail. I wonder
where ole Guppy is," he continued, glancing at the kitchen clock,
which pointed to half-past nine. "It ain't often 'e lets praying
get in the way of 'is meals."

"I hope nothing has happened to him," remarked Mrs. Bindle
a little anxiously.

"No fear o' that," replied Bindle regretfully. "Things don't
'appen to men like Gupperduck; still it's funny 'im missin' a
meal," he added.

At a quarter to ten Mrs. Bindle reluctantly acquiesced in
Bindle's demand for supper. She was clearly anxious, listening
intently for the familiar sound of Mr. Gupperduck's key in the
outer door.

"I wonder what could have happened?" she said as the
clock indicated a quarter past ten and she rose to clear away.

"P'raps 'e's been took up to 'eaven like that cove wot 'Earty
was talkin' about the other night," suggested Bindle.

Mrs. Bindle's sniff intimated that she considered such a remark
unworthy of her attention.

"Ah! King Richard is 'isself again!" remarked Bindle, pushing
his plate from him, throwing himself back in his chair, and
proceeding to fill his pipe, indifferent as to what happened to
the lodger.

Mrs. Bindle busied herself in putting Mr. Gupperduck's supper
in the oven to keep warm.

"Funny sort of job for a man to take up," remarked Bindle
conversationally, as he lighted his pipe, "preaching at people
wot only laughs back."[Pg 63]

"Oh! you think so, do you!" snapped Mrs. Bindle.

"I was listenin' to 'em one afternoon in Regent's Park,"
remarked Bindle. "Silly sort o' lot they seemed to me."

"You're nothing but a heathen yourself," accused Mrs. Bindle.

"As long as a cove keeps 'is religion to 'imself, I don't see it
matters to nobody wot 'e thinks, any more than whether 'e wears
blue or pink pants under his trousers."

"Don't be disgusing, Bindle," snapped Mrs. Bindle.

"Disgustin'! what's disgustin'?"

"Talking of what you talked of," replied Mrs. Bindle with
asperity.

"Well, I'm blowed!" said Bindle. "There you 'angs 'em on
the line on Mondays for everybody to see, and yet you mustn't
talk about 'em; well, I'm blowed!" he repeated.

"What do they say in the park?" questioned Mrs. Bindle
curiously.

"Oh! they says a lot o' things," replied Bindle. "Personally
myself I think the atheists is the funniest. There was one cove
there wot was very thin, and very anxious-looking. Said 'e
wouldn't insult 'is intelligence by believin' the things wot
preachers said, so I put a question to 'im."

"What did you say?" enquired Mrs. Bindle.

"I asks 'im if 'e was quite sure 'e 'ad any intelligence to insult,
an' that made 'em laugh."

Mrs. Bindle nodded her head in approval.

Bindle regarded her in wide-eyed amazement. Never before
in the whole of his experience had he known her approve word
or action of his.

"Did he say anything else?" queried Mrs. Bindle.

"No; 'e soon got down, an' another cove got up. Then they
started a Christian meeting next door, and there was them two
lots of people shouting all sorts of things at each other. Wot
Gawd must 'ave thought of it all does me. Why can't they stay
at home and pray if they feel as bad as all that. A day a month
at 'ome to blow orf, instead of goin' into Regent's Park, a-kicking
up a row so as you can't 'ear the birds sing, makes you feel
ashamed o' bein' a man, it does. One chap got up and said
he was goin' to prove there wasn't no Gawd."

"And what did he say?" asked Mrs. Bindle with interest.

"All 'e could say was, that 'im and 'is friends 'ad searched
everywhere through wot they called the whole physical world, an' they
'adn't found 'Im, therefore there wasn't no Gawd."[Pg 64]

"They didn't ought to allow it," commented Mrs. Bindle indignantly.

"Then another cove got up and said 'e 'oped that 'is friend,
wot 'ad just got down, 'ad proved to the whole Park that there
wasn't no Gawd, and if there was any thinkin' different would
they 'old up their 'ands."

"Did anybody hold up their hands?" asked Mrs. Bindle.

"Yes, up went my little 'and like a whiz-bang," announced
Bindle.

Mrs. Bindle gave Bindle a look that she usually reserved for
Mr. Hearty.

"'Well, sir!' says 'e, lookin' at me, 'wot is your question?'

"'Well,' says I, 'will you and your pals come round with
me to-morrow morning an' try and enlist?' There was a rare
lot of khaki boys round there, and didn't they raise a yell. That
was the end of that meeting. Every time anyone tried to get up
an' speak, them khaki boys started a-'ootin' and a-callin' out,
and 'avin' of a rare ole time. There was one cove wot made us
laugh fit to die. Every time one o' the atheists started talkin',
'e said in a 'igh-pitched voice, 'Oh, Cuthbert, don't!' as if it
was a gal wot was being squeezed."

Mrs. Bindle had listened to Bindle with the nearest approach
to approval that she had ever shown.

"There was another cove there," continued Bindle, warming
to his subject. "Funny little feller 'e was too, all cap an' overcoat,
talking about the Judgment Day. Awful things 'e promised
us, 'e did. Made out as if Gawd was worse than an 'Un. 'E
said 'e'd be standin' beside Gawd when all the people was
judged, and 'e'd tell 'Im 'ow 'e'd been in Regent's Park a-warnin'
people wot was goin' to 'appen, and no one wouldn't take no
notice. Then we was all goin' to be sent into a sort of mixed-grill
and burnt for ever. Nice comforting little cove 'e was;
pleasant to live with," added Bindle drily.

"Why religion can't make you 'appy without you a-tryin' to
make other people un'appy is wot does me. When I got a good
cigar I don't go waving it in the face of every cove I meets,
saying, 'Ah! you ain't got a cigar like this, you only got a
woodbine.' Don't seem good-natured, it don't."

"We've got to save souls," remarked Mrs. Bindle with grim
decision.

"But didn't a man ought to be good because he wants to
be good, and not because 'e's afraid of being bad?" demanded
Bindle.[Pg 65]

Mrs. Bindle pondered over this remark for a moment; but
finding it too deep for her replied, "You always was a doubter,
Bindle; I'd have been a happier woman if you hadn't been."

"But," continued Bindle, "do you think Gawd wants to 'ave
a man in chapel wot wants to be at the Empire, only doesn't
go because 'e's afraid? I wouldn't if I was Gawd," he added,
shaking his head with decision. "Look at 'Earty's 'orse on
Saturday nights. Can't 'ardly drag itself to the stables, it can't,
yet 'Earty's as sure of 'eaven as I am of you, Mrs. B."

Mrs. Bindle was silent, her manner was distraite, she was
listening for the sound of Mr. Gupperduck's return.

"I'd give my sugar ration to know wot we're all a-goin' to do
in 'eaven," remarked Bindle meditatively. "Fancy 'Earty there!
Wot will 'e do? They won't let 'im sell vegetables, and they'll
soon stop 'im singing."

"We shall all have our occupations," remarked Mrs. Bindle
oracularly.

"Yes, but wot?" demanded Bindle. "There ain't no furniture
to move an' no vegetables to sell. All I can do is to watch 'Earty,
an' see 'e don't go round pinchin' angels' meat-tickets."

For once Mrs. Bindle allowed a remark to pass without the
inevitable accusation of blasphemy!

"No," remarked Bindle, "if I dies an' they sends me up to
'eaven, I shall knock at the door, an' I shall say, 'Is 'Earty 'ere?
'Earty the Fulham and Putney greengrocer, you know.' If they
says 'Yes,' then it's a smoker for me;" and Bindle proceeded
to re-charge his pipe. "I often thought——"

Bindle was interrupted by a loud knocking at the outer door.
With a swift movement Mrs. Bindle rose and passed out of the
kitchen. Bindle listened. There was a sound of men's voices
in the outer passage, with the short, sharper tones of Mrs. Bindle.
A moment later the door opened, and two men entered supporting
the limp form of Mr. Gupperduck.

"'Oly angels!" cried Bindle, starting up. "'Oly angels!
someone's been a-tryin' to alter 'im." He bent forward to get
a better view. "Done it pretty well, too," he muttered as he
gazed at the unprepossessing features of Mr. Gupperduck, now
accentuated by a black eye, a broken lip, a contusion on the
right cheek-bone, and one ear covered with blood. His collar
had disappeared, also his hat and spectacles, his waist-coat was
torn open, and various portions were missing from his coat.

"Wot's 'e been doin'?" enquired Bindle of a weedy-looking
man with long hair, a sandy pointed beard, and a cloth cap,[Pg 66]
three sizes too large for him, which rested on the tops of his ears.
"Wot's 'e been up to?"

"He's been addressing a meeting," replied the man in a mournful
voice.

Bindle turned once more to Mr. Gupperduck and examined
him closely.

"Looks as if the meetin's been addressin' 'im, don't it?" he
remarked.

"It was not a very successful meeting," remarked the other
supporter of Mr. Gupperduck, a very little man with a very long
beard. "It wasn't a very successful meeting," he repeated with
conviction.

"Well, I never seen a meetin' make such alterations in a man
in all my puff," remarked Bindle.

Mrs. Bindle had busied herself in preparing a basin of hot
water with which to wash the mud and blood from the victim's
pallid face. With closed eyes Mr. Gupperduck continued to
breathe heavily.

Bindle with practical samaritanism went into the parlour and
returned with a half-quartern bottle. Pouring some of the contents
into a glass he held it to Mr. Gupperduck's lips. Without
the least resistance the liquid was swallowed.

"Took that down pretty clean," said Bindle, looking up at
the man with the sandy beard.

"Don't do that!" cried Mrs. Bindle, turning suddenly, her
nostrils detecting the smell of alcohol.

"Do what?" enquired Bindle from where he knelt beside the
damaged Mr. Gupperduck.

"Give him that," said Mrs. Bindle, "he's temperance."

"Well, 'e ain't now," remarked Bindle with calm conviction.

"Oh, you villain!" The vindictiveness of Mrs. Bindle's tone
caused the three listeners to look up, and even Mr. Gupperduck's
eyelids, after a preliminary flutter, raised themselves, as he
gazed about him wonderingly.

"Where am I?" he moaned.

"You're all right," said Mrs. Bindle, taking Bindle's place
by Mr. Gupperduck's side. "You're safe now."

Mr. Gupperduck closed his eyes again, and Mrs. Bindle proceeded
to wipe his face with a piece of flannel dipped in water.

"Pore ole Guppy!" murmured Bindle. "They done it in
style any'ow. I wonder wot 'e's been up to. Must 'ave been
sayin' things wot they didn't like. Wot was 'e talkin' about,
ole sport?"[Pg 67]

Bindle turned to the man with the sandy beard, who was
sitting on a chair leaning forward with one hand on each knee,
much as if he were watching a cock-fight.

"It was a Peace meeting," replied the man mournfully.

Bindle gave vent to a prolonged whistle of understanding.

"Oh, Guppy, Guppy!" he cried. "Why couldn't you 'ave
kept to the next world, without getting mixed up with this?"

"It was wounded soldiers," volunteered the man with the
sandy beard.

"Wounded soldiers!" exclaimed Bindle.

"Yes," continued the man mournfully; "he appealed to them,
as sufferers under this terrible armageddon, to pass a resolution
condemning the continuance of the war, and—and——"

"They passed their resolution on 'is face," suggested Bindle.

The man nodded. "It was terrible," he said, "terrible; we
were afraid they would kill him."

"And where was you while all this was 'appenin'?"

"Oh!" said the man, "I was fortunate enough to find a tree."

Bindle looked him up and down with elaborate intentness,
then having satisfied himself as to every detail of his appearance
and apparel, he remarked:

"Ain't it wonderful wot luck some coves do 'ave!"

"I regard it as the direct interposition of Providence," said
the man.

"And I suppose you shinned up that tree like giddy-o?" suggested
Bindle.

"Yes," said the man, "I was brought up in the country."

"Was you now?" said Bindle. "Well, it was lucky for you,
wasn't it?"

"The hand of God," was the reply; "clearly the hand of God."

"Sort o' boosted you up the tree from behind, so as when
they'd all gone you could come down and pick up wot was left
of 'im. That it?" enquired Bindle.

"That is exactly what happened, my friend," replied the man
with the sandy beard.

"An' where did all this 'appen?" asked Bindle.

"It took place in Hyde Park," replied the man. "A very
rough meeting, an extremely rough meeting, and he was speaking
so well, so convincingly," he added.

Bindle looked at the man curiously to see if he were really
serious; but there was no vestige of a smile upon his face.

"It's wonderful wot a man can do with a crowd," remarked
Bindle oracularly; "but," turning to the inert figure of Mr. Gup[Pg 68]perduck,
"it's still more wonderful wot a crowd can do with a man."

"Bindle!" Mrs. Bindle's voice rang out authoritatively.

"'Ere am I," replied Bindle obediently.

"Help us lift Mr. Gupperduck on a chair."

With elaborate care they raised the inert form of Mr. Gupperduck
on to a chair. His arms fell down limply beside him. Once
he opened his eyes, and looked round the room, then, sighing
as if in thankfulness at being amongst friends, he closed them
again.

"'The Lord hath given me rest from mine enemies,'" he
quoted.

Mrs. Bindle and the two friends regarded Mr. Gupperduck
admiringly.

Seeing that their friend and brother was now in safe hands,
Mr. Gupperduck's two supporters prepared to withdraw. Mrs.
Bindle pressed them to have something to eat; but this they
refused.

"Now ain't women funny," muttered Bindle, as Mrs. Bindle
left the room to show her visitors to the door. "She was jest
complaining that she could only get two candles and a quarter
of a pound of marjarine, and yet she wants them two coves to
stay to supper, 'ungry-lookin' pair they was too. I s'pose it's
wot she calls 'ospitality," he added; "seems to me damn silly."

Like a hen fussing over a damaged chick, Mrs. Bindle ministered
to the requirements of Mr. Gupperduck. She fed him with
a spoon, crooned over and sympathised with him in his misfortune,
whilst in her heart there was a great anger against those
who had raised their hands against so godly a man.

When he had eventually been half-led, half-carried upstairs
by Bindle, and Bindle himself had returned to the kitchen, Mrs.
Bindle expressed her unambiguous opinion of a country that
permitted such an outrage. She likened Mr. Gupperduck to
those in the Scriptures who had been stoned by the multitude.
She indicated that in the next world there would be a terrible
retribution upon those who were responsible for the assault upon
Mr. Gupperduck. She attacked the Coalition Government for
not providing a more effective police force.

"But," protested Bindle at length, "'e was askin' for it. Why
can't 'e keep 'is opinions to 'imself, and not go a-shovin' 'em
down other people's throats when they don't like the taste of 'em?
If you go tryin' to shove tripe down the throat of a cove wot
don't like tripe, you're sure to get one in the eye, that is if 'e's[Pg 69]
bigger'n wot you are; if 'e's smaller 'e'll jest be sick. Yet 'ere
are you a-complainin' because Guppy gets 'imself 'urt. I don't
understand——"

"Because you haven't got a soul," interrupted Mrs. Bindle
with conviction.

"Well," remarked Bindle philosophically, "I'd sooner 'ave a
flea than a soul, there is flea-powder but there ain't no soul-powder
wot I've been able to find."

And Bindle rose, yawned and made towards the door.

CHAPTER VII

THE COURTING OF THE REV. ANDREW MACFIE

Mr. Hearty had never reconciled himself to the understanding that
existed between his daughter Millie and Charlie Dixon. He resented
Bindle's share in the romance, still more he resented the spirit of
independence that it had developed in Millie. He had, however, been
forced to bow to the storm. Everyone was against him, and Millie
herself had left home, refusing to return until he had apologised to
her for the most unseemly suggestion he had made as to her relations
with Charlie Dixon.

Sergeant Charles Dixon, of the 110th Service Battalion, London
Regiment, had gone to the front, and Millie, sad-eyed, but grave,
looked forward to the time when he would return, a V.C.

"Well, Millikins!" Bindle would cry, "'ow's 'is Nibs?" and
Millie would blush and tell of the latest news she had received
from her lover.

"Uncle Joe," she would say, "I couldn't stand it but for
you," and there would be that in her voice which would cause
Bindle to turn his head aside and admonish himself as "an ole
fool."

"It's all right, Millikins," Bindle would say, "Charlie's goin'
to win the war, an' we're all goin' to be proud of 'im," and
Millie would smile at her uncle with moist eyes, and give that
affectionate squeeze to his arm that Bindle would not have parted
with for the rubies of Ind.

"You know, Uncle Joe," she said bravely on one occasion,
"we women have to give up those we love."[Pg 70]

Bindle had not seen the plaintive humour of her remark; but
had suddenly become noisily engrossed in the use of his handkerchief.

Mr. Hearty was almost cordial to Charlie Dixon on the eve of
his going to France. Once this young man could be removed
from Millie's path, the way would be clear for a match such as
he had in mind. He did not know exactly what sort of man he
desired for his daughter; but he was very definite as to the
position in the world that his future son-in-law must occupy. He
would have preferred someone who had made his mark. Men
of more mature years, he had noticed, were frequently favourably
disposed towards young girls as wives, and Mr. Hearty was
determined that he would be proud of his son-in-law, that is
to say, his son-in-law was to be a man of whom anyone might
feel proud.

It would not behove a Christian such as Mr. Hearty to wish
a fellow-being dead; but he could not disguise from himself the
fact that our casualties on the Western Front were heavy,
particularly during the period of offensives. Since the occasion
when Millie had asserted her independence, and had declined
to order her affections in accordance with Mr. Hearty's wishes,
there had been something of an armed neutrality existing between
father and daughter. In this she had been supported, not only
by Bindle and Mrs. Hearty, but, by a strange freak of fate, to a
certain extent, by Mrs. Bindle herself.

Mr. Hearty had never quite understood how it was that his
sister-in-law had turned against him. She had said nothing
whatever as to where her sympathies lay; but Mr. Hearty instinctively
felt that she had ranged herself on the side of the enemy.

But the fates were playing for Mr. Hearty.

When the Rev. Mr. Sopley, of the Alton Road Chapel, had decided to
retire on account of failing health, Lady Knob-Kerrick determined to
bring up from Barton Bridge, her country residence, the Rev. Andrew
MacFie. She had forgiven him his participation in the Temperance Fête
fiasco, accepting his explanation that he had been drugged by the
disciples of the devil, a view that would have been entirely endorsed
by Mrs. Bindle, had she known that Bindle was responsible for the
mixing of alcohol with the lemonade.

The Barton Bridge Temperance Fête fiasco had proved the
greatest sensation that the county had ever known. The mixing
of crude alcohol and distilled mead with the lemonade, whereby[Pg 71]
the participants in the rustic fête had been intoxicated, thus
causing it to develop into a wild orgy of violence, resulting in
assaults upon Lady Knob-Kerrick and the police, had been a
nine days' wonder. A number of arrests had been made; but
when the true facts came to the knowledge of the police, the
prisoners had been quietly released, and officially nothing more
was heard of the affair.

It was a long time before Lady Knob-Kerrick could be persuaded to see
in the Rev. Andrew MacFie, the minister of her chapel, an innocent
victim of a deep-laid plot. It was he who had seized the hose that
washed her out of her carriage, it was he who had led the assault on
the police, it was he who had said things that had been the common
talk of all the public-house bars for miles round.

After Mr. MacFie's eloquent sermon upon the Gadarene swine,
Lady Knob-Kerrick had eventually come round, and a peace
had been patched up between them. From that day it required
more courage to whisper the words "Temperance Fête" in Barton
Bridge, than to charge across "No Man's Land" in France.

And so it was that the Rev. Andrew MacFie transferred his
activities from Barton Bridge to Fulham. He was grateful to
Providence for this sign of beneficent approval of his labours, and
relieved to know that Barton Bridge would in the future be but
a memory. There he had made history, for in the bars of The
Two-Faced Earl and The Blue Fox the unbeliever drinks with
gusto and a wink of superior knowledge a beverage known as a
"lemon-and-a-mac," a compound of lemonade and gin, which
owes its origin to the part played in the historic temperance fête
by the Rev. Andrew MacFie.

One evening, shortly after the departure of Charlie Dixon, Mrs.
Bindle was busily engaged in laying the table for supper. Mrs.
Bindle's kitchen was a model of what a kitchen should be. Everything
was clean, orderly, neat. The utensils over the mantelpiece
shone like miniature moons, the oil-cloth was spotless, the dresser
scrubbed to a whiteness almost incredible in London, the saucepans
almost as clean outside as in, the rug before the stove neatly
pinned down at the corners. It was obviously the kitchen of a
woman to whom cleanliness and order were fetiches. As Bindle
had once remarked, "There's only one spot in my missis' kitchen,
and that's when I'm there."

As she proceeded with her work she hummed her favourite
hymn; it rose and fell, sometimes dying away altogether. She
banged the various articles on the table as if to emphasise her[Pg 72]
thoughts. Her task completed, she went to the sink. As she
was washing her hands there was a knock at the kitchen door.
Taking no notice she proceeded to dry her hands. The knock
was repeated.

"Oh, don't stand there playing the fool, Bindle!" she snapped.
"I haven't time to——"

The door opened slowly and admitted the tall, lanky form of
the Rev. Andrew MacFie.

"It's me, Mrs. Beendle," he said, as he entered the room.
"The outer door was open, so I joost cam in."

"Oh! I'm sorry, sir," said Mrs. Bindle, "I thought it was
Bindle."

Her whole manner underwent a change; her uncompromising
attitude of disapproval giving place to one of almost servile
anxiety to make a good impression. She hurriedly removed and
folded her apron, slipping it into the dresser-drawer.

"Won't you come into the parlour, sir?" she said. "It's very
kind of you to call."

"Na, na, Mrs. Beendle," replied Mr. MacFie. "I joost cam
in to—to——" He hesitated.

"But won't you sit down, sir?" Mrs. Bindle indicated a chair
by the side of the table.

Mr. MacFie drew the chair towards him, sitting bolt upright,
holding his soft felt hat upon his knees.

Mrs. Bindle drew another chair from under the opposite side
of the table and seated herself primly upon it. With folded
hands she waited for the minister to speak.

Mr. MacFie was obviously ill at ease.

"Ye'll be comin' to the sairvice, the nicht, Mrs. Beendle?"
he began.

"Oh, yes, sir," responded Mrs. Bindle, moving her head back
on her shoulders, depressing her chin and drawing in her lips
with a simper. "I wouldn't miss your address."

"Aye!" said Mr. MacFie, gazing into vacancy as if in search
of inspiration. Finding none, he repeated "Aye!"

Mr. MacFie's expression was one of persistent gloom. No
smile was ever permitted to wanton across his sandy features.
After a few moments' silence he made another effort.

"I'm sair consairned, Mrs. Beendle——" He stopped, wordless.

"Yes, sir," responded Mrs. Bindle encouragingly.

"I'm sair consairned no to see the wee lassie more at the
kirk."[Pg 73]

"Who, sir, Millie?" queried Mrs. Bindle in surprise.

"Aye!" responded Mr. MacFie. "The call of mammon is like
the blairst of a great trumpet, and to the unbelieving it is as sweet
music. It is the call of Satan, Mrs. Beendle, the call of Satan,"
he repeated, as if pleased with the phrase. "I'd na like the wee
lassie to—to——"

"I'll speak to Mr. Hearty, sir," said Mrs. Bindle, compressing
her lips. "It's very good of you, sir, I'm sure, to——"

"Na, na," interrupted Mr. MacFie hastily, "na, na, Mrs.
Beendle, ma duty. It is the blessed duty of the shepherd to be
consairned for the welfare——"

He stopped suddenly. The outer door had banged, and there
was the sound of steps coming along the passage. Bindle's voice
was heard singing cheerily, "I'd rather Kiss the Mistress than the
Maid." He opened the door and stopped singing suddenly. For
a moment he stood looking at the pair with keen enjoyment. Both
Mrs. Bindle and Mr. MacFie appeared self-conscious, as they
gazed obliquely at the interrupter.

"'Ullo, caught you," said Bindle jocosely.

"Bindle!" There was horror and anger in Mrs. Bindle's voice.
Mr. MacFie merely looked uncomfortable. He rose hastily.

"I must be gaeing, Mrs. Beendle," he said; then turning to
Bindle remarked, "I joost cam to enquire if Mrs. Beendle was
coming to chapel the nicht."

"Don't you fret about that, sir," said Bindle genially. "She
wouldn't miss a chance to pray."

"And—and may we expect you, Mr. Beendle?" enquired Mr.
MacFie by way of making conversation and preventing an embarrassing
silence.

"I ain't much on religion, sir," replied Bindle hastily. "Mrs.
B.'s the one for that. Lemonade and religion are things, sir, wot
I can be trusted with. I don't touch neither." Then, as Mr.
MacFie moved towards the door, he added, "Must you go, sir?
You won't stay an' 'ave a bit o' supper?"

"Na, na!" replied Mr. MacFie hastily, "I hae the Lord's work
to do, Mr. Beendle, the Lord's work to do," he repeated as he
shook hands with Mrs. Bindle and then with Bindle. "The Lord's
work to do," he repeated for a third time as, followed by Mrs.
Bindle, he left the room.

"Funny thing that the Lord's work should make 'im look like
that," remarked Bindle meditatively, as he drew a tin of salmon
from his pocket.

When Mrs. Bindle returned to the kitchen it was obvious that[Pg 74]
she was seriously displeased. The bangs that punctuated the
process of "dishing-up" were good fortissimo bangs.

Bindle continued to read his paper imperturbably. In his
nostrils was the scent of a favourite stew. He lifted his head like
a hound, appreciatively sniffing the air, a look of contentment
overspreading his features.

Having poured out the contents of the saucepan, Mrs. Bindle
went to the sink and filled the vessel with water. Carrying it
across the kitchen, she banged it down on the stove. Opening
the front, and picking up the poker, she gave the fire several
unnecessary jabs.

"Wot did Sandy want?" enquired Bindle as he got to work
upon his supper.

"Don't talk to me," snapped Mrs. Bindle. "You'd try a
saint, you would, insulting the minister in that way."

"Insultin'! Me!" cried Bindle in surprise. "Why, I only
cheer-o'd 'im."

"You'll never learn 'ow to behave," stormed Mrs. Bindle,
losing her temper and her aitches. "Look at you now, all
dressed up and leaving me alone."

Bindle was wearing his best clothes, for some reason known
only to himself.

"Anyone would think you was goin' to a weddin'," continued
Mrs. Bindle.

"Not again," said Bindle cheerfully. "Wot was ole Scotch-an'-Soda
after?" he enquired.

"When you ask me a proper question, I'll give you a proper
answer," announced Mrs. Bindle.

"Oh, Lord!" said Bindle with mock resignation. "Well, wot
did the Reverend MacAndrew want?"

"He came to enquire why Millie was so often absent from
chapel. I shall have to speak to Mr. Hearty," said Mrs.
Bindle.

Bindle's reply was a prolonged whistle. "'E's after Millikins,
is 'e?" he muttered.

That is how both Bindle and Mrs. Bindle first learned that
the Rev. Andrew MacFie was interested in their pretty niece,
Millie Hearty.

Mrs. Bindle mentioned the fact of Mr. MacFie's call to Mr.
Hearty, and from that moment he had seen in the minister a
potential son-in-law.

The angular piety of Mr. MacFie rendered him an awkward,
not to say a clumsy, lover.[Pg 75]

"I likes to see ole Mac a-'angin' round Millikins," remarked
Bindle to Mrs. Bindle one evening over supper. "It's like an
'ippopotamus a-givin' the glad-eye to a canary."

"Heathen!" was Mrs. Bindle's sole comment.

Millie Hearty herself had been much troubled by Mr. MacFie's
ponderous attentions. At first she had regarded them merely
as the friendly interest of a pastor in a member of his flock; but
soon they became too obvious for misinterpretation.

"Millikins!" said Bindle one evening, as he and Millie were
walking home from the pictures, "you ain't a-goin' to forget
Charlie, are you?"

"Uncle Joe!" There was reproach in Millie's voice as she
withdrew her arm from Bindle's.

"All right, Millikins," said Bindle, capturing her hand and
placing it through his arm, "don't get 'uffy. Ole Mac's been
makin' such a dead set at you, that I wanted to know 'ow things
stood."

Bindle's remarks had opened the flood-gates of Millie's confidence.
She told him that she had not liked to speak of it before
because nothing had been said, although there had been some
very obvious hints from Mr. Hearty.

"I hate him, Uncle Joe. He's always—always——" She
paused, blushing.

"A-givin' of you the glad-eye," suggested Bindle. "I seen
'im."

"Oh, he's horrible, Uncle Joe. I'm sure he's a wicked man."

"'Course 'e is," replied Bindle with conviction, "or 'e wouldn't
be a parson."

Bindle had spoken to Mr. Hearty about the matter. "Look
'ere, 'Earty, you ain't goin' back on them two love-birds, are
you?" he enquired.

Mr. Hearty had regarded his brother-in-law with what he conceived
to be reproving dignity.

"I do not understand, Joseph," he remarked in hollow, woolly
tones.

"Well, there's ole Mac, always a-givin' the glad-eye to Millikins,"
explained Bindle.

"If you wish to speak of our minister, Joseph, you must do
so respectfully, and I cannot listen to such vulgar suggestions."

"Oh, come orf of it, 'Earty! you're only a greengrocer, an'
greengrocers don't talk like that 'ere, whatever they may do in
'eaven. If you're a-goin' to 'ave any 'anky-panky with Millikins over
that sandy-'aired son of a tub-thumper, then[Pg 76] you're up against the
biggest thing in your life, an' don't you forget it."

Bindle was angry.

"Of late, Joseph," Mr. Hearty replied, "you have shown too
much desire to interfere in my private affairs, and I cannot
permit it."

"Oh! you can't, can't you?" said Bindle. "Don't you forget,
ole sport, that if it 'adn't a-been for me 'oldin' my tongue,
you wouldn't 'ave 'ad no bloomin' affairs for me to mix up in."

Mr. Hearty paled and fumbled with the right lapel of his coat.

"Any'ow," said Bindle, "Millikins is goin' to marry Charlie
Dixon, an' if you're goin' to try any of your dirty tricks over
Ole Skin-and-Oatmeal, then you're goin' to be up against J.B.
There are times," muttered Bindle, as he walked away from the
Heartys' house, "when 'Earty gets my goat"; and he started
whistling shrilly to cheer himself up.

Bindle was still troubled in his mind about Mr. Hearty's
scheme for Millie's future and, one Sunday evening, he determined
to forgo the Night Club, in order to call upon the Heartys
with the object of conveying to Mr. MacFie in the course of conversation
that Millie was irrevocably pledged to Charlie Dixon.

Mr. MacFie had formed the habit of supping with the Heartys
after evening service, and frequently Mrs. Bindle was of the
party.

Bindle's Sunday evening engagements at the Night Club had
been a cause of great relief to Mrs. Bindle. For some time
previously Mr. Hearty's invitations to the Bindles to take supper
on Sunday evenings had been growing less and less frequent. It
did not require a very great effort of the imagination to discover
the cause. Bindle's racy speech and unconventional views upon
religion were to Mr. Hearty anathema, and whilst they amused
Mrs. Hearty, who, having trouble with her breath, did not seem
to consider that religion was meant for her, they caused Mr.
Hearty intense anguish. He felt safe, however, in asking Mr.
MacFie to supper on Sundays because Mrs. Bindle had confided
to him that Bindle was always engaged upon the Sabbath night.
She did not mention the nature of the engagement.

When Bindle entered the drawing-room, Mr. Hearty, Mr.
MacFie, Mr. Gupperduck and Mrs. Bindle were gathered round
the harmonium. Mrs. Hearty sat in her customary place upon
the sofa waiting for someone to address her that she might confide
in them upon the all-absorbing subject of her breath.

Mr. Gupperduck was seated on a chair, endeavouring to disci[Pg 77]pline his
accordion into not sounding E sharp continuously through each hymn.
The others were awaiting with keen interest the outcome of the
struggle.

"Got a pain, ain't it?" enquired Bindle, having greeted everybody, as
he stood puffing volumes of smoke from one of "Sprague's Fulham
Whiffs," a "smoke" he still affected when Lord Windover was not
present to correct his taste in tobacco.

"Well, wot's the joke?" he went on, looking from the lugubrious
countenance of Mr. MacFie to the melancholy foreboding depicted on
that of Mr. Hearty.

Turning to Mrs. Hearty, Bindle pointed his cigar at her accusingly.
"You been tellin' naughty stories, Martha," he said, "I can see it.
Look at them coves over there"; he turned his cigar towards Mr.
Gupperduck and Mr. MacFie. "Oh, Martha, Martha!" and he wagged his
head solemnly at Mrs. Hearty, who was already in a state of helpless
laughter, "ain't you jest the limit, and 'im a parson, too."

Millie Hearty entered the room at this moment and ran up to
her uncle, greeting him affectionately.

"Oh, Uncle Joe, I'm so glad you've come," she cried. "You
never come to see us now."

"Well, well, Millikins, it can't be 'elped. It's the war, you
know. That cove Llewellyn John is always wantin' me round
to give 'im advice. Then I 'ave to run over an' give Haig an
'int or two. Ain't the Kayser jest mad when 'e 'ears I been over,
because it means another push. Why, would you believe it,
sir," he turned to Mr. MacFie, "the reason they didn't make ole
'Indenburg a prince last birthday was because 'e 'adn't been
able to land me.

"'Get me Joe Bindle, dead or alive,' said the Kayser to 'Indy,
'an' I'll make you a prince,' an' ain't old 'Indenburg ratty."
Bindle nodded his head knowingly.

Millie laughed. "You mustn't tell such wicked fibs on Sunday,
Uncle Joe," she cried. "It's very naughty of you."

Bindle pulled her down upon his knee and kissed her. "You
ain't goin' agin your ole uncle, are you, Millikins?" he cried;
then suddenly turning to Mr. Hearty he enquired, "Ain't we
goin' to 'ave any 'ymns, 'Earty? 'Ere, I say, can't you stop
Wheezy Willie doin' that, ole sport?" this to Mr. Gupperduck
who was still struggling to silence the mutinous E sharp; "sets
my teeth on edge, it does. I'm in rare voice to-night, bought
some acid drops, I did, as I come along, an' 'ad two raw eggs
in the private bar of The Yellow Ostrich."[Pg 78]

Bindle ran up a dubious scale to prove his words.

"Oh! do be quiet, Uncle Joe," laughed Millie. "You'll
frighten Mr. MacFie away."

Bindle turned and regarded the solemn visage of Mr. MacFie;
his long immobile upper lip; his sandy hair, parted in the middle
and brushed smoothly down upon his head.

"No, Millikins," he said with conviction, "there ain't nothink
wot'll frighten a Scotchman out of England. They know wot's
wot, they do. Ain't that so, sir?" he enquired of Mr. MacFie.

Mr. MacFie regarded Bindle as if he were talking in a foreign
tongue.

Mr. Gupperduck laid his accordion on a chair, giving up the
unequal struggle. The others, taking this as a signal that music
was over for the evening, seated themselves in various parts of
the room.

"I'm glad you're 'ere, sir," said Bindle to Mr. MacFie. "I
wanted your advice on somethink in the Bible. Now then, Millikins,
you got to sit down beside me. Can't sit on your uncle's
knee when we're talkin' about the Bible. Wot'll Charlie say?"
Then turning to Mr. MacFie with what he imagined to be great
subtlety and tact, Bindle enquired, "You ain't met Charlie Dixon,
'ave you, sir?"

Mr. MacFie shook a mournful head in negation.

"'E's goin' to marry Millikins, ain't 'e, Millikins?"

Millie cast her eyes down and, with heightened colour, bowed
her head in affirmation of Bindle's statement.

"Pretty pair they'll make too," said Bindle with conviction.
"I 'ope you'll be marryin' 'em, sir."

Mr. MacFie looked uncomfortable.

"But that ain't wot I wanted to talk to you about," continued
Bindle. "I 'appened to pick up the Bible to-day,"—Mrs. Bindle
looked sharply at him,—"and it sort of opened at a place where
there was a yarn about war, so I read it.

"It was about a cove called Urrier an' a king named David."

"Uriah the Hittite," murmured Mr. Hearty.

"Urrier 'ad got a smart bird,—that's a gal, sir," Bindle
explained to Mr. MacFie,—"and David 'ad sort o' taken a
likin' to 'er, so wot does David do but send Urrier to the front,
so as 'e might get killed, an' then David pinches 'is gal.

"Now wot I want to know, sir," said Bindle, addressing Mr.
MacFie, "is wot Gawd did? 'Cos as far as I can see 'E was
sort o' fond o' David. Now if I'd been Gawd, an' David 'ad[Pg 79]
done a thing like that, I'd 'a raised a pretty big blister on 'is
nose."

No one spoke. Mr. Hearty glanced covertly at Mr. MacFie,
who looked as if he would have given much to be elsewhere.
Mrs. Bindle's lips had entirely disappeared. Mrs. Hearty gasped
and heaved, whilst Minnie blushed.

"Bindle!" cried Mrs. Bindle at last; "Bindle, you forget yourself."

"Not me, Mrs. B., I come 'ere to get wot you an' 'Earty calls
'light.' Now, sir," turning to Mr. MacFie, "wot do you think
Gawd did, an' wot do you think o' that blighter David?"

"Meester Beendle," said Mr. MacFie at last, "we must leave
to Proveedence the things that belong to Proveedence."

"I thought you'd agree, sir; you're a sport, you are. Of
course David ought to 'ave left to Urrier wot belonged to Urrier,
and not pinch 'is gal. You wouldn't do a thing like that, sir,
would you?" he enquired. "I wonder wot the gal thought, eh,
Millikins?" he enquired, turning to his niece.

"If I had been her," said Millie, "I should have killed
David."

"Millie!" gasped Mr. Hearty. "How—how dare you say such
a thing."

"I should, father," replied Millie quietly.

Mr. MacFie coughed, Mr. Hearty looked about him as if for
something at which to clutch, then with sudden inspiration he
said, "Millie, we will have a hymn."

"'Ere, let me get out," cried Bindle in mock alarm. "I can't
stand Wheezy Willie again, too much of one note. Good night,
Martha. My, ain't you gettin' fat," he remarked as he stood
looking down at Mrs. Hearty, whereat she went off into wheezes
and heavings of laughter. "S'long, 'Earty, I 'ope the allotments
won't ruin you," and Bindle took his departure.

Millie went down to the door to see him out. "Uncle
Joe," she whispered, as she bade him good night, "I understood."

"Oh, you did, did you?" said Bindle. "Ain't we getting a
wise little puss, Millikins," and Bindle walked home whistling
"The Long, Long Trail."

[Pg 80]

CHAPTER VIII

THE CHAPEL CONVERSAZIONE

Lady Knob-Kerrick's nomination of the Rev. Andrew
MacFie to the vacant pastorate at the Alton Road Chapel
was her way of showing that an amnesty had been arranged
between them, and Mr. MacFie had accepted it with the nearest
approach to pleasure that he ever permitted himself. Miss MacFie,
his sister and housekeeper, had sniffed; but it was always
difficult to discriminate between Miss MacFie's physical and
mental sniffs. During the winter she seemed to suffer from a
perpetual cold in the head. It sometimes attacked her in the
spring and autumn, so that only during the months of June,
July and August could one say with any degree of certainty that
Miss MacFie's sniffs meant indignation and not an inflamed
membrane.

In commemoration of his long ministry at the Alton Road Chapel, the
Rev. Mr. Sopley was to receive an illuminated address, a purse of
fifty pounds and a silver-mounted hot-water bottle. For reasons of
economy the presentation was to be made on the same occasion as the
conversazione inaugurating the pastorate of Mr. MacFie. This
conversazione had been delayed for some months, as Miss MacFie had
been forced to remain behind at Barton Bridge in order to recover from
a particularly severe chill, and also to arrange for the letting of
the house.

In the meantime Mr. MacFie had taken lodgings in Fulham,
thus freeing Mr. Sopley, whose health for some time past had
not been good. It had been arranged, however, that the retiring
shepherd should be present at the celebration in order to receive
the address, the purse and the silver-mounted hot-water bottle.

Lady Knob-Kerrick had consented herself to make the presentation,
and a glee-party had been arranged for to entertain the
guests. It had first been suggested that the services should be
engaged of a man who produced rabbits out of top-hats, and
omelettes from ladies' shoes; but it had been decided that such
things were too secular for the occasion.

Lady Knob-Kerrick had insisted that the words of the glees should
first be submitted to her, and a lengthy correspondence had taken
place between her and the leader of the glee-party. The first list had
been vetoed in its entirety. One item, entitled[Pg 81] "Oh! Hush Thee My
Baby," was considered by Lady Knob-Kerrick as not quite nice; it might
make the young girls feel self-conscious. Another one of a slightly
humorous nature referred to a man's "bleeding nose." Lady Knob-Kerrick
had written to the leader of the glee-party in uncompromising terms
upon the indelicacy of submitting to her so coarse a composition.
After a brisk interchange of letters, a programme was eventually
decided upon.

The conversazione was held in the Chapel school-room. A considerable
portion of Mr. Hearty's drawing-room furniture had been requisitioned
in order to give to the place an appearance of "homeiness" and
comfort. Mr. Hearty's clock and lustres were upon the mantelpiece, and
Mr. Hearty's pink candles were in the lustres. Chains of coloured
paper, to Mr. Hearty the extreme evidences of festivity, stretched
from the corners of the room to the central gas bracket on which had
been placed opaque pink globes.

Nothing, however, could mitigate the hardness of the scriptural texts
in oak Oxford frames that garnished the walls. "Prepare to Meet Thy
God," even when in gold letters entwined with apple-blossom, seemed
scarcely the greeting for those who had been invited to revel. "The
Wages of Sin is Death," with violets coquetting in and out the
letters, is sound theology; but not a convincing invitation to
merry-making. "And So Shall Ye All Likewise Perish," with primroses
that seemed to have paled through long association with so terrible a
menace, threw out its uncompromising warning from immediately above
the refreshment-table. On the table itself was everything that a
little money could buy, from fish-paste sandwiches to home-made
three-cornered tarts, with raspberry-jam baked hard peeping out at the
joins, as if to advertise that there was no deception.

Millie Hearty had striven to mitigate the uncompromising gloom of the
texts by placing evergreens above the frames; but with no very
pronounced success.

Mr. Hearty had supplied the fruit and Mr. Black the groceries at
"cost-price." That is to say, Mr. Hearty had taken off a halfpenny a
pound from his tenpenny apples, and Mr. Black three farthings a bottle
from his one and ninepenny lemon-squash.

On the night of the conversazione, Mr. Hearty and Mrs. Bindle arrived
early in order to put finishing touches to everything. Mrs. Bindle was
wearing a new dress of puce-coloured merino, and Mr. Hearty had donned
a white tie in honour of the occasion.[Pg 82] His trousers still
concertinaed mournfully down his legs until they despairedly met his
large and shapeless boots.

Millie Hearty was also an early arrival. In her white frock she
looked strangely out of place associated with her father and aunt.

Mr. Hearty fidgeted about from place to place in a state of acute
nervousness. His eyes, roving round in search of some defect
in the arrangements, fixed themselves upon the gas. Fetching
a chair he mounted it and lowered in turn each burner, then,
replacing the chair against the wall, he stepped some distance
back to see the effect. The result was that he once more mounted
the chair and readjusted the flames to the same height as before.

Mrs. Bindle also moved about, but always with a set purpose,
putting finishing touches to everything. Alice, the Heartys'
maid, seemed to be engaged in a game of in and out, banging
the door at each entry and exit. In spite of the frequency with
which this was done, it caused Mr. Hearty each time to look
round expectantly.

"Is Joseph coming?" he enquired of Mrs. Bindle.

"Yes," she replied, "but I've warned him." There was a
grimness in her voice that carried conviction to Mr. Hearty.

"Thank you, Elizabeth, thank you. I was very upset the
other night, very." He suddenly rushed away to the harmonium,
where one of the candles was burning smokily.

"Mr. Gupperduck can't come," said Mrs. Bindle as she rearranged
the fish-paste sandwiches. "He's got a meeting at Hoxton."

Mr. Hearty made some murmur of response as he dashed
across the room to adjust three chairs that lacked symmetry.

"I wish they'd come, Alf," wheezed Mrs. Hearty, hitting the
front of a bright green bodice. Sartorially Mrs. Hearty always
ran to brilliancy.

"I hope Mr. MacFie will not be late," said Mr. Hearty in a
tone of gloomy foreboding.

Mr. MacFie's arrival at that moment, accompanied by Miss
MacFie, put an end to this anxiety. Miss MacFie was a tall,
flat-chested, angular woman of about forty, with high cheek-bones
and almost white eyebrows and eyelashes. She greeted Mr.
Hearty and the others without emotion. Mr. MacFie had eyes
for no one but Millie.

The next arrival was the Rev. Mr. Sopley, "all woe and whiskers," as
Bindle had once described him. Mournfully he shook hands with all and,
seating himself on the first available chair, cast his eyes up towards
the ceiling, his habitual attitude.[Pg 83]

Alice sidled up to Mrs. Bindle and, in a whisper audible to
all, enquired:

"Am I to call out the names, mum?"

"Certainly, Alice," replied Mrs. Bindle. "As each guest arrives
you will announce the names clearly." Then turning to Mr.
Hearty she said, "I think that you and Mr. MacFie ought to
receive the guests at the door."

"Certainly, Elizabeth, certainly," said Mr. Hearty. There
was unaccustomed decision in his voice. He was glad of something
definite to do. Striding over to Mr. MacFie, he whispered
to him and practically dragged him away from Millie. The two
of them took up their positions near the door, where they stood
staring at each other as if wondering what was to happen next.

Mrs. Hearty from time to time beat her chest.

"It's me breath," she confided to Mr. Sopley, then subsided
into wheezing.

"Ha!" Mr. Sopley changed the angle of his gaze. Whenever
spoken to he invariably opened his mouth with a jerk, as if
he had been suddenly brought back from another world by someone
hitting him in the wind. As often as not he re-closed his
mouth without further sound. It was obvious to the most
casual observer that he was here on earth because Providence
had decreed it, and not from any wish of his own.

Suddenly Alice threw open the outer door.

"Mr. Pain and 'is wife, mum," she announced.

Mr. MacFie and Mr. Hearty became instantly galvanised into
activity.

"Not his wife," corrected Mrs. Bindle in a whisper.

"But she is 'is wife," protested Alice indignantly. "Ain't you,
mum?" she enquired of Mrs. Pain.

Mrs. Pain simpered her acquiescence as she turned to Mr.
MacFie and Mr. Hearty, who had raced towards her.

"You should say 'Mr. and Mrs. Pain,' Alice," said Mrs. Bindle
with quiet forbearance.

"Sorry," remarked Alice, turning to go. "I ain't used to this
'ere. Why can't they come in without all this yelling out of
names?" she muttered. "They ain't trains."

Mr. Pain, a small man with a bald head and a tuft of black
hair in the centre of a protruding forehead, shook hands joyfully
with Mr. MacFie and Mr. Hearty. He was wearing a black frock-coat
and light brown tweed trousers, a white waistcoat and a
royal blue tie. Mrs. Pain was a tall thin woman, garbed in a
narrow brown skirt with a cream-coloured bodice, over-elabor[Pg 84]ated
with lace. The sleeves of her blouse reached only just below
the elbows, and the cream gloves on her hands failed to form a
liaison with the blouse. Round her neck was flung a locket
suspended by a massive "gold" chain. Both she and Mr. Pain
were violent in their greetings, after which they proceeded over
to two chairs by the wall where they seated themselves and proceeded
to converse in undertones, Mr. Pain drawing on a pair of black kid
gloves.

"Mr. and Mrs. Withers," bawled Alice.

Mrs. Bindle nodded approval, and Mr. and Mrs. Withers shook
hands with Mr. Hearty and Mr. MacFie, much as Mr. and Mrs.
Pain had done.

Mr. Withers carried a small sandy head on one side, and a
frock-coat tightly buttoned over his narrow chest. His smallness
was emphasised by the vastness of Mrs. Withers, whose white
silk bodice, cut low at the neck, and black skirt, fitted her amorously,
as if the wearer's intention were to diminish her size.

For some time Alice carried out her duties with marked success,
and Mr. MacFie and Mr. Hearty were kept as busy as an American
President at election time. An unfortunate episode occurred
in connection with two of the most important members of Mr.
MacFie's flock, Mr. Tuddenham and Mr. Muskett.

Mr. Tuddenham was a stout, self-important little man with a
red face and a "don't—you—dare—to—argue—with—me—sir"
air. Mr. Muskett, on the other hand, was tall and lean with
lantern jaws, a sallow complexion and a white beard. Mr.
Tuddenham's clothes fitted him like a glove; Mr. Muskett's hung
in despairing folds about his person. Mr. Tuddenham wore a
high collar, which cut viciously into his red neck; Mr. Muskett's
neckwear was nonconformist in cut. Mr. Tuddenham glared at
the world through fierce, bloodshot eyes; Mr. Muskett gazed
weakly over the top of a pair of pince-nez that hung at one side.
Mr. Muskett's voice was an overpowering boom, contrasting oddly
with the thin, high-pitched notes of Mr. Tuddenham. Mr. Tuddenham
was as upright as a bantam; Mr. Muskett drooped like a wilted lily. No
one had ever seen Mr. Muskett without Mr. Tuddenham, or Mr. Tuddenham
without Mr. Muskett.

Alice appeared to have considerable difficulty over their names,
during which Mr. MacFie and Mr. Hearty stood pretending not
to be aware of the presence of the new arrivals. Eventually
Alice nodded reassuringly and, taking a step into the room,
announced:

"Mr. Muddenham and Mr. Tuskett."[Pg 85]

"Tuddenham, girl, Tuddenham!" shrieked Mr. Tuddenham.

"Muskett, I said, Muskett!" boomed Mr. Muskett.

For a moment Alice regarded them with some apprehension,
then her face broke into a smile and, with a sideways nod of
her head in the direction of the new guests and a jerk of her
thumb, she turned laughing to the door, giving a backward kick
of mirth as she went out.

The guests now began to arrive thick and fast.

Miss Torkington brought her tow-coloured hair and pince-nez,
and a manner that seemed to shout virtue and chastity. She was
all action and vivacity, and nothing could dam the flow of her
words, just as none could have convinced her that in her pale-blue
princess-robe with its high collar she was not the dernière
crie.

Mrs. Bindle had taken up her position near the door, so that
she might correct Alice, should occasion arise.

"The butcher and 'is missus," announced Alice.

"Alice, Alice!" protested Mrs. Bindle in a loud whisper. "You
mustn't announce people like that. You should say Mr. and
Mrs. Gash."

"I asked 'im, mum," protested Alice, "and that's wot 'e
said."

Mrs. Bindle looked anxiously from Mr. Gash, in a check suit
and red tie, to his wife in a royal blue short skirt, a pink blouse
and white boots with tassels. They smiled good-humouredly.
Mrs. Bindle sighed her relief.

Mrs. Bindle decided that it would be wise to leave Alice to her
own devices. She knew something of the temper of the outraged
domestic. In consequence Alice announced without rebuke Mr.
Hippitt as "Mr. Pip-Pip," and Mrs. Muspratt as "Miss Musk-Rat."

Presently her voice was heard without raised in angry reproaches.

"What's your name?" she was heard to demand. "I got to
call it out."

"No, you don't, Ruthie dear," was the reply.

Mr. Hearty and Mrs. Bindle exchanged glances. They recognised
that voice.

"You leggo, I ain't one of them sort," said the voice of Bindle.

"You ain't goin' in till you give me your name, so there!"
was Alice's retort.

The guests focused their attention upon the door. Suddenly
it opened a foot and then crashed to again.[Pg 86]

"Ah! thought you'd got through, didn't you?" they heard
Alice cry triumphantly.

Suddenly the door opened again and Bindle entered with Alice
striving to restrain him.

"Now, Ruthie, I'm married; if I wasn't, well, anythink might
'appen. Look! 'ere's my coat and 'at, so don't say I 'aven't
trusted you. 'Ere, leggo!"

Bindle made an impressive figure in his evening clothes, patent
boots, a large "diamond" stud in the centre of his shirt, a
geranium in his button-hole, and a red silk handkerchief tucked
in the opening of his waistcoat.

"'Ullo, 'Earty!" he cried genially. "'Ere, call 'er orf," indicating
Alice with a jerk of his thumb. "Seems to 'ave taken a fancy to
me—an' she ain't the first neither," he added.

Mrs. Bindle motioned to Alice to free Bindle, which she did
reluctantly.

Bindle looked round the room with interest.

"This the little lot, 'Earty?" he enquired in a hoarse whisper
audible to all. "Don't look a very cheer-o crowd, do they? The
idea of goin' to 'eaven seems to make 'em low-spirited."

Bindle regarded Mr. MacFie intently, then turning to Mr.
Muskett, who happened to be standing near him, he remarked:

"Can't you see 'im in a night-shirt with wings and an 'arp,
a-flutterin' about like a little canary. Wonderful place, 'eaven,
sir," said Bindle, looking up at Mr. Muskett.

"Sir!" boomed Mr. Muskett.

Bindle started back, then recovering himself and, leaning forward
slightly, he said:

"Do you mind doin' that again, sir, jest to see if I can stand
it without jumping."

Mr. Muskett glared at him, swung round on his heel and joined
Mr. Tuddenham at the other end of the room.

"Seem to 'ave trod on 'is toes," muttered Bindle as he watched
Mr. Muskett obviously explaining to Mr. Tuddenham the insult
to which he had just been subjected.

Bindle looked about him with interest, the only guest who
seemed thoroughly comfortable and at home. Suddenly his eye
caught sight of the text above the refreshment-table, and he
grinned broadly. Looking about him for someone to share
the joke, he took a step towards his nearest neighbour, Miss
Torkington.

"Ain't 'e a knock-out!" he remarked, nudging her with his
elbow.[Pg 87]

"I beg your pardon!" said Miss Torkington, lifting her chin
and folding her hands before her.

"'Im, 'Earty," said Bindle, "ain't 'e a knock-out! Look at
that! 'So shall Ye All Likewise Perish,'" he read. "Fancy
sticking that up over the grub."

Miss Torkington, her hands still folded before her, with head
in the air, wheeled round and walked away in what she conceived
to be a dignified manner.

Bindle slowly turned and watched her.

"Quaint old bird," he muttered. "I wonder wot I said to 'urt
'er feelin's."

The glee-party of four had formed up near the harmonium.
Mr. Hearty was in earnest conversation with the leader. He
wished to see Lady Knob-Kerrick's arrival heralded with appropriate
music. The leader of the singers was a man whose serious
visage convinced Mr. Hearty that to him might safely be left the
selection of "the extra" that was to welcome the patroness of
the occasion. Mr. Hearty was unaware that in the leader's heart
was a smouldering anger against Lady Knob-Kerrick on account
of her rudeness in the recent correspondence that had taken
place. Furthermore, he had already received his fee.

"Hi, 'Earty!" Bindle called to Mr. Hearty as he left the leader
of the glee-party. "When's the Ole Bird comin'?"

Mr. Hearty turned. "The old bird?" he interrogated with
lifted eyebrows.

"Lady Knob-Kerrick," bawled Alice, throwing open the door
with a flourish.

Lady Knob-Kerrick sailed into the room, her head held high
in supercilious superiority. Following her came her companion,
Miss Strint, who had carried self-suppression and toadyism to the
point of inspiration. Immediately behind came John, Lady
Knob-Kerrick's footman, bearing before him the illuminated
address, the purse containing fifty Treasury pound notes, and
the silver-mounted hot-water bottle.

Bindle started clapping vigorously. Two or three other guests
followed suit; but the look Lady Knob-Kerrick cast about her
proved to them conclusively that Bindle had done the wrong thing.

"It is most kind of your ladyship to come." Mr. Hearty fussed
about Lady Knob-Kerrick, walking deprecatingly upon his toes.
She appeared entirely oblivious of his presence. He turned
towards the harmonium and made frantic signals to the leader
of the glee-party. Suddenly the quartette broke into song, every
word ringing out clearly and distinctly:[Pg 88]

THE GLAD EYE.

The last line was rolled out sonorously by the bass.

The company looked at one another in amazement. Lady
Knob-Kerrick, scarlet with rage, glared through her lorgnettes
at the singers and then at Mr. Hearty, who from where he stood
petrified gazed wonderingtly at the glee-party. Mrs. Bindle,
with great presence of mind, moved swiftly across the room, and
caught the falsetto by the lapel of the coat just as he had opened
his mouth to begin his solo verse, dealing with the knowledge
acquired by a flapper from the country in the course of a fortnight's
holiday in London. Mrs. Bindle made it clear to the leader that as
far as the Alton Road Chapel was concerned he was indulging in an
optical delusion.

"We are all deeply honoured by your Leddyship's presence
this evening," said Mr. MacFie, throwing himself into the breach.
"It is——"

"Get me a chair," demanded Lady Knob-Kerrick, still glaring
in the direction of the glee-singers.

Bindle rushed at her with a frail-looking hemp-seated chair,
which he proceeded to flick with his red silk pocket-handkerchief.

"One be enough, mum?" he enquired solicitously.

Lady Knob-Kerrick regarded him through her lorgnettes.

Mr. Sopley had been detached from his contemplation of the
ceiling, and was now led up to Lady Knob-Kerrick.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, "we are indeed greatly honoured."

"'Ere, 'ere!" broke in Bindle, attracting to himself the attention
of the whole assembly.

"Will your Ladyship make the presentation now?" enquired
Mr. Hearty, "or——"

"Now!" was Lady Knob-Kerrick's uncompromising reply, as
she seated herself. "Fetch a table, please," she added, indicating,
with an inclination of her head, her footman, who stood
with what Bindle called "the prizes."

Mr. Hearty and Mr. Gash trotted off to fetch a small table from
the corner of the room. This was placed in front of Lady Knob-Kerrick,
and on it John deposited the illuminated address, the[Pg 89] bag containing
the notes, and the silver-mounted hot-water bottle.

A hush of expectancy fell upon the assembly. Lady Knob-Kerrick
rose and was greeted by respectful applause. Her manner
was that of a peacock deigning to acknowledge the existence
of a group of sparrows. From a dorothy-bag she drew a typewritten
paper, which she proceeded to read.

"I have been asked to present to the Rev. James Sopley, as a
mark of the esteem in which he is held by his flock, an illuminated
address, a purse of fifty pounds, and a silver-mounted hot-water
bottle"—she paused for a moment—"a trifle that shall remind
him of the loving hearts he has left behind. (Murmurs of respectful
appreciation.)

"Mr. Sopley has fought the good fight in Fulham for upwards
of twenty-five years, and he is now about to retire to enjoy the
rest that he has so well and thoroughly earned. ("'Ere, 'ere!"
from Bindle.) I trust and hope that the Lord will spare him
for many years to come. ("I'm sure I would if I was Gawd,"
whispered Bindle to Mr. Tuddenham, who only glared at him.)

"We have now among us," continued Lady Knob-Kerrick, "a new pastor, a
man of sterling worth and sound religious principles. ("That's you!"
said Bindle in a hoarse whisper, nudging Mr. MacFie who stood next to
him.) I have," proceeded Lady Knob-Kerrick, "sat under him ("Oh,
naughty! naughty!" whispered Bindle. Lady Knob-Kerrick glared at
him),—sat—sat under him for a number of years at Barton Bridge,
where he will always be remembered as a man devoted to" ("Temperance
fêtes!" interpolated Bindle.)

The result of the interruption was electrical. Lady Knob-Kerrick
dropped her lorgnettes and lost her place. Mr. MacFie's
"adam's apple" moved up and down with alarming rapidity,
testifying to the great emotional ordeal through which he was
passing. Mr. Hearty looked at Mrs. Bindle, Mrs. Bindle looked
at Bindle, everybody looked at everybody else, because everyone
had heard of the Temperance Fête fiasco. Lady Knob-Kerrick
resumed her seat suddenly.

Then it was that Mr. Hearty had an inspiration. With a swift movement
which precipitated him on the foot of Miss Torkington (whose anguished
expression caused Bindle to mutter, "Fancy 'er bein' able to do that
with 'er face!"), he landed beside Mr. Sopley. He managed to detach
his eyes from their contemplation of the ceiling and impress on him
that he had better[Pg 90] make a reply. As he walked the few steps necessary
to reach the table, Bindle once more started clapping vigorously, a
greeting that was taken up by several of the other guests, but in a
more modified manner.

In a mournful and foreboding voice, thoroughly appropriate to an hour
of national disaster, Mr. Sopley thanked Lady Knob-Kerrick for her
words, and the others for their notes. He referred to the shepherd,
dragged in the sheep, scooped up the righteous, cast out the sinners;
in short he said all the most obvious things in the most obvious
manner. He promised the Alton Roaders harps and halos, and threw the
rest of Fulham into the bottomless pit. With some dexterity he
linked-up sin and the taxi-cab, saw in the motor-omnibus the cause of
the weakening moral-fibre of the working-classes, expressed it as his
conviction that Europe was being drenched in blood because Fulham
thought less of faith than of football.

He was frankly pessimistic about the future of the district, an
attitude of mind that appeared to have been induced by the garments of
the local maidens. Fire and flood he promised Fulham, but made no
mention of Hammersmith or Putney. In a voice that throbbed with
emotion he took his official leave, having convinced everybody that
only his intercessionary powers with heaven had stalled off for so
long the impending fate he outlined.

Taking up from the table the bag of fifty pounds, he put it in his
pocket and with bowed head walked towards the nearest chair.

"'Ere, you've forgotten your bed-feller, sir!" cried Bindle, picking
up the silver-mounted hot-water bottle and the framed address and
carrying them over to Mr. Sopley.

Mr. MacFie prepared himself for the ordeal before him. Standing in
front of Lady Knob-Kerrick as if she had been an altar, he bowed low
before her.

"Your Leddyship." A pause of veneration. "Ma Freends," he continued.
"Few meenisters of the Gospel have the preevilege that has been
extended to me this evening. It is the will of the Almighty that I
succeed a most saintly man (murmurs of approval) in the person of Mr.
Sopley. It will be a deefecult poseetion for me to fill. (Mr. Sopley
wagged his head from side to side.) In her breeliant oration her
Leddyship has emphasised some of the attreebutes of a man whose
godliness ye can all testify——"

"You shan't keep me out, you baggage. Can't I hear his[Pg 91] dear voice! My
Andrew! Oh, Andy! Andy! and they want to keep me away from you."

The interruption came from the door, where Alice was vainly
endeavouring to keep out a dishevelled-looking creature, who finally
broke through and walked unsteadily towards the table.

Lady Knob-Kerrick turned and stared at the apparition through her
lorgnettes.

Mr. MacFie's jaw dropped.

Mr. Sopley for the first time that evening seemed to forget heaven,
and devoted himself to terrestrial things. Everybody was gazing with
wide-eyed wonder at the cause of the interruption.

"Oh! my Andrew, my little Andy!" cried the woman in hoarse maudlin
tones. Her hair, to which was attached a black toque with a brilliant
oval of embroidery in front, hung over her left ear. Her clothes,
ill-fitting and much stained, hung upon her as if they had been
thrown—rather than put on. Her face, intended by Providence to be
pretty, was tear-stained and dirty. Her blouse was open at the neck
and her boots mud-stained and shapeless.

"What—what is the meaning of this?" demanded Lady Knob-Kerrick
of Mr. MacFie, as she rose from her chair, a veritable Rhadamanthus.

The girl, who was now hanging on to Mr. MacFie's arm,
turned and regarded Lady Knob-Kerrick over her shoulder.

"He's my boooy," she spluttered; then closing her eyes her
head wobbled from side to side, as if her neck were unable to
support it.

"Your what?" thundered Lady Knob-Kerrick.

"My—my boooy," drawled the girl, "husband. Oh! Andy,
Andy!" and she clung to Mr. MacFie the more closely in spite
of his frantic efforts to shake himself free.

"Mr. MacFie, what is the meaning of this?" demanded Lady
Knob-Kerrick.

"I've—I've never seen her before," stammered Mr. MacFie,
looking as if he had been grabbed by an octopus. "On ma oath,
your Leddyship. Before ma God!"

"Andy, Andy! don't say such awful things," protested the girl. "You
know you married me secret because you said Helen wouldn't let you;"
and she sagged away again, half supporting herself on Mr. MacFie's
arm.

"Do you know anything of this woman?" demanded Lady
Knob-Kerrick of Miss MacFie.[Pg 92]

Miss MacFie shook her head as if the question were an insult.

"Then it was a secret marriage." Lady Knob-Kerrick remembered
what she had heard of Mr. MacFie's conduct at the temperance
fête. "Mr. MacFie, you have—you have disgraced——"

"Your Leddyship, on ma honour, I sweear——!"

"Don't, Andy, don't!" said the girl, striving to put her hand
over his mouth. "Don't! God may strike you dead. He did
it once, didn't He? Oh! I've learnt the Bible," she added in
a maudlin tone. "I can sing hymns, I can." She began to croon
something in a wheezy voice.

Mr. MacFie made a desperate effort to free himself from her
clutches, but succeeded only in bringing her to her knees.

"Look at 'im! Look at 'im!" shrieked the girl, "knocking
me about, what he swore to love, honour and obey. Oh, you
devil, Andy! How you used to behave, and now—and now——"

"I swear it's all a damned lee! It's ma enemy—ma enemy.
Woman, I know thee not! Thou art the scarlet woman of Babylon!
Get thee from me, I curse thee!" Mr. MacFie's Gaelic blood was up.

"Go it, sir!" said Bindle. "Go it!"

"Ye have come as the ravening wolf upon the sheep-fold at
night to destroy the lamb." Mr. MacFie waved his disengaged
arm.

"You bein' the lamb, sir, go it!" said Bindle.

"I'll hae the law on ye, woman, I'll hae the law on ye! Ye
impostor! Ye harlot!! Ye daughter of Belial!!!" He flung
his arm about, and his eyes rolled with almost maniacal fury.
"Ma God! ma God! Why persecuteth Thou me?" he cried, lifting
his eyes to the ceiling.

Then with a sudden drop to earthly things he appealed to
Lady Knob-Kerrick.

"Your Leddyship, your Leddyship, do not believe this woman.
She lies! She would ruin me!! I will have her arrested!!!
Fetch the police!!!! I demand the police!!!!!"

Lady Knob-Kerrick turned towards the door at the entrance
of which stood her footman.

"John, blow your police-whistle," she ordered, practical in
all things.

John disappeared. A moment later the raucous sound of a
police-whistle was heard in continuous blast.

"That's right!" shouted the woman, "that's right! Blow
your police-whistle! Blow your pinkish brains out!" Then with
a sudden change she turned to Mr. MacFie. "Oh, Andy, Andy![Pg 93]
You never was the same man after you 'ad that drink in you
down in the country at the temperance fête. Don't you remember
how you laughed with me about that Old Bird being washed out
of her carriage?"

"It's a lee! It's a lee! A damnable lee!" shrieked Mr.
MacFie.

Mr. MacFie was interrupted in his protestations by a sudden
rush of feet, and the hall began to fill with a wild-eyed, dishevelled
crowd. Mothers carrying their babies, or pulling along little
children. Everyone inviting everyone else to come in. One
woman was in hysterics. Lady Knob-Kerrick stared at them in
wonder.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded of no one in
particular.

"It's a raid, mum, a raid; it's a raid," sobbed a woman, leading
two little children with the hand and holding a baby in her
disengaged arm.

Lady Knob-Kerrick paled. "A raid!" she faltered.

"Yes, mum, can't you 'ear the police-whistles?"

"Well, I'm damned!" broke in Bindle, slapping his leg in
ecstasy; then a moment after, seeing the terror on the women's
faces, he cried out:

"It's all right, there ain't no raid. Don't be frightened. It's
ole Calves with that bloomin' police-whistle."

"Tell that fool to stop," cried Lady Knob-Kerrick. A special
constable pushed his way through the crowd.

"What is all this about, please?" he demanded.

"There's a raid, sir," cried several voices.

"I give this woman in charge," cried Mr. MacFie, dramatically
pointing at her who claimed to be his wife.

With alacrity the special pulled his note-book out of his pocket.

"The charge, sir?" he enquired.

"She says she's ma wife."

The special looked up from his note-book. "That is not an
indictable offence, sir, I'm afraid."

"But she's na ma wife," protested Mr. MacFie.

Another rush of people seeking shelter swept the constable
on one side, and when he once more strove to take up the thread,
the woman had disappeared.

The results of John's vigour with the police-whistle were
far-reaching. Omnibuses had drawn up to the kerb and had been
promptly deserted by passengers and crew. The trains on the
District Railway were plunged in darkness and the authorities at[Pg 94]
Putney Bridge Station and East Putney telephoned through that
there was a big air-raid. Although nothing had been heard at
head-quarters, it was deemed advisable to take precautions.
Special constables, nurses and ambulances were called out, anti-aircraft
stations warned, and tens of thousands of people sent scuttling home.

Bindle was one of the first to leave the School-room, and he
made his way over to Dick Little's flat at Chelsea.

"Ah!" cried Dick Little as he opened the door, "Nancy's back.
This way," he added, walking towards his bedroom.

In front of the dressing-table stood Private "Nancy" Dane,
the far-famed Pierrette of the Passchendaele Pierrots. He was in
the act of removing from his closely-cropped head a dark wig
to which was attached a black toque with an oval of vivid-coloured
embroidery.

"Well, that's that!" he remarked as he laid it on the table.
"Hullo, Bindle!" he cried. "All Clear?"

"All Clear!" replied Bindle as he seated himself upon a chair
and proceeded to light the big cigar that Dick Little handed
him. Dick Little threw himself upon the bed.

"You done it fine," remarked Bindle approvingly, as he
watched Dane slowly transform himself into a private of the
line. "Pore ole Mac," he added, "'e got the wind up proper."

"Good show, what?" queried Dick Little as he lazily pulled
at his pipe, tired after a long day's work in the hospital.

"Seemed a bit cruel to me," said Dane as he struggled out of a
pair of hefty-looking corsets.

"Cruel!" cried Bindle indignantly, as he sat up straight in
his chair. "Cruel! with 'im a-tryin' to take the gal away from
one of the boys wot's fightin' at the front. Cruel! It wouldn't
be cruel, Mr. Nancy, if 'e was cut up an' salted an' given to
the 'Uns as a meat ration;" and with this ferocious pronouncement
Bindle sank back again in his chair and puffed away at his
cigar.

"Sorry!" said Dane, laboriously pulling off a stocking.

"Right-o!" said Bindle cheerfully. Then after a pause he
added, "I got to thank Ole 'Amlet for that little idea, and you,
sir, for findin' Mr. Nancy. Did it wonderful well, 'e did; still,"
remarked Bindle meditatively, "I wish they 'adn't blown that
police-whistle. Them pore women an' kids was that scared,
made me feel I didn't ought to 'ave done it; but then, 'ow was
I to know that the Ole Bird was goin' to 'anky-panky like that
with Calves. Took 'er name they did, that's somethink. Any'ow,[Pg 95]
ole Mac won't go 'angin' round Millikins again for many a long
day. If 'e does I'll punch 'is bloomin' 'ead."

The next day Lady Knob-Kerrick and John were summoned
for causing to be blown to the public confusion a police-whistle,
and although the summonses were dismissed the magistrate said
some very caustic things about the insensate folly of excitable
women. He furthermore made it clear that if anybody blew a
police-whistle in the south-western district because somebody
else's wife had come back unexpectedly, he would without hesitation
pass a sentence that would discourage any repetition of so
unscrupulous and unpardonable an act.

Mr. MacFie cleared his character to some extent by a sermon
on the following Sunday upon the ninth commandment, and by
inserting an advertisement in the principal papers offering £20
to anyone who would give information as to the identity of the
woman who on the night of the 28th had created a disturbance
in the Alton Road School Room.

CHAPTER IX

THE LETTING OF NUMBER SIX

I

"An' what am I to do if there's an air-raid?" demanded Mrs.
Bindle.

Bindle deliberately emptied his coffee-cup, replaced it
in its saucer, sat back further in his chair as a sign of repletion,
then turned to Mrs. Bindle, who had been watching him with
angry eyes.

"Well, there's always Gawd an' Mr. Gupperduck, Mrs. B.,"
he remarked, with the air of a man suggesting an unfailing source
of inspiration.

"You always was a scoffer, you with your black 'eart." Mrs.
Bindle's ire was rising, and her diction in consequence losing
something of its customary precision. "You know I ain't strong
and—and 'ow them guns an' bombs frighten me." There was
in Mrs. Bindle's voice a note of entreaty.

"A daughter o' the Lord didn't ought to be afraid of an 'Un;[Pg 96]
besides, you can go round an' 'old 'Earty's 'and. 'E's a rare
ole 'ero when there's guns goin' off."

"I knew I shouldn't get any sympathy from you," complained
Mrs. Bindle, rising and proceeding to bang away the breakfast
things. When Mrs. Bindle was suffering from any great stress
of emotion, she expressed her feelings by the noise she made.
Ironing gave her the greatest opportunities. She could bang the
iron on the ironing-board, back again to the stand, and finally
on to the stove.

"I got to earn a livin'," remarked Bindle philosophically as
he proceeded to light his pipe. "It's war-time too, an' nobody
can't afford to move, so pore ole Joe 'as to take any ole job
'e can get 'old of."

"You lorst your last job a-purpose," snapped Mrs. Bindle.

Bindle looked at her sharply. Sometimes Mrs. Bindle's accuracy
in things where she could not possibly possess knowledge was
startling. Bindle had temporarily relinquished his situation in
the Removal Department of Harridge's Stores in order to become
caretaker at Fulham Square Mansions whilst his intimate, Charlie
Hart, had a fortnight's holiday.

Mrs. Hart had been ill, and the doctor said that change of air
and scene were essential to her recovery. She could not go alone,
and if Mr. Hart went with her and a substitute were obtained, he
would in all probability, as Charlie put it, "pinch my bloomin'
job." Bindle he knew he could trust, and so it came about that
for a fortnight Bindle was to "sleep out."

"Well, you see," Bindle explained, "I couldn't disappoint ole
Charlie——"

"And what about me?" demanded Mrs. Bindle, looking round
from a fierce attack upon the kitchen stove with the poker.

"Well," said Bindle slowly, "you're a disappointed woman as
it is, Mrs. B., so you ain't 'urt."

Mrs. Bindle resumed her attack upon the fire with increased
vigour.

"You always was a selfish beast, Bindle," she retorted. "You'll
be sorry when I'm dead."

Any reference by Mrs. Bindle to the remorse that he would
suffer after her death, Bindle always regarded as a sort of "take
cover" signal. Mrs. Bindle was hysterical, and Bindle liked to
be well out of the way before the storm broke. He had heard,
but had never had an opportunity of testing the statement, that
without an audience dogs will not fight and women will never
have hysterics.[Pg 97]

When, therefore, Mrs. Bindle referred to what Bindle widower
would suffer on account of what Bindle benedict had neglected
to do, he rose, picking up the faded blue-and-white cricket-cap
he invariably wore, and walked towards the door.

"There'll be a lot o' tips, ole Charlie says," he remarked, "an'
I'll buy you somethink. I'll run in every day to see you ain't
gone off with 'Guppy.'"

"You're a dirty-minded beast, Bindle," raged Mrs. Bindle;
but her words beat up against the back door, through which
Bindle had vanished. He had become a master of strategical
retreat.

Whistling shrilly, he proceeded along the Fulham Road in the
direction of Fulham Square Mansions. Bindle was in a happy
frame of mind. It would be strange if a fortnight as porter at
Fulham Square Mansions did not produce something in the way of
a diversion.

"Cheer-o, uncle!" The remark came from a brazen-faced
girl waiting for a bus.

Bindle frowned as he looked her up and down, from the low-cut
transparent blouse to the short skirt, reaching little below
her knees.

"If I was your uncle, young woman," he remarked, "I'd slap
you into becomin' decent."

The girl jumped on to a bus that had just drawn up, and
with a swirl of skirt and wealth of limb, waved her hand as she
climbed the stairs.

"So long, old dear!" she cried.

"Got enough powder on 'er face to whitewash 'er feet,"
remarked a workman to Bindle as he resumed his walk.

"Women is funny things," responded Bindle. "They never
seems to be wearin' so little, but wot they can't leave orf a bit
more."

"You're right, mate," replied the man when he had digested
the remark. "If I was the police I'd run 'em in."

"Well," said Bindle philosophically, "there is some wot likes
to see all the goods in the window. S'long!" and he turned off
the Fulham Road, leaving the workman to pursue his journey
puzzling over Bindle's enigmatical utterance.

"'Ullo, Charlie!" greeted Bindle, as he entered the porter's
lodge of Fulham Square Mansions. "'Ere I am, come to take
care of all the little birds in the nest wot you're a-leavin' behind."

Charlie Hart was a big man with a heavy moustache, a brow
whereon the creases of worry had a perpetual abiding-place, and[Pg 98]
an indeterminate chin. "Charlie ought to wear a beard," was
Bindle's verdict.

"Glad you come, Joe. I'll 'ave time to go over things again.
Train don't go till four."

During the next few hours Bindle was once more taken over
the salient features of the life of a porter at a block of residential
flats. Charlie Hart had no system or order in conveying his
instructions, and Bindle saw that he would have to depend upon
his own wits to meet such crises as arose.

Mrs. Sedge, Mrs. Hart's mother, would look after those tenants
who did not possess servants.

"She's all right when she ain't after 'Royal Richard,'" explained
Charlie Hart.

"An' who's Royal Richard?" enquired Bindle with interest.

"Gin!" was Charlie Hart's laconic response.

Charlie enumerated the numbers of the flats, the occupants
of which were to be "done for." One thing he particularly
emphasised, Number Six was temporarily vacant. The owner
was away; but it was let furnished from the following Monday
to a Miss Cissie Boye, who was one of those to be "done for."
Bindle was particularly cautioned to see that there were no
"carryings on," whereat he winked reassuringly.

Mrs. Sedge was a stolid matron, whose outlook on life had
reached the dregs of pessimism.

"Oh! don't ask me," was the phrase with which she warded
off any attempt at conversation. Hers was a soul dedicated to
Royal Richard and silence.

"Cheery little thing," was Bindle's summing up of the gloomy
Mrs. Sedge.

Bindle had not been in charge an hour before Number Seven
began to get troublesome. He was a choleric ex-Indian civil
servant.

"Where's that damned fellow Hart?" he roared, thrusting his
head into the porter's lodge.

"'E's gone to the damned seaside," replied Bindle imperturbably, as he
proceeded to light his pipe with elaborate calm. "Taken 'is damned
wife with 'im," he added.

Number Seven gasped.

"And who the devil are you?" he demanded.

"Well," replied Bindle with a grin, "on the 'Alls I'm Little
Tich; but 'ere I calls myself Joe Bindle, known as ''Oly Joe.'"

For a moment Number Seven, his customary redness of face
transformed to purple, stood regarding Bindle fiercely.[Pg 99]

"Then be damned to you!" he burst out, and turning on his
heel, dashed upstairs.

"I ain't lived with Mrs. B. nineteen years without learnin' 'ow
to 'andle explosives," remarked Bindle as he settled down to
read an evening newspaper he had discovered in the letter box.

Bindle soon discovered that the life of a porter at residential
flats is strangely lacking in repose. Everybody seemed either
to want something sent up, or came to complain that their instructions
had not been carried out.

The day passed with amazing rapidity. At eight o'clock
Bindle stepped round to The Ancient Earl for a glass of beer.
When he returned at nine-thirty he found his room in a state of
siege.

"Oh, here he is!" said someone. Bindle smiled happily.

"Where the devil have you been?" demanded Number Seven
angrily.

Bindle looked at him steadily. Having apparently established
Number Seven's identity to his entire satisfaction, he spoke.

"Now look 'ere, sir, this is the second time to-day I've 'ad
to speak to you about your language. This ain't a peace-meetin'.
You speakin' like that before ladies too. I'm surprised at you,
I am really. Now 'op it an' learn some nice words, an' then
come back an' beg prettily, an' p'raps I'll give you a bit o' cake."

"You damned insolent fellow!" thundered Number Seven,
"I'll report you, I'll——"

"Look 'ere," remarked Bindle tranquilly, "if you ain't gone
by the time I've finished lightin' this pipe,"—he struck a match
deliberately,—"I'll 'oof it myself, an' then who'll fetch up all
the coals in the mornin'?"

This master-stroke of strategy turned public opinion dead
against Number Seven, who retired amidst a murmur of disapproving
voices.

"It's 'ard if I can't go out to see a dyin' wife an' child, without
'im a-comin' usin' 'ot words like that," grumbled Bindle,
as he proceeded to investigate the cases of the other tenants and
their minions.

Number One was expecting a parcel. Had it arrived?

No, it had not, but Bindle would not rest until it did.

Number Twelve, a tall, melancholy-visaged man, had lost
Fluffles. Where did Bindle think she was?

"P'raps she's taken up with another cove, sir," suggested
Bindle sympathetically. "You never knows where you are with
women."[Pg 100]

The maid from Number Fifteen giggled.

Number Twelve explained in a weary tone that Fluffles was a
Pekinese spaniel.

"A dog, you say, sir," cried Bindle, "why didn't you say so
before? I might 'ave advertised for—well, well, I'll keep a look
out."

"Wot's that?" he enquired of the maid from Number Eight.
"No coal? Can't fetch coal up after six o'clock. That's the
rules," he added with decision.

"But we must have some, we can't go to bed without coal,"
snapped the girl, an undersized, shrewish little creature.

"Well, Queenie," responded Bindle imperturbably, "you'll 'ave
to take some firewood to bed with you, if you wants company;
coal you don't get to-night. Wot about a log?"

"My name's not 'Queenie,'" snapped the girl.

"Ain't it now," remarked Bindle; "shows your father and
mother 'adn't an eye for the right thing, don't it?"

"I tell you we must have coal," persisted the girl.

"Now look 'ere, Queenie, my dear, a gal as wants to take coal
to bed with 'er ain't—well, she ain't respectable. Now orf you
goes like a good gal."

"It's in case of raids, you saucy 'ound!" screeched "Queenie."
"I'll get even with you yet, you red-nosed little bounder! I'll
pay you!"

"Funny where they learns it all," remarked Bindle to Number
Eleven, a quiet little old lady who wanted a postage stamp.

The little lady smiled.

"She won't be wantin' coal in the next world if she goes on
like that, will she, mum?" said Bindle as he handed her the
stamp.

"Her mistress has a weak heart," ventured Number Eleven,
"and during the raids she shivers so——"

"Now ain't that jest like a woman, beggin' your pardon, mum.
Why didn't Queenie say that instead of showin' 'ow bad she's
been brought up? Right-o! I'll take her up some coal."

Ten minutes later Bindle surprised "Queenie" by appearing at
the door of Number Eight with a pailful of coal. She stared
at him in surprise. Bindle grinned.

"'Ere you are, Queenie," he said cheerfully. "Now you'll
be able to go to sleep with a bit in each 'and, an' maybe there'll
be a bit over to put in your mouth."

"Look 'ere, don't you go callin' me 'Queenie'; that ain't my
name, so there," and the girl banged the door in his face.[Pg 101]

"She'll grow up jest like Mrs. B.," murmured Bindle, as he
slowly descended the stairs, "an' p'raps she can't even cook.
I wonder if she's religious. Sort o' zoo this 'ere little 'ole.
Shouldn't be surprised if things was to 'appen before Ole Charlie
gets 'ome again!" and Bindle returned to his lodge, where,
removing his boots and throwing off his coat, he lay down on
the couch that served as a bed for the porter at Fulham Square
Mansions.

During the next two days Bindle discovered that his duties
were endless. Everybody seemed to want something, or have
some complaint to make. He was expected to be always at his
post, night and day, and if he were not, he was threatened with
a possible complaint to the Secretary of the Company to which
the flats belonged.

Bindle's fertile brain, however, was not long in devising a
means of relieving the monotony without compromising "pore
Ole Charlie." He sent home for his special constable's uniform,
although he had obtained a fortnight's leave on account of his
work. Henceforth, whenever he required relaxation, he donned
his official garb, which he found a sure defence against all complaints.

"Well, Queenie," he remarked one evening to the maid at
Number Eight, "I'm orf to catch the robbers wot might carry
you away."

"I can see you catchin' a man," snorted the girl scornfully.

"Sorry I can't return the compliment, little love-bird," retorted
Bindle. "S'long!"

"Queenie" had found her match.

II

"You—er—have a furnished—er—flat to let."

Bindle looked up from the paper he was reading.

A timid, mouse-like little man with side-whiskers and a deprecating
manner stood on the threshold.

"Come in, sir," said Bindle heartily; "but I'm afraid it's let."

"But the board's up," replied the applicant.

Bindle rose, walked to the outer door, and there saw the notice-board
announcing that a furnished-flat was to let.

"Funny me not noticin' that," he murmured to himself, as he
returned to the porter's lodge.

"Was you wantin' it for long, sir?" he enquired.

"A month, I think," was the reply; "but three weeks——"[Pg 102]

"I'm sorry, sir," began Bindle, then he smacked his leg with
such suddenness that the stranger started back in alarm, his soft
felt hat falling from his head and hanging behind him attached
to a hat-guard.

"Now isn't that jest like me!" cried Bindle, his face wreathed
in smiles.

The stranger eyed Bindle nervously, as he fumbled to retrieve
his lost head-gear, looking like a dog endeavouring to ascertain
if he still possessed a tail.

"I was thinkin' of the other one," said Bindle. "Yes; there's
Number Six to let from next Monday."

"What is the rent?" enquired the caller.

Bindle, who had no idea of the rent of furnished flats, decided
to temporise. "I'll go and ask, sir," he said. "Wot was you
exactly wantin', an' about wot figure?"

"Well, a bedroom, bath-room, sitting-room, kitchen and attendance,
would do," was the reply. "I do not want to pay more than three and
a half guineas a week."

"Now ain't that funny!" cried Bindle, and without waiting
to explain what was funny, he picked up the key of Number Six
from his desk. "Now you jest come with me, sir, an' I'll show
you the very place you're wantin'."

Number Six consisted of two bedrooms, a sitting-room, bath-room
and kitchen. Charlie Hart had taken Bindle over it, explaining
that Miss Cissie Boye, who was entering into occupation
on the following Monday, would use only the smaller bedroom
with the single bed, therefore the double-bedded room was
to remain locked.

The applicant, who introduced himself as Mr. Jabez Stiffson,
expressed himself as quite satisfied with all he saw, and agreed
to enter into possession on the following Monday afternoon, at
a rental of three and a half guineas a week. He appeared mildly
surprised at Bindle waiving the question of references and a
deposit; but agreed that the smaller bedroom should be kept
locked, as containing the owner's personal possessions. Mrs.
Stiffson, he explained, was staying with friends in the country,
their own house being let; but she would join him on the Tuesday
morning.

In the privacy of his own apartment, Bindle rubbed his hands
with glee. "If this ain't goin' to be a little story for the Night
Club," he murmured, "well, put me down as a Cuthbert."

He persuaded Mrs. Sedge to get both rooms ready, "in case of
accidents," as he expressed it. Bindle foresaw that there might[Pg 103]
be some difficulty in the matter of catering for Mr. Jabez Stiffson;
but he left that to the inspiration of the moment.

He looked forward to Monday as a schoolboy looks forward
to the summer holidays. He forgot to rebuke "Queenie" when
she became impertinent, he allowed Number Seven to swear with
impunity, and he even forgot to don his special's uniform and
go "on duty"; in short, he forgot everything save the all-absorbing
topic of Miss Cissie Boye and Mr. Jabez Stiffson.

On Monday, Mrs. Sedge was persuaded to take a half day off.
She announced her intention of putting some flowers on her
husband's grave in Kilburn Cemetery.

"Well," remarked Bindle, who knew that Mrs. Sedge's "Kilburn
Cemetery" was the public-bar of The Ancient Earl, "you won't want
no bus fares."

"You go hon, with a nose like that," retorted Mrs. Sedge, in
no way displeased.

"Well, don't be late in the morning," grinned Bindle.

At six-thirty, Mr. Jabez Stiffson arrived with a bewildering
collection of impedimenta, ranging from a canary in a cage to a
thermos flask.

Bindle put all he could in the double-bedded room, the rest
he managed to store in the kitchen. A slight difficulty arose over
the canary, Mr. Stiffson suggested the dining-room.

"Wouldn't 'e sort o' feel lonely without seein' you when 'e
opened 'is little eyes?" questioned Bindle solicitously. "A cove
I knew once 'ad a canary which 'ad a fit through bein' lonely,
and they 'ad to throw water over 'im to bring 'im to, an' then
wot d'you think, sir?"

Mr. Stiffson shook his head in mournful foreboding.

"'E come to a sparrow, 'e did really, sir."

That settled the canary, who slept with Mr. Stiffson.

It was nearly eight before Mr. Stiffson was settled, and he
announced his intention of going out to dine. At ten he was
ready for bed, having implored Bindle to see that he was up by
eight as Mrs. Stiffson would inevitably arrive at ten.

"I'm a very heavy sleeper," he announced, to Bindle's great
relief. "And my watch has stopped," he added; "some dirt
must have got into the works. If Mrs. Stiffson were to arrive
before I was up——" He did not venture to state what would
be the probable consequence; but his manner implied that Mrs.
Stiffson was a being of whom he stood in great awe.

Just as Bindle was leaving him for the night, Mr. Stiffson
called him back.[Pg 104]

"Porter, I'm worried about Oscar." Bindle noticed that Mr.
Stiffson's hands were moving nervously.

"Are you really, sir?" enquired Bindle, wondering who Oscar
might be.

"The bird, you know," continued Mr. Stiffson, answering
Bindle's unuttered question. "You—you don't think it will be
unhygienic for him to sleep with me?"

"Sure of it, sir," replied Bindle, entirely at a loss as to Mr.
Stiffson's meaning.

Mr. Stiffson sighed his relief and bade Bindle good night, with
a final exhortation as to waking him at eight. "You know," he
added, "I always sleep through air-raids."

Mr. Stiffson's bugbear in life was lest he should over-sleep.
He seldom failed to wake of his own accord; but, constitutionally
lacking in self-reliance, he felt that at any moment he might
commit the unpardonable sin of over-sleeping.

Bindle returned to his room to await the arrival of Miss Cissie
Boye.

It was nearly midnight when his alert ear caught the sound
of a taxi drawing up outside. As he opened the outer door, Miss
Cissie Boye appeared at the top of the stone-steps.

Bindle caught a glimpse of a dainty little creature in a long
travelling coat with fur at the collar, cuffs and round the bottom,
a small travelling hat and a thick veil.

"Oh, can you help with my luggage?" she cried.

"Right-o, miss! You go in there and sit by the fire. We'll 'ave
things right in a jiffy;" and Bindle proceeded to tackle Miss
Boye's luggage, which consisted of a large dress-basket, a suit-case
and a bundle of rugs and umbrellas. When these had been placed
in the hall, and the taxi-man paid, Bindle went into his lodge.

Miss Boye was sitting before the fire, her coat thrown open
and her veil thrown back. Between her dainty fingers she held
a cigarette.

"So that's that!" she cried. "I'm so tired, Mr. Porter."

Bindle regarded her with admiration. Honey-coloured, fluffy
hair, blue eyes, dark eyebrows and lashes, pretty, petite features,
and a manner that suggested half baby, half woman-of-the-world,—Bindle
found her wholly alluring.

"I'm afraid we can't get that little picnic 'amper of yours
upstairs to-night, miss," he remarked.

Miss Boye laughed. "Isn't it huge?" she cried. "It needn't
go up till the morning. I've all I want in the suit-case."

"You must 'ave a rare lot o' duds, miss," remarked Bindle.[Pg 105]

"Duds?" interrogated Miss Boye.

"Clothes, miss," explained Bindle.

Miss Boye laughed lightly. Miss Boye laughed at everything.

"Now I must go to bed. I've got a 'call' to-morrow at eleven."

As they went upstairs, Bindle learnt quite a lot about Miss
Boye, among other things that she was appearing in the revue
at the Regent Theatre known as "Kiss Me Quick," that she never
ate suppers, that she took a warm bath every morning, and liked
coffee, bacon and eggs and strawberry jam for breakfast.

"You'll be very quiet, miss, in the flat, won't you?" he whispered.

"Sure," replied Miss Boye.

"They're such a funny lot 'ere," he explained. "If a fly wakes
up too early, or a bird 'as a nightmare, they comes down an'
complains next mornin'."

Miss Boye laughed.

"'Ush! miss, please," whispered Bindle as he switched on
the electric light in the hall of Number Six.

Bindle showed the new tenant the sitting-room, bathroom,
kitchen, and finally her own bedroom.

"You will be quiet, miss, won't you?" Bindle interrogated
anxiously, "or you may wake Oscar?"

"Who's Oscar?" queried Miss Boye.

"You'll see 'im in the mornin', miss," replied Bindle with a
grin. "Good night, miss."

"Good night, Mr. Porter," smiled Miss Boye, and she closed the
door.

"Now I wonder if anythink will 'appen before Ole Whiskers
gets up in the mornin'," mused Bindle as he descended the
stairs to his room.

CHAPTER X

THE DOWNFALL OF MR. JABEZ STIFFSON

I

The next morning Bindle let Mrs. Sedge in at her usual
time, seven o'clock.

"Now mind, mother," he said, "four eggs and plenty
o' bacon an' coffee, Number Six 'as got a appetite; 'ad no supper,
pore gal."[Pg 106]

Mrs. Sedge grunted. Kilburn Cemetery had a depressing effect
upon her.

"I'll take it up myself," remarked Bindle casually.

Mrs. Sedge eyed him deliberately.

"She's pretty, then," she said. "Ain't you men jest all alike!"
She proceeded to shake her head in hopeless despair.

Bindle stood watching her as she descended to the Harts'
kitchen.

"She's got an 'ead-piece on 'er, 'as ole Sedgy," he muttered.
"Fancy 'er a-tumblin' to it like that, an' 'er still 'alf full o'
Royal Richard."

Having prepared and eaten his own breakfast, Bindle sat down
and waited. At five minutes past nine he rose.

"It's time Oscar an' Ole Whiskers was up an' doin'," he
murmured as he stood in front of the dingy looking-glass over
the fireplace. "Joe Bindle, there's a-goin' to be rare doin's in
Number Six to-day, and it may mean that you'll lose your job,
you ole reprobate."

At the head of the stairs of the second floor Bindle stopped
as if he had been shot.

"'Old me, 'Orace!" he muttered. "If it ain't 'er!"

Running towards him was Miss Boye in a white silk wrapper,
a white lace matinée cap, her stockingless feet thrust into dainty
slippers.

Bindle eyed her appreciatively.

"Oh, Mr. Porter!" she cried breathlessly, "there's a man in
my bath."

"A wot, miss?" enquired Bindle in astonishment.

"A man, I heard him splashing and I peeped in,—I only just
peeped, you know, Mr. Porter,—and there was a funny little
man in spectacles with whiskers. Isn't it lovely!" she cried,
clapping her hands gleefully. "Where could he have come from?"

"Well, personally myself, I shouldn't call 'im lovely," muttered
Bindle. "I s'pose it's only a matter o' taste."

"But where did he come from?" persisted Cissie Boye excitedly.

"'E must 'ave been left be'ind by the other tenant," said
Bindle, grinning widely. "I must see into this. Now you'd
better get back, miss. You mustn't go 'opping about like this,
or I'll lose my job."

"Why! Don't I look nice?" asked Miss Boye archly, looking
down at herself.

"That's jest it, miss," said Bindle. "If Number Seven or
Number Eighteen was to see you like that, well, anythink might[Pg 107]
'appen. Now we'll find out about this man wot you think 'as
got into your bath."

Followed by Miss Boye, Bindle entered the outer door of
Number Six. As he did so Mr. Stiffson emerged from the bathroom
in a faded pink bath-robe and yellow felt slippers, with a
towel over his shoulder and a sponge in his hand. He gave one
startled glance past Bindle at Cissie Boye and, with a strange
noise in his throat, turned and fled back to the bathroom, bolting
the door behind him.

"Isn't he a scream!" gurgled Miss Boye. "Oh, what would
Bobbie say?"

Like a decree of fate Bindle marched up to the bathroom door
and knocked imperiously.

"What is it?" inquired Mr. Stiffson in a trembling voice.

"It's me," responded Bindle sternly. "Open the door, sir, if
you please. I can't 'ave you a-frightening this young lady."

"Tell her to go away, and then I'll come out," was the response.

Miss Boye giggled.

"You'd better come out, sir." There was decision in Bindle's
voice.

"I'll go into my room," she whispered, "and then I'll come out
again, see?"

Bindle did see, and nodded his head vigorously. Miss Boye
disappeared.

"She ain't 'ere now, sir," he said, "so you'd better come
out."

The bathroom door was cautiously opened, and Mr. Stiffson
looked out with terror-dilated eyes.

"Is she really——?"

"Of course she is," said Bindle reassuringly. "Fancy you
bein' afraid of a pretty little bit o' fluff like that."

"But—but—she was in her——"

"Of course she was, she was goin' to 'ave a rinse in there,"
Bindle indicated the bathroom with his thumb, "when you
frightened 'er. Dirty trick a-frightening of a pretty gal like that."

With affected indifference Bindle strolled over to the bathroom,
looked in and then stood before the door.

"Look! there she is again!" almost shrieked Mr. Stiffson,
dashing for Bindle and endeavouring to get past him into the
bathroom.

"There, there, sir," said Bindle soothingly, "you're a very
lucky cove, only you don't seem to know it."

"But—but—Mrs. Stiffson——"[Pg 108]

There was terror in Mr. Stiffson's voice. On his forehead beads
of perspiration glistened.

"What the wife don't see the 'usband don't 'ave to explain,"
remarked Bindle oracularly.

"But she's in my flat," persisted Mr. Stiffson.

"Oh! you naughty old thing!" cried Cissie Boye. "It's you
who are in my flat."

"But I came in last night," quavered Mr. Stiffson.

"So did I—didn't I, Mr. Porter?" She turned to Bindle for
corroboration.

"Take my dyin' oath on it, miss," said Bindle.

"But——" began Mr. Stiffson, then stopped, at loss how to
proceed.

"Look 'ere," said Bindle pleasantly, "there's been a little
mistake, sort of a misunderstandin', an' things 'ave got a bit
mixed. You can say it's me wot's done it if you like. Now
you'd better both get dressed an' come an' 'ave breakfast."
Then turning to Mr. Stiffson he said, "Don't you think o' meetin'
your missis on an empty stomach. I'm married myself, an'
Mrs. B.'s as 'ot as ginger when there's another bit o' skirt
about."

Cissie Boye slowly approached Mr. Stiffson. "You're surely
not afraid of little me, Mr. Man?" she enquired, looking
deliciously impudent.

That was exactly what Mr. Stiffson was afraid of, and he edged
nearer to Bindle.

"But Mrs. Stiffson——" he stammered, regarding Cissie Boye
like one hypnotised.

"Oh! you naughty old thing!" admonished Miss Boye, enjoying Mr.
Stiffson's embarrassment. "You come into my flat, then talk about your
wife," and she laughed happily.

"Now look 'ere, sir," said Bindle, "there's been a little mistake,
an' this young lady is willin' to forgive an' forget, an' you ain't
a-goin' to 'old out, are you? Now you jest run in an' get rid
o' them petticoats, come out lookin' like a man, an' then wot-o!
for a nice little breakfast which'll all be over before your missis
turns up at ten o'clock, see! You can trust me, married myself
I am," he added as if to explain his breadth of view in such
matters.

"But I can't——" began Mr. Stiffson.

"Oh, yes you can, sir, an' wot's more you'll like it." Bindle
gently propelled the protesting Mr. Stiffson past Cissie Boye
towards his room.[Pg 109]

"Don't forget now, in a quarter of an hour, I'll be up with
the coffee an' bacon an' eggs. You're a rare lucky cove, sir,
only you don't know it."

"I'm so hungry," wailed Cissie Boye.

"Of course you are, miss," said Bindle sympathetically. "I'll
get a move on."

"Oh! isn't he delicious," gurgled Cissie Boye. "Isn't he a
perfect scream; but how did he get here, Mr. Porter?"

"Well, miss, the only wonder to me is that 'alf Fulham ain't
'ere to see you a-lookin' like that. Now you jest get a rinse
in your room an'——"

"A rinse, what's that?" enquired Cissie.

"You does it with soap an' water, miss, an' you might add
a bit or two of lace, jest in case the neighbours was to come in.
Now I must be orf. Old Sedgy ain't at 'er best after them 'alf
days with Royal Richard. Don't let 'im nip orf, miss, will you?"
Bindle added anxiously. "'E's that modest an' retirin' like,
that e' might try."

At that moment Mr. Stiffson put his head out of his door.
"Porter!" he stammered, "Oscar has not had his breakfast; it's
on the kitchen mantelpiece." He shut the door hurriedly.

"Oscar's got to wait," muttered Bindle as he hurried downstairs.

Ten minutes later he had the gas-stove lighted in the sitting-room,
and coffee, eggs and bacon, bread and butter, strawberry
jam and marmalade ready on the table.

Miss Boye emerged from her room, a vision of loveliness in a
pale-blue teagown, open at the throat, with a flurry of white lace
cascading down the front. There was a good deal of Cissie Boye
visible in spite of the lace. She still wore her matinée cap with
the blue ribbons, and Bindle frankly envied Mr. Stiffson.

"Now, sir," he cried, banging at the laggard's door, "the
coffee and the lady's waitin', an' I want to feed Oscar."

Mr. Stiffson came out timidly. He evidently realised the importance of
the occasion. He wore a white satin tie reposing beneath a low collar
of nonconformity, a black frock-coat with a waistcoat that had been
bought at a moment of indecision as to whether it should be a morning
or evening affair, light trousers, and spats.

"My, ain't we dressy!" cried Bindle, looking appreciatively
at Mr. Stiffson's trousers. "You got 'er beaten with them bags,
sir, or my name ain't Joe Bindle."

Mr. Stiffson coughed nervously behind his hand.[Pg 110]

"Now," continued Bindle, "you got a good hour, then we
must see wot's to be done. I'll keep the Ole Bird away."

"The Old Bird?" questioned Mr. Stiffson in a thin voice as
he opened the door; "but Oscar is only——"

"I mean your missis, sir," explained Bindle. "You leave
'er to me."

"Come on, Mr. Man," cried Cissie Boye, "don't be afraid, I
never eat men when there's eggs and bacon."

Mr. Stiffson motioned Bindle to accompany him into the
sitting-room.

"I got to see to Oscar," said Bindle reassuringly.

"Now sit down," ordered Cissie Boye. Mr. Stiffson seated
himself on the edge of the chair opposite to her. She busied
herself with the coffee, bacon and eggs. Mr. Stiffson watched
her with the air of a man who is prepared to bolt at any moment.
He cast anxious eyes towards the clock. It pointed to a quarter
to nine. Bindle had taken the precaution of putting it back an
hour.

Suddenly Oscar burst into full song. Mr. Stiffson sighed his
relief. Oscar had had his breakfast.

"Now, Mr. Man, eat," commanded Cissie Boye, "and," handing
him a cup of coffee, "drink."

"An' be merry, sir," added Bindle, who entered at the moment.
"You're 'avin' the time of your life, an' don't you forget it."

Mr. Stiffson looked as if the passage of centuries would never
permit him to forget.

"An' now I'll leave you little love-birds," said Bindle with
the cheerful assurance of a cupid, "an' go an' keep watch."

"But——" protested Mr. Stiffson, half rising from his chair.

"Oh! do sit down, old thing!" cried Cissie; "you're spoiling
my breakfast."

Mr. Stiffson subsided. Destiny had clearly taken a hand in the
affair.

"Now you jest enjoy your little selves," apostrophized Bindle,
"an' then we'll try an' find out 'ow all this 'ere 'appened. It
does me, blowed if it don't."

II

"I'm not aware that I speak indistinctly." The voice was
uncompromising, the deportment aggressive. "I said 'Mr. Jabez
Stiffson.'"

"You did, mum," agreed Bindle tactfully; "I 'eard you myself
quite plainly."[Pg 111]

"Then where is he? I'm Mrs. Stiffson."

Mrs. Stiffson was a tall woman of generous proportions. Her hair was
grey, her features virtuously hard, her manner overwhelming. Her
movements gave no suggestion of limbs, she seemed to wheel along with
a slight swaying of the body from side to side.

"Well?" she interrogated.

"'E's sort of engaged, mum," temporised Bindle, "'avin'
breakfast. I'll tell 'im you're 'ere. I'll break it gently to 'im.
You know, mum, joy sometimes kills, an' 'e don't look strong."

Without a word Mrs. Stiffson wheeled round and, ignoring the
lift, marched for the stairs. As he followed, Bindle remembered
with satisfaction that he had omitted to close the outer door of
Number Six.

Straight up the stairs, like "never-ending Time," marched
Mrs. Stiffson. She did not hurry, she did not pause, she climbed
evenly, mechanically, a model wife seeking her mate.

Any doubts that Bindle may have had as to Mrs. Stiffson's
ability to find the husband she sought were set at rest by the
shrill pipings of Oscar. Even a trained detective could not have
overlooked so obvious a clue.

Along the corridor, straight for Number Six moved Mrs. Stiffson,
Bindle in close attendance, fearful lest he should lose the
dramatic intensity of the arrival of "the wronged wife."

Unconscious that Nemesis was marching upon him, Mr. Stiffson,
stimulated by the coffee, bacon and eggs, and the gay insouciance
of Cissie Boye, was finding the situation losing much of its terror
for him.

No man for long could remain indifferent to the charming personality
of Cissie Boye. Her bright chatter and good looks, her innocence,
strangely blended with worldly wisdom, her daring garb; all combined
to divert Mr. Stiffson's mind from the thoughts of his wife, apart
from which the clock pointed to five minutes past nine, and Mrs.
Stiffson was as punctual as fate.

Had he possessed the intuition of a mongoose, Mr. Stiffson
would have known that there was a snake in his grass.

Instinct guiding her steps, Mrs. Stiffson entered the flat. Instead
of turning to the right, in the direction of the bedroom in which
Oscar was overdoing the thanksgiving business for bird-seed and
water, she wheeled to the left and threw open the sitting-room
door.

From under Mrs. Stiffson's right arm Bindle saw the tableau.
Mr. Stiffson, who was facing the door, was in the act of raising[Pg 112]
his coffee-cup to smiling lips. Cissie Boye, sitting at right angles
on his left, was leaning back in her chair clapping her hands.

"Oh, you naughty old thing!" she was crying.

At the sight of his wife, Mr. Stiffson's jaw dropped and the
coffee-cup slipped from his nerveless hands. It struck the edge
of the table and emptied its contents down the opening of his
low-cut waistcoat.

At the sight of the abject terror on Mr. Stiffson's face, Cissie
Boye ceased to clap her hands and, turning her head, met Mrs.
Stiffson's uncompromising stare and Bindle's appreciative grin.

"Jabez!" It was like the uninflected accents of doom.

Mr. Stiffson shivered; that was the only indication he gave of
having heard. With unblinking eyes he continued to gaze at
his wife as if fascinated, the empty coffee-cup resting on his
knees.

"Jabez!" repeated Mrs. Stiffson. "I thought I told you to
wear your tweed mixture to-day."

Mrs. Stiffson had a fine sense of the dramatic! The unexpectedness
of the remark caused Mr. Stiffson to blink his eyes like
a puzzled owl, without however removing them from his wife,
or changing their expression.

Cissie Boye laughed, Bindle grinned.

"Won't you sit down?" It was Cissie Boye who spoke.

"Silence, hussy!" There was no anger in Mrs. Stiffson's voice;
it was just a command and an expression of opinion.

Cissie Boye rose, the light of battle in her eyes. Bindle pushed
past Mrs. Stiffson and stood between the two women.

"Look 'ere, mum," he said, "we likes manners in this 'ere flat,
an' we're a-goin' to 'ave 'em, see! Sorry if I 'urt your feelin's.
This ain't a woman's club."

"Hold your tongue, fool!" the deep voice thundered.

"Oh, no, you don't!" said Bindle cheerfully, looking up at
his mountainous antagonist. "You can't frighten me, I ain't
married to you. Now you jest be civil."

"Listen!" cried Cissie Boye with flashing eyes. "Don't you
go giving me the bird like that, or——" She paused at a loss
with what to threaten her guest.

"It's all right, miss," said Bindle, "You jest leave 'er to me;
I got one o' my own at 'ome. She's going to speak to me,
she is."

Mrs. Stiffson's efforts of self-control were proving unequal to
the occasion, her breathing became laboured and her voice
husky.[Pg 113]

"What is my husband doing in this person's flat?" demanded
Mrs. Stiffson, apparently of no one in particular. There was
something like emotion in her voice.

"Well, mum," responded Bindle, "'e was eatin' bacon an'
eggs an' drinking coffee."

"How dare you appear before my husband like that!" Mrs.
Stiffson turned fiercely upon Cissie Boye. "You brazen creature!"
anger was now taking possession of her.

"Here, easy on, old thing!" said Cissie Boye, seeing Mrs.
Stiffson's rising temper, and entirely regaining her own good
humour.

"I repeat," said Mrs. Stiffson, "what is my husband doing in
your company?"

"Ask him what he's doing in my flat," countered Cissie Boye
triumphantly.

"Look 'ere, mum," broke in Bindle in a soothing voice, "it's
no use a-playin' 'Amlet in a rage. You jest sit down and talk
it over friendly like, an' p'raps I can get a drop of Royal Richard
from old Sedgy. It's sort of been a shock to you, mum, I can
see. Well, things do look bad; anyhow, Royal Richard'll bring
you round in two ticks."

Mrs. Stiffson turned upon Bindle a look that was meant to
annihilate.

Bindle glanced across at Mr. Stiffson, who was mechanically
rubbing the middle of his person with a napkin, his eyes still
fixed upon his wife.

"Because your 'usband gets into the wrong duds," continued
Bindle, "ain't no reason why you should get into an 'owling
temper, is it?"

There was a knock at the door and, without waiting for a
reply, Mrs. Sedge entered, wearing a canvas apron and a crape
bonnet on one side and emitting an almost overpowering aroma
of Royal Richard. In her hands she carried a large bowl of
porridge. Marching across to the table, she dumped it down
in front of Mr. Stiffson.

"Ain't that jest like a man, forgettin' 'alf o' wot 'e ought to
remember!" she remarked and, without waiting for a reply, she
stumped out of the room, banging the door behind her.

Bindle sniffed the air like a hound.

"That's Royal Richard wot you can smell, mum," he explained.

Cissie Boye laughed.

Ignoring the interruption, Mrs. Stiffson returned to the attack.[Pg 114]

"I demand an explanation!" Her voice shook with suppressed
fury.

"Listen!" cried Cissie Boye, "if your boy will come and sleep
in my flat——"

"Sleep in your flat!" cried Mrs. Stiffson in something between
a roar and a scream. "Sleep in your flat!" She turned upon
her husband. "Jabez, did you hear that? Oh! you villain,
you liar, you monster!"

"But—but, my dear," protested Mr. Stiffson, becoming articulate,
"Oscar was here all the time."

Cissie Boye giggled.

"So that is why you have put on your best clothes, you
deceiver, you viper, you scum!"

"Steady on, mum!" broke out Bindle. "'E ain't big enough
to be all them things; besides, if you starts a-megaphonin' like
that, you'll 'ave all the other bunnies a-runnin' in to see wot's
'appened, an' if you was to 'ear Number Seven's language, an'
see wot Queenie calls 'er face, Mr. S. might be a widower before
'e knew it."

"Where did you meet this person?" demanded Mrs. Stiffson
of her husband, who, now that the coffee was cooling, began to
feel chilly, and was busily engaged in trying to extract the
moisture from his garments.

"Where did you meet her?" repeated his wife.

"In—in the bath-room," responded Mr. Stiffson weakly.

Mrs. Stiffson gasped and stood speechless with amazement.

"I heard a splashing," broke in Cissie Boye, "and I peeped
in,—I only just peeped in, really and really."

"An' then we 'ad a little friendly chat in the 'all," explained
Bindle, "an' after breakfast we was goin' to talk things over,
an' see 'ow we could manage so that you didn't know."

"Your bath-room!" roared Mrs. Stiffson at length, the true
horror of the situation at last seeming to dawn upon her. "My
husband in your bath-room! Jabez!" she turned on Mr. Stiffson
once more like a raging fury. "You heard! were you in this
creature's bath-room?"

Mr. Stiffson paused in the process of endeavouring to extract
coffee from his exterior.

"Er—er——" he began.

"Answer me!" shouted Mrs. Stiffson. "Were you or were
you not in this person's bath-room?"

"Yes—er—but——" began Mr. Stiffson.

Mrs. Stiffson cast a frenzied glance round the room. Action[Pg 115]
had become necessary, violence imperative. Her roving eye
lighted on the bowl full of half-cold porridge that Mrs. Sedge
had just brought in. She seized it and, with a swift inverting
movement, crashed it down upon her husband's head.

With the scream of a wounded animal, Mr. Stiffson half rose,
then sank back again in his chair, his hands clutching convulsively
at the basin fixed firmly upon his head by the suction of
its contents. From beneath the rim the porridge gathered in large
pendulous drops, and slowly lowered themselves upon various
portions of Mr. Stiffson's person, leaving a thin filmy thread
behind, as if reluctant to cut off all communication with the basin.

Bindle and Cissie Boye went to the victim's assistance, and
Bindle removed the basin. It parted from Mr. Stiffson's head
with a juicy sob of reluctance. Whilst his rescuers were occupied
in their samaritan efforts, Mrs. Stiffson was engaged in describing
her husband's character.

Beginning with a request for someone to end his poisonous
existence, she proceeded to explain his place, or rather lack of
place, in the universe. She traced the coarseness of his associates
to the vileness of his ancestors. She enquired why he had not
been to the front (Mr. Stiffson was over fifty years of age), why
he was not in the volunteers. Then slightly elevating her head
she demanded of Heaven why he was permitted to live. She
traced all degradation, including that of the lower animals, to
the example of such men as her husband. He was the breaker-up
of homes, in some way or other connected with the increased
death-rate and infant mortality, the indirect cause of the Income
Tax and directly responsible for the war; she even hinted that
he was to some extent answerable for the defection of Russia from
the Allied cause.

Whilst she was haranguing, Bindle and Cissie Boye, with the
aid of desert spoons, were endeavouring to remove the porridge
from Mr. Stiffson's head. It had collected behind his spectacles,
forming a succulent pad before each eye.

Bindle listened to Mrs. Stiffson's tirade with frank admiration;
language always appealed to him.

"Ain't she a corker!" he whispered to Cissie Boye.

"Cork's out now, any old how," was the whispered reply.

Then Mrs. Stiffson did a very feminine thing. She gave vent
to three short, sharp snaps of staccatoed laughter, and suddenly
collapsed upon the sofa in screaming hysterics.

Cissie Boye made a movement towards her. Bindle laid an
arresting hand upon her arm.[Pg 116]

"You jest leave 'er be, miss," he said. "I know all about them
little games. She'll come to all right."

"Where the hell is that damn porter?" the voice of Number
Seven burst in upon them from the outer corridor.

"'Ere I am, sir," sang out Bindle.

"Then why the corruption aren't you in your room?" bawled
Number Seven.

Bindle slipped quickly out into the corridor to find Number
Seven bristling with rage.

"Because Ole Damn an' 'Op it, I can't be in two places at
once," he said.

Whilst Bindle was engaged with Number Seven, Mrs. Stiffson
had once more galvanised herself to action. Still screaming and
laughing by turn, she wheeled out of the flat with incredible
rapidity and made towards the lift.

"Hi! stop 'er, stop 'er!" shouted Bindle, bolting after Mrs.
Stiffson, followed by Number Seven.

"Police, police, murder, murder!" screamed Mrs. Stiffson.
She reached the lift and, with an agility that would have been
creditable in a young goat, slipped in and shut the gates with
a clang. Just as Bindle arrived the lift began slowly to descend.
In a fury of impatience, Mrs. Stiffson began banging at the
buttons, with the result that the lift stopped halfway between
the two floors.

Bindle and Number Seven shouted down instructions; but without
avail. The lift had stuck fast. Mrs. Stiffson shrieked for
help, shrieked for the police, and shrieked for vengeance.

"Damned old tiger-cat!" cried Number Seven. "Leave her
where she is."

Bindle turned upon him a face radiating smiles.

"Them's the best words I've 'eard from you yet, sir"; and he
walked upstairs to reassure the occupants of Number Six that
fate and the lift had joined the Entente against Mrs. Stiffson.

It was four hours before Mrs. Stiffson was free; but Mr. Stiffson,
his luggage, his thermos flask and Oscar had fled. Cissie Boye
was at rehearsal and Bindle had donned his uniform. It was a
chastened Mrs. Stiffson who wheeled out of the lift and enquired
for her husband, and it was a stern and official Bindle who told
her that Mr. Stiffson had gone, and warned her that any further
attempt at disturbing the cloistral peace of Fulham Square Mansions
would end in a prosecution for disorderly conduct.

And Mrs. Stiffson departed in search of her husband.

[Pg 117]

CHAPTER XI

THE CAMOUFLAGING OF MR. GUPPERDUCK

I

"Ah!" cried Bindle as he pushed open one of the swing doors of the
public bar of The Yellow Ostrich. "I thought I should find my little
sunflower 'ere," and he grasped the hand that Ginger did not extend to
him. Demonstration was not Ginger's strong point.

The members of the informal club that used to meet each Friday night
at The Scarlet Horse had become very uncertain in their attendance,
and the consequent diminution in the consumption of liquor had caused
the landlord to withdraw the concession of a private-room.

Bindle had accepted the situation philosophically; but Ruddy Bill had
shown temper. In the public bar he had told the landlord what he
thought of him, finishing up a really inspired piece of decorated
rhetoric with "Yus, it's The Scarlet 'Orse all right; but there's a
ruddy donkey behind the bar," and with that he had marched out.

From that date Bindle's leisure moments had been mostly spent
in the bar of The Yellow Ostrich. It was here that Ginger, when
free from his military duties, would seek Bindle and the two or
three congenial spirits that gathered round him. Wilkes would
cough, Huggles grin, and Ginger spit vindictive disapproval of
everyone and everything, whilst "Ole Joe told the tale."

"There are times," remarked Bindle, when he had taken a long
pull at his tankard, "when I feel I could almost thank Gawd for
not bein' religious." He paused to light his pipe.

Ginger murmured something that might have been taken either
as an interrogation or a protest.

"I jest been 'avin' a stroll on Putney 'Eath," continued Bindle,
settling himself down comfortably in the corner of a bench. "I
likes to give the gals a treat now an' then, and who d'you
think I saw there?" He paused impressively, Ginger shook his
head, Huggles grinned and Wilkes coughed, Wilkes was always
coughing.

"Clever lot o' coves you are," said Bindle as he regarded the
three. "Grand talkers, ain't you. Well, well! to get on with the
story.[Pg 118]

"There was a big crowd, makin' an 'ell of a row, they was,
an' there in the middle was a cove talkin' an' wavin' 'is arms
like flappers. So up I goes, thinkin' 'e was sellin' somethink to
prove that you 'aven't got a liver, an' who should it turn out to
be but my lodger, Ole Guppy."

"Wot was 'e doin'?" gasped Wilkes between two paroxysms.

"Well," continued Bindle, "at that particular moment I got
up, 'e was talkin' about wot a fine lot o' chaps them 'Uns is, an'
wot an awful lot of Aunt Maudies we was. Sort o' 'urt 'is feelin's,
it did to know 'e was an Englishman when 'e might 'ave been an
'Un. 'E was jest a-sayin' somethink about Mr. Llewellyn John,
when 'e' disappears sudden-like, and then there was a rare ole
scrap.

"When the police got 'im out, Lord, 'e was a sight! Never
thought ten minutes could change a cove so, and that, Ginger,
all comes about through being a Christian and talkin' about
peace to people wot don't want peace."

"We all want peace." Ginger stuck out his chin aggressively.

"Ginger!" there was reproach in Bindle's voice, "an' you a
soldier too, I'm surprised at you!"

"I want this ruddy war to end," growled Ginger. "I don't
'old wiv war," he added as an after-thought.

"Now wot does it matter to you, Ging, whether you're a-carrin'
a pack or a piano on your back?"

"Why don't they make peace?" burst out Ginger irrelevantly.

"Oh, Ginger, Ginger! when shall I teach you that the only
way to stop a fight is to sit on the other cove's chest: an' we
ain't sittin' on Germany's chest yet. Got it?"

"But they're willing to make peace," growled Ginger. "I don't
'old wiv 'angin' back."

"Now you jest listen to me. Why didn't you make peace last
week with Pincher Nobbs instead o' fightin' 'im?"

"'E's a ruddy tyke, 'e is," snarled Ginger.

"Well," remarked Bindle, "you can call the Germans ruddy
tykes. Pleasant way you got o' puttin' things, 'aven't you,
Ging? No; ole son, this 'ere war ain't a-goin' to end till you
got the V.C., that's wot we're 'oldin' out for."

"They could make peace if they liked," persisted Ginger.

"You won't get Llewellyn John to give in, Ging," said Bindle
confidently. "'E's 'ot stuff, 'e is."

"Yus!" growled Ginger savagely. "All 'e's got to do is
to stay at 'ome an' read about wot us chaps are doin' out
there."[Pg 119]

"Now ain't you a regular ole yellow-'eaded 'Uggins," remarked
Bindle with conviction, as he gazed fixedly at Ginger, whose eyes
shifted about restlessly. "Why, 'e's always at work, 'e is. Don't
even 'ave 'is dinner-hour, 'e don't."

"Wot!" Ginger's incredulity gave expression to his features.
"No dinner-hour?"

"No; nor breakfast-time neither," continued Bindle. "There's
always a lot o' coves 'angin' round a-wantin' to talk about the
war an' wot to do next. When 'e's shavin' Haig'll ring 'im up,
'im a-standin' with the lather on, makin' 'is chin 'itch."

Ginger banged down his pewter on the counter and ordered
another.

"Then sometimes, when 'e's gettin' up in the mornin', George
Five'll nip round for a jaw, and o' course kings can go anywhere,
an' you mustn't keep 'em waitin'. So up 'e goes, an' there's
L.J. a-talkin' to 'imself as 'e tries to get into 'is collar, an' George
Five a-'elpin' to find 'is collar-stud when 'e drops it an' it rolls
under the chest o' drawers."

Ginger continued to gaze at Bindle with surprise stamped on
his freckled face.

"You got a kid's job to 'is, Ging," continued Bindle, warming
to his subject. "If Llewellyn John 'ops round the corner for a
drink an' to 'ave a look at the papers, they're after 'im in two
ticks. Why 'e's 'ad to give up 'is 'ot bath on Saturday nights
because 'e was always catchin' cold through nippin' out into the
'all to answer the telephone, 'im in only a smile an' 'is whiskers."

Ginger spat, indecision marking the act.

"Works like a blackleg, 'e does, an' all 'e gets is blackguardin'.
No," added Bindle solemnly, "don't you never change jobs with
'im, Ging, it 'ud kill you, it would really."

"I don't 'old wiv war," grumbled Ginger, falling back upon
his main line of defence. "Look at the price of beer!" He gazed
moodily into the depths of his empty pewter.

"Funny cove you are, Ging," said Bindle pleasantly.

Ginger spat viciously, missing the spittoon by inches.

"There ain't no pleasin' you," continued Bindle, digging into
the bowl of his pipe with a match stick. "You ain't willin' to
die for your country, an' you don't seem to want to live for the
twins."

"Wot's the use o' twins?" demanded Ginger savagely. "Now
if they'd been goats——"

"Goats!" queried Bindle.

"Sell the milk," was Ginger's laconic explanation.[Pg 120]

"They might 'ave been billy-goats," suggested Bindle.

Ginger swore.

"Well, well!" remarked Bindle, as he rose, "you ain't never
goin' to be 'appy in this world, Ging, an' as to the next—who
knows! Now I must be orf to tell Mrs. B. wot they been a-doin'
to 'er lodger. S'long!"

And he went out whistling "I'd Never Kissed a Soldier Till
the War."

II

"Where's Mr. Gupperduck?"

There was anxious alarm in Mrs. Bindle's interrogation.

"Well," responded Bindle, as he nodded to Mr. Hearty and
waved his hand to Mrs. Hearty, "I can't rightly say. 'E may
be 'appy with an 'arp in 'eaven, or 'e may be a-groanin' in an
'ospital with a poultice where 'is face ought to be. Where's
Millikins?" he demanded, looking round.

"She's with her Aunt Rose," wheezed Mrs. Hearty.

"What has happened, Joseph?" faltered Mr. Hearty.

"Well, it ain't altogether easy to say," responded Bindle with
aggravating deliberation. "It ought to 'ave been a peace-meetin',
accordin' to plan; but some'ow or other things sort o' got mixed.
I ain't seen a scrap like it since that little bust-up in the country
when the lemonade went wrong."

Bindle paused and proceeded to refill his pipe, determined to
keep Mr. Hearty and Mrs. Bindle on tenter-hooks.

"Where is he now?" demanded Mrs. Bindle.

"Can't say!" Bindle sucked at his pipe, holding a lighted
match well down over the bowl. "I see 'im bein' taken orf on
a stretcher, an' wot 'e was wearin' wouldn't 'ave made a bathin'
suit for an 'Ottentot."

"Did they kill 'im, Joe?" wheezed Mrs. Hearty.

"You can't kill coves like Guppy, Martha," was Bindle's
response. "'E's got more lives than a rate-collector."

"What happened, Joseph?" said Mr. Hearty. "I had meant
to go to that meeting myself." Mr. Hearty made the statement
as if Providence had interposed with the deliberate object of
saving his life.

"Lucky for you, 'Earty, that you didn't," remarked Bindle
significantly. "You ain't no good at scrappin'. Well, I'll tell
you wot 'appened. Guppy seems to 'ave said a little too much
about the 'Uns, an' wot fine fellers they was, an' it sort o' give
them people wot was listenin' the pip, so they goes for Guppy."[Pg 121]

"The cowards!" Mrs. Bindle snapped out the words venomously.

"You got to remember, Lizzie," said Bindle with unwonted
seriousness, "that a lot o' those people 'ad lost them wot they
was fond of through this 'ere war, an' they wasn't keen to 'ear
that the 'Un is a sort o' picture-postcard, with a dove a-sittin'
on 'is 'elmet."

"What did you do?" demanded Mrs. Bindle aggressively.

"Well, I jest looked on," said Bindle calmly. "I've warned
Guppy more'n once that 'e'd lose 'is tail-feathers if 'e wasn't
careful; but 'e was that self-willed, 'e was. You can't throw
'Un-wash over crowds in this 'ere country without runnin' risks."
Bindle spoke with conviction.

"But it's a free country, Joseph," protested Mr. Hearty rather
weakly.

"Oh! 'Earty, 'Earty!" said Bindle, wagging his head despondently.
"When will you learn that no one ain't free to say to a
cove things wot make 'im wild, leastwise without bein' ready to
put 'is 'ands up."

"But weren't any of his friends there?" enquired Mrs. Bindle.

"I see two of 'em," said Bindle with a reminiscent grin.
"They caught Ole Cap-an'-Whiskers jest as 'e was shinnin' up a
tree—rare cove for trees 'e seems. 'Auled 'im down they did.
Then 'e swore 'e'd never seen ole Guppy in all 'is puff, cried
about it, 'e did."

"Peter!" muttered Mrs. Bindle.

"That 'is name?" enquired Bindle. "Any'ow it didn't 'elp 'im,
for they pulled 'is whiskers out and dipped 'im in the pond,
an' when last I see 'im 'e was wearin' jest a big bruise, a soft
collar an' such bits of 'is trousers as the boys didn't seem to
want. Made me blush it did."

"Serve him right!" cried Mrs. Bindle.

Bindle looked at her curiously. "Thought you was sort o'
pals with 'im," he remarked.

"He was a traitor, a Peter betraying his master." Bindle
looked puzzled, Mr. Hearty nodded his head in approval.

"Was Mr. Wayskin there?" asked Mrs. Bindle.

"The little chap with the glasses an' a beard too big for 'im,
wot goes about with Ole Cap-an'-Whiskers?"

Mrs. Bindle nodded.

"Well, 'e got orf, trousers an' all," said Bindle with a grin.
"Nippy little cove 'e was," he added.

"Oh, the brutes!" exclaimed Mrs. Bindle. "The cowards!"[Pg 122]

"Well," remarked Bindle, "it all come about through 'im
tryin' to give 'em treacle when they wanted curry."

"Perhaps he's gone home!" Mrs. Bindle half rose as the
thought struck her.

"Who, Guppy?" interrogated Bindle.

"Yes, Mr. Gupperduck," said Mrs. Bindle eagerly.

"Guppy ain't never comin' back to my place," Bindle
announced with decision.

"Where's he to sleep then?" demanded Mrs. Bindle.

"Well," remarked Bindle judicially, "by wot I last see of 'im,
'e ain't goin' to sleep much anywhere for some time"; and he
again launched into a harrowing description of Mr. Gupperduck's
plight when the police rescued him from the crowd.

"I'll nurse him!" announced Mrs. Bindle with the air of a
Martha.

"You won't do no such thing, Mrs. B."

Even Mrs. Hearty looked at Bindle, arrested by the unwonted
determination in his voice. "You jest remember this, Mrs.
B.," continued Bindle, "if ever I catches Mr. Josiah Gupperduck,
or any other cove wot loves Germans as if they was 'ymns or
beer, round my place, things'll 'appen. Wot they done to 'im
on the 'Eath won't be nothink to wot I'll do to 'im in Fenton
Street."

"You're a brute, Bindle!" was Mrs. Bindle's comment.

"That may be; but you jest get 'is duds packed up, includin'
Wheezy Willie, an' give 'em to 'im when 'e calls. I ain't goin'
to 'ave no German spies round my back-yard. I ain't got no
money to put in tanks," Bindle added, "but I still got a fist to
knock down a cove wot talks about peace." Bindle rose and
yawned. "Now I'm orf. Comin', Mrs. B.?" he enquired.

"No, I'm not. I want to talk to Mr. Hearty," said Mrs. Bindle
angrily.

"Well, s'long, all!" and Bindle went out, leaving Mrs. Bindle
and Mr. Hearty to mourn over the fallen Hector.

A minute later the door half opened and Bindle thrust his
head round the corner. "Don't forget, Mrs. B.," he said with a
grin, "if I see Guppy in Fenton Street, I'll camelflage 'im, I will;"
and with that he was gone.

"I suppose," he remarked meditatively as he walked across
Putney Bridge, "wot 'appened to-night is wot Guppy 'ud call
'the peace wot passes all understandin'.'"

[Pg 123]

CHAPTER XII

THE TRAGEDY OF GIUSEPPI ANTONIO TOLMENICINO

"'Ullo, Scratcher!" cried Bindle as the swing doors of The Yellow
Ostrich were pushed open, giving entrance to a small lantern-jawed
man, with fishy eyes and a chin obviously intended for a face three
sizes larger. "Fancy meetin' you! Wot 'ave you been doin'?"

Bindle was engaged in fetching the Sunday dinner-beer according to the
time-honoured custom.

Scratcher looked moodily at the barman, ordered a glass of
beer and turned to Bindle.

"I changed my job," he remarked mysteriously.

"Wot jer doin'?" enquired Bindle, intimating to the barman
by a nod that his pewter was to be refilled.

"Waiter," responded Scratcher.

"Waiter!" cried Bindle, regarding him with astonishment.

"Yus; at Napolini's in Regent Street;" and Scratcher replaced
his glass upon the counter and, with a dexterous upward
blow, scattered to the winds the froth that bedewed his upper
lip.

"Well, I'm blowed!" said Bindle, finding solace in his refilled
tankard. "But don't you 'ave to be a foreigner to be a waiter?
Don't you 'ave to speak through your nose or somethink?"

"Noooo!" In Scratcher's voice was the contempt of superior
knowledge. "Them furriners 'ave all gone to the war, or most
of 'em," he added, "an' so we get a look-in."

"Wot d'you do?" enquired Bindle.

"Oh! we jest take orders, an' serves the grub, an' makes out
the bills, an' gets tips. I made four pound last week, all but
twelve shillings," he added.

"Well, I'm blowed!" said Bindle.

"Then," proceeded Scratcher, warming to his subject, "they
often leaves somethin' in the bottles. Last night Ole Grandpa
got so squiffy, 'e cried about 'is mother, 'e did."

"An' didn't it cost 'im anything?" enquired Ginger, who had
been an interested listener.

"Not a copper," said Scratcher impressively, "not a brass
farden."[Pg 124]

"I wish this ruddy war was over," growled Ginger. "Four
pound a week, and a free drunk. Blast the war! I say, I don't
'old wiv killin'."

"Then," continued Scratcher, "you can always get a bellyful.
There's——"

"'Old 'ard, Scratcher," interrupted Bindle. "Wot place is it
you're talkin' about?"

"Napolini's," replied Scratcher, looking at Bindle reproachfully.

"Go on, ole sport; it's all right," said Bindle resignedly. "I
thought you might 'ave got mixed up with 'eaven."

"When you takes a stoo," continued Scratcher, "you can
always pick out a bit o' meat with your fingers—if it ain't too
'ot," he added, as if not wishing to exaggerate. "An' when it's
whitebait, you can pinch some when no one's lookin'. As for
potatoes, you can 'ave all you can eat, and soup,—well, it's
there."

Scratcher's tone implied that Napolini's was literally running
with soup and potatoes.

"Don't go on, Scratcher," said Bindle mournfully; "see wot
you're a-doin' to pore Ole Ging."

"Then there's macaroni," continued Scratcher relentlessly,
"them bein' I-talians. Long strings o' white stuff, there ain't
much taste; but it fills up." Scratcher paused, then added reflectively,
"You got to be careful wi' macaroni, or it'll get down your collar;
it's that slippery."

"I suppose ole Nap ain't wantin' anyone to 'elp mop up all
them things?" enquired Bindle wistfully.

Scratcher looked at Bindle interrogatingly.

"D'you think you could find your ole pal a job at Nap's?"
enquired Bindle.

"You come down to-morrow mornin' about eleven," said
Scratcher with the air of one conferring a great favour. "Three
of our chaps was sacked a-Saturday for fightin'."

"Well, I must be movin'," said Bindle, as he picked up the
blue and white jug with the crimson butterfly. "You'll see me
round at Nap's at eleven to-morrow, Scratcher, as empty as a
drum;" and with a "s'long," Bindle passed out of The Yellow
Ostrich.

"Nice time you've kept me waiting!" snapped Mrs. Bindle, as
Bindle entered the kitchen.

"Sorry!" was Bindle's reply as he hung up his hat behind
the kitchen-door.[Pg 125]

"Another time I shan't wait," remarked Mrs. Bindle, as she
banged a vegetable dish on the table.

Bindle became busily engaged upon roast shoulder of mutton,
greens and potatoes.

After some time he remarked, "I been after a job."

"You lorst your job again, then?" cried Mrs. Bindle in accusing
tones. "Somethin' told me you had."

"Well, I ain't," retorted Bindle; "but I 'eard o' somethink
better, so on Monday I'm orf after a job wot'll be better'n
'Earty's 'eaven."

Bindle declined further to satisfy Mrs. Bindle's curiosity.

"You wait an' see, Mrs. B., you jest wait an' see."

II

On the following morning Bindle was duly enrolled as a waiter
at Napolini's. He soon discovered that, whatever the privileges
and perquisites of the fully-experienced waiter, the part of the
novice was one of thorns rather than of roses. He was attached
as assistant to a diminutive Italian, with a fierce upward-brushed
moustache. Bindle had not been three minutes under his direction
before he precipitated a crisis that almost ended in open
warfare.

"Wot's your name, ole son?" he enquired. "Mine's Bindle—Joseph
Bindle."

"Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino," replied the Italian with
astonishing rapidity.

"Is it really?" remarked Bindle, examining his chief with
interest, as he proceeded deftly to lay a table. "Sounds like a
machine-gun, don't it?" Then after a pause he remarked quite
innocently, "Look 'ere, ole sport, I'll call you Kayser."

In a flash Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino turned upon Bindle,
his moustache bristling like the spines of a wild-boar, and from
his lips poured a passionate stream of Southern invective.

Unable to understand a word of the burning phrases of reproach
that eddied and flowed about him, Bindle merely stared.
There was a patter of feet from all parts of the long dining-room,
and soon he was the centre of an angry crowd of excited gesticulating
waiters, with Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino screaming his
fury in the centre.

"Hi!" called Bindle to Scratcher, who appeared through the
service-door, just as matters seemed about to break into open
violence. "'Ere! Scratcher, wot's up? Call 'im orf."[Pg 126]

"Wot did you call 'im, Joe?" enquired Scratcher, pushing
his way through the crowd.

"I asked 'is name, an' then 'e went off like the 'mad minute,'
so I said I'd call 'im 'Kayser,' because of 'is whiskers."

At the repetition of the obnoxious word, Giuseppi Antonio
Tolmenicino shook his fist in Bindle's face, and screamed more
hysterically than ever. He was white to the lips, at the corners
of his mouth two little points of white foam had collected, and
his eyes blinked with the rapidity of a cinematograph film.

With the aid of three other waiters, Scratcher succeeded in
restoring peace. Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino's fortissimo
reproaches were reduced to piano murmurs by the explanation
that Bindle meant no harm, added to which Bindle apologised.

"Look 'ere," he said, genuinely regretful at the effect of his
remark, "'ow was I to know that you was that sensitive, you
lookin' so fierce too."

The arrival of one of the superintendents put an end to the
dispute; but it was obvious that Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino
nourished in his heart a deep resentment against Bindle for his
unintentioned insult.

"Fancy 'im takin' on like that," muttered Bindle, as he strove
to adjust a white tablecloth so that it hung in equal folds on all
sides of the table. "Funny things foreigners, as 'uffy as birds,
they are." Turning to Scratcher, who was passing at the moment,
he enquired, "Wot the 'ell am I a-goin' to call 'im?"

"Call who?" enquired Scratcher, his mouth full of something.

Bindle looked about warily. "Ole Kayser," he whispered.
"'E's that sensitive. Explodes if you looks at 'im, 'e does."

Scratcher worked hard to reduce the contents of his mouth to
conversational proportions.

"I can't never remember 'is name," continued Bindle. "Went
off like a rattle it did."

"Don't know 'is name myself," said Scratcher after a gigantic
swallow. "'E's new."

"Wouldn't 'elp you much, ole son, if you did know it," said
Bindle with conviction. "Seemed to me like a patent gargle.
Never 'eard anythink like it."

"'Ere!" said Bindle to Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino, who
was darting past on his way to another table. The Italian paused,
hatred smouldering in his dark eyes.

"I can't remember that name o' yours, ole sport," said Bindle.
"Sorry, but I ain't a gramophone. Wot 'ave I got to call
you?"[Pg 127]

"Call me sair," replied Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino with
dignity.

"Call you wot?" cried Bindle indignantly. "Call you wot?"

"Call me sair," repeated the Italian.

"Me call a foreigner 'sir!'" cried Bindle. "Now ain't you the
funniest ole 'Uggins."

Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino cast upon Bindle a look of consuming
hatred.

"Look 'ere," remarked Bindle cheerfully, "if you goes about
a-lookin' like that, you'll spoil the good impression them whiskers
make."

Murder flashed in the eyes of the Italian, as he ground out a
paralysing oath in his own tongue.

"There's a-goin' to be trouble between me an' ole 'Okey-Pokey.
Pleasant sort o' cove to 'ave about the 'ouse."

Customers began to drift in, and soon Bindle was kept busy
fetching and carrying for Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino, who
by every means in his power strove to give expression to the
hatred of Bindle that was burning in his soul.

At the end of the first day,—it was in reality the early hours
of the next morning,—as Bindle with Scratcher walked from
Napolini's to the Tube, he remarked, "Well, I ain't 'ungry,
though I could drink a deal more; still I says nothink about that;
but as for tips, well, ole 'Okey-Pokey's pocketed every bloomin'
penny. When I asked him to divvy up fair, 'e started that
machine-gun in 'is tummy, rolled 'is eyes, an' seemed to be tryin'
to tell me wot a great likin' 'e'd taken to me. One o' these days
somethink's goin' to 'appen to 'im," added Bindle prophetically.
"'E ain't no sport, any'ow."

"Wot's 'e done?" enquired Scratcher.

"I offered to fight 'im for the tips, an' all 'e did was to turn on
'is rattle;" and Bindle winked at the girl-conductor, who clanged
the train-gates behind him.

For nearly a week Bindle continued to work thirteen hours a
day, satisfying the hunger of others and quenching alien thirsts.
Thanks to judicious hints from Scratcher, at the same time he
found means of ministering to his own requirements. He tasted
new and strange foods; but of all his discoveries in the realm of
dietetics, curried prawns held pride of place. More than one
customer looked anxiously into the dark brown liquid, curious
as to what had become of the blunt-pointed crescents; but, disliking
the fuss attending complaint, he ascribed the reduction
in their number to the activities of the Food Controller.[Pg 128]

When, as occasionally happened in the absence of his chief,
Bindle came into direct contact with a customer and received
an order, he invariably found himself utterly at a loss.

"Bouillabaisse de Marseilles, pommes sautées," called out one
customer. Bindle, who was hurrying past, came to a dead stop
and regarded him with interest.

"D'you mind sayin' that again, sir," he remarked.

"Bouillabaisse de Marseilles, pommes sautées," repeated the
customer.

"Well, I'm blowed!" was Bindle's comment.

The customer stared, but before he had time to reply Bindle
was unceremoniously pushed aside by Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino,
who, pad in hand, bent over the customer with servile intentness.

"Wot did 'e mean? Was 'e tellin' me 'is name?" enquired
Bindle of a lath-like youth, with frizzy hair and a face incapable
of expressing anything beyond a meaningless grin. It was
Scratcher, however, who told the puzzled Bindle that the customer
had been ordering lunch and not divulging his identity.

"Bullybase de Marsales pumsortay is things to eat, Joe," he
explained; "you got to learn the mane-yu."

"Well, I'm blowed!" was Bindle's sole comment. "Fancy
people eatin' things with names like that." He followed Giuseppi
Antonio Tolmenicino towards the "service" regions in response
to an imperious motion of his dark, well-greased head.

When Bindle returned to the dining-room, after listening to
the unintelligible rebukes of his immediate superior, he found
himself beckoned to the side of the customer whose wants he had
found himself unable to comprehend.

"New to this job?" he enquired.

"You've 'it it, sir," was Bindle's reply. "New as new. I'm
in the furniture-movin' line myself; but Scratcher told me this
'ere was a soft job, an' so I took it on. 'E didn't happen to
mention 'Okey-Pokey 'owever."

"Hokey-Pokey!" interrogated the guest.

"That chap with 'is whiskers growin' up 'is nose," explained
Bindle. "All prickles 'e is. Can't say anythink without 'urtin'
'is feelin's. Never come across such a cove."

Later, when the customer left, it was to Bindle and not to
Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino that he gave his tip. This precipitated
a crisis. Once out of the dining-room the Italian demanded
of Bindle the money.

"You shall 'ave 'alf, ole son," said Bindle magnanimously.[Pg 129]
"if you forks out 'alf of wot you've 'ad given you, see?"
Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino did not see. His eyes snapped,
his moustache bristled, his sallow features took on a shade of
grey and, discarding English, he launched into a torrent of words
in his own tongue.

Bindle stood regarding his antagonist much as he would a
juggler, or quick-change artist. His good-humoured calm seemed
to goad Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino to madness. With a sudden
movement he seized a bottle from another waiter and, brandishing
it above his head, rushed at Bindle.

Bindle stepped swiftly aside; but in doing so managed to
place his right foot across Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino's path.
The Italian lurched forward, bringing down the bottle with paralysing
force upon the shoulder of another waiter, who, heavily
laden, was making towards the dining-room.

The assaulted waiter screamed, Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino
rolled on the floor, and the assaulted waiter's burden fell with a
crash on top of him. The man who had been struck hopped
about the room holding his shoulder, his shirt-front dyed a deep
red with the wine that had flowed over it.

"Never see such a mess in all my puff," said Bindle in describing the
scene afterwards. "Pore ole 'Okey-Pokey comes down on 'is back and a
lot o' tomato soup falls on 'is 'ead. Then a dish o' whitebait gets on
top of that, so 'e 'as soup and fish any'ow. Funny thing to see them
little fishes sticking out o' the red soup. 'E got an 'erring down 'is
collar, and a dish of macaroni in 'is ear, an' all 'is clothes was
covered with different things. An 'ole bloomin' mane-yu, 'e was. 'Oly
Angels! but 'e was a sight."

For a moment Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino lay inert, then
he slowly sat up and looked about him, mechanically picking
whitebait out of his hair, and removing a crème caramel from
the inside of his waistcoat.

Suddenly his eyes lighted on Bindle.

In an instant he was on his feet and, with head down and arms
waving like flails, he rushed at his enemy.

At that moment the door leading into the dining-room was opened and,
attracted by the hubbub, Mr. James Smith, who before the war had been
known as Herr Siegesmann, the chief superintendent, entered. He was a
heavy man of ponderous proportions, with Dundreary whiskers and a
pompous manner. His entrance brought him directly into the line of
Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino's attack. Before he could take[Pg 130] in the
situation, the Italian's head, covered with tomato soup and bristling
with whitebait, caught him full in the centre of his person, and he
went down with a sobbing grunt, the Italian on top of him.

The shock released a considerable portion of the food adhering to
Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino on to the chief superintendent. Whitebait
forsook the ebon locks of the waiter and dived into the magnificent
Dundrearys of Herr Smith, and on his shirt-front was the impression of
Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino's features in tomato soup.

Without a moment's hesitation Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino was on his
feet once more; but Bindle, feeling that the time had arrived for
action, was equally quick. Taking him from behind by the collar he
worked his right arm up as high as it would go behind his back. The
Italian screamed with the pain; but Bindle held fast.

"You ain't safe to be trusted about, ole sport," he remarked, "an' I
got to 'old you, until Ole Whiskers decides wot's goin' to be done.
You'll get six months for wastin' food like this. Why, you looks like
a bloomin' restaurant. Look at 'im!" Bindle gazed down at the
prostrate superintendent. "Knocked 'is wind out, you 'ave. Struck 'im
bang in the solar-plexus, blowed if you didn't!"

With rolling eyes and foaming mouth Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino
screamed his maledictions. A group of waiters was bending over Herr
Smith. One was administering brandy, another was plucking whitebait
out of his whiskers, a third was trying to wipe the tomato soup from
his shirt-front, an operation which transformed a red archipelago into
a flaming continent.

When eventually the superintendent sat up, he looked like a
whiskered robin redbreast. He gazed from one to the other of
the waiters engaged upon his renovation. Then his eye fell upon
Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino. He uttered the one significant
British word.

"Berlice!"

When Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino left Napolini's that evening, it was
in the charge of two policemen, with two more following to be prepared
for eventualities. Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino was what is known
professionally as "violent." Not satisfied with the food that was
plastered upon his person, he endeavoured by means of his teeth to
detach a portion of the right thigh of Police-constable Higgins, and
with his feet to raise bruises where he could on the persons of his
captors.[Pg 131]

"Pore ole 'Okey-Pokey!" remarked Bindle, as he returned
to the dining-room, where he had now been allotted two tables,
for which he was to be entirely responsible. "Pore ole 'Okey-Pokey.
I'm afraid I got 'is goat; but didn't 'e make a mess of
Ole Whiskers!"

Herr Smith had gone home. When a man is sixty years of
age and, furthermore, when he has been a superintendent of a
restaurant for upwards of twenty-five years, he cannot with
impunity be rammed in the solar-plexus by a hard-headed and
vigorous Italian.

While Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino in a cell at Vine Street
Police Station was forecasting the downfall of the Allies by the
secession of Italy from the Entente, Bindle was striving to satisfy
the demands of the two sets of customers that sat at his tables.
He made mistakes, errors of commission and omission; but his
obviously genuine desire to satisfy everybody inclined people
to be indulgent.

The man who was waiting for pancakes received with a smile
half-a-dozen oysters; whilst another customer was bewildered
at finding himself expected to commence his meal with pancakes
and jam. When such errors were pointed out, Bindle would
scratch his head in perplexity, then, as light dawned upon him,
he would break out into a grin, make a dive for the pancakes
and quickly exchange them for the oysters.

The names of the various dishes he found almost beyond him
and, to overcome the difficulty, he asked the customers to point
out on the menu what they required. Then again he found himself
expected to carry a multiplicity of plates and dishes.

At first he endeavoured to emulate his confrères. On one
occasion he set out from the dining-room with three dishes containing
respectively "caille en casserole," a Welsh rarebit, and a
steak and fried potatoes. The steak and fried potatoes were for
a lady of ample proportions with an almost alarmingly low-cut
blouse. In placing the steak and metal dish of potatoes before
her, Bindle's eye for a second left the other two plates, which
began to tilt.

The proprietor of the large-bosomed lady was, with the aid
of a fish-knife, able to hold in place the Welsh rarebit; but he
was too late in his endeavour to reach the under-plate on which
reposed the "caille en casserole," which suddenly made a dive
for the apex of the V of the lady's blouse.

As she felt the hot, moist bird touch her, she gave a shriek and
started back. Bindle also started, and the lady's possessor lost[Pg 132]
his grip on the Welsh rarebit, which slid off the plate on to
his lap.

Greatly concerned, Bindle placed the empty Welsh rarebit
plate quickly on the table and, seizing a fork, stabbed the
errant and romantic quail, replacing it upon its plate. He then
went to the assistance of the gentleman who had received the
Welsh rarebit face downwards on his lap.

With great care Bindle returned it to the plate, with the exception
of such portions as clung affectionately to the customer's person.

To confound confusion the superintendent dashed up full of
apologies for the customers and threatening looks for the cause
of the mishap. Bindle turned to the lady, who was hysterically
dabbing her chest with a napkin.

"I 'ope you ain't 'urt, mum," he said with genuine solicitude;
"I didn't see where 'e was goin', slippery little devil!" and
Bindle regarded the bird reproachfully. Then remembering that
another was waiting for it, he crossed over to the table at which
sat the customer who had ordered "caille en casserole" and placed
the plate before him.

The man looked up in surprise.

"You'd better take that away," he said. "That bird's a bit
too enterprising for me."

"A bit too wot, sir?" interrogated Bindle, lifting the plate to
his nose. "I don't smell it, sir," he added seriously.

"I ordered 'caille en casserole,'" responded the man. "You
bring me 'caille en cocotte.'"

"D'you mind saying that in English, sir?" asked Bindle,
wholly at sea.

At that moment he was pushed aside by the owner of the
lady of generous proportions. Thrusting his face forward until
it almost touched that of the "caille" guest, he launched out
into a volley of reproaches.

"Mon Dieu!" he shouted, "you have insulted that lady. You
are a scoundrel, a wretch, a traducer of fair women;" and he
went on in French to describe the customer's ancestry and
possible progeny.

Throughout the dining-room the guests rose to see what was
happening. Many came to the scene of the mishap. By almost
superhuman efforts and an apology from the customer who had
ordered "caille en casserole," peace was restored and, at a motion
from the superintendent, Bindle carried the offending bird to the
kitchen to exchange it for another, a simple process that was
achieved by having it re-heated and returned on a clean plate.[Pg 133]

"This 'ere all comes about through these coves wantin' foreign
food," muttered Bindle to himself. "If they'd all 'ave a cut
from the joint and two veges, it 'ud be jest as simple as drinkin'
beer. An' ain't they touchy too," he continued. "Can't say a
word to 'em, but what they flies up and wants to scratch each
other's eyes out."

Tranquillity restored, Bindle continued his ministrations. For half an
hour everything went quietly until two customers ordered ginger beer,
one electing to drink it neat, and the other in conjunction with a
double gin. Bindle managed to confuse the two glasses. The customer
who had been forced to break his pledge was greatly distressed, and
much official tact on the part of a superintendent was required to
soothe his injured feelings.

"Seems to me," muttered Bindle, "that I gets all the crocks.
If there's anythink funny about, it comes and sits down at one
o' my tables. Right-o, sir, comin'!" he called to an impatient
customer, who, accompanied by a girl clothed principally in
white boots, rouge and peroxide, had seated himself at the table
just vacated by a couple from the suburbs.

The man ordered a generous meal, including a bottle of champagne.
Bindle attentively wrote down a phonetic version of the
customer's requirements. The wine offered no difficulty, it was
numbered.

Bindle had observed that wine was frequently carried to customers in a
white metal receptacle, sometimes containing hot water, at others
powdered ice. No one had told him of the different treatment accorded
to red and white wines. Desirous of giving as little trouble as
possible to his fellows, he determined on this occasion to act on his
own initiative. Obtaining a wine-cooler, he had it filled with hot
water and, placing the bottle of champagne in it, hurried back to the
customer.

Placing the wine-cooler on a service-table, he left it for a few
minutes, whilst he laid covers for the new arrivals.

The lady thirstily demanded the wine. Bindle lifted it from
its receptacle, wound a napkin round it as he had seen others do
and, nippers in hand, carried it to the table.

He cut the wires. Suddenly about half a dozen different things
seemed to happen at the same moment. The cork leapt joyously
from the neck of the bottle and, careering across the room, caught
the edge of the monocle of a diner and planted it in the soup
of another at the next table, just as he was bending down to
take a spoonful. The liquid sprayed his face. He looked up
surprised, not having seen the cause. He who had lost the[Pg 134]
monocle began searching about in a short-sighted manner for his
lost property.

The cork, continuing on its way, took full in the right eye a
customer of gigantic proportions. He dropped his knife and fork
and roared with pain. Bindle watched the course of the cork in
amazement, holding the bottle as a fireman does the nozzle of
a hose. From the neck squirted a stream of white foam, catching
the lady of the white boots, rouge and peroxide full in the face.
She screamed.

"You damn fool!" yelled the man to Bindle.

In his amazement Bindle turned suddenly to see from what
quarter this rebuke had come, and the wine caught the man
just beneath the chin. Never had champagne behaved so in
the whole history of Napolini's. A superintendent rushed up and,
with marvellous presence of mind, seized a napkin and stopped
the stream. Then he snatched the bottle from Bindle's hands,
at the same time calling down curses upon his head for his
stupidity.

The lady in white boots, rouge and peroxide was gasping and
dabbing her face with a napkin, which was now a study in pink
and white. Her escort was feeling the limpness of his collar and
endeavouring to detach his shirt from his chest. The gentleman
who had lost his monocle was explaining to the owner of the
soup what had happened, and asking permission to fish for the
missing crystal that was lying somewhere in the depths of the
stranger's mulligatawny.

Bindle was gazing from one to the other in astonishment.
"Fancy champagne be'avin' like that," he muttered. "Might
'ave been a stone-ginger in 'ot weather."

At that moment the superintendent discovered the wine-cooler
full of hot water. One passionate question he levelled at Bindle,
who nodded cheerfully in reply. Yes, it was he who had put the
champagne bottle in hot water.

This sealed Bindle's fate as a waiter. Determined not to allow
him out of his sight again, the superintendent haled him off to
the manager's room, there to be formally discharged.

"Ah! this is the man," said the manager to an inspector of
police with whom he was engaged in conversation as Bindle and
the superintendent entered.

The inspector took a note-book from his pocket.

"What is your name and address?" he asked of Bindle.

Bindle gave the necessary details, adding, "I'm a special,
Fulham District. Wot's up?"[Pg 135]

"You will be wanted at Marlborough Street Police Court to-morrow
at ten with regard to"—he referred to his note-book—"a
charge against Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino," said the inspector.

"Wot's 'e goin' to be charged with, assault an' battery?"
enquired Bindle curiously.

"Under the Defence of the Realm Act," replied the inspector.
"Documents were found on him."

Bindle whistled. "Well, I'm blowed! A spy! I never did trust
them sort o' whiskers," he muttered as he left the manager's room.

Five minutes later he left Napolini's for ever, whistling at the
stretch of his powers "So the Lodger Pawned His Second Pair
of Boots."

CHAPTER XIII

THE RETURN OF CHARLIE DIXON

"Oh, Uncle Joe! Charlie's back, and he's going to take us
out to-night, and I'm so happy."

Bindle regarded the flushed and radiant face of Millie
Hearty, who had just rushed up to him and now stood holding
on to his arm with both hands.

"I thought I should catch you as you were going home," she
cried. "Uncle Joe, I—I think I want to cry."

"Well," remarked Bindle, "if you'll give your pore ole uncle
a chance to get a word in edgeways, 'e'd like to ask why you
wants to cry."

"Because I'm so happy," cried Millie, dancing along beside
him, her hands still clasping his arm.

"I see," replied Bindle drily; "still, it's a funny sort o' reason
for wantin' to cry, Millikins;" and he squeezed against his side
the arm she had now slipped through his.

"You will come, Uncle Joe, won't you?" There was eager
entreaty in her voice. "We shall be at Putney Bridge at
seven."

"I'm afraid I can't to-night, Millikins," replied Bindle. "I
got a job on."

"Oh, Uncle Joe!" The disappointment in Millie's voice was
too obvious to need the confirmation of the sudden downward
droop of the corners of her pretty mouth. "You must come;"
and Bindle saw a hint of tears in the moisture that gathered in
her eyes.[Pg 136]

He coughed and blew his nose vigorously before replying.

"You young love-birds won't miss me," he remarked rather
lamely.

"But we shan't go unless you do," said Millie with an air of
decision that was sweet to Bindle's ears, "and I've been so
looking forward to it. Oh, Uncle Joe! can't you really manage
it just to please meeee?"

Bindle looked into the pleading face turned eagerly towards
him, at the parted lips ready to smile, or to pout their disappointment
and, in a flash, he realised the blank in his own life.

"P'raps 'is Nibs might like to 'ave you all to 'imself for once,"
he suggested tentatively. "There ain't much chance with a gal
for another cove when your Uncle Joe's about."

Millie laughed. "Why, it was Charlie who sent me to ask you,
and to say if you couldn't come to-night we would put it off.
Oh! do come, Uncle Joe. Charlie's going to take us to dinner
at the Universal Café, and they've got a band, and, oh! it will
be lovely just having you two."

"Well!" began Bindle, but discovering a slight huskiness in his
voice he coughed again loudly. "Seem to 'ave caught cold," he
muttered, then added, "Of course I might be able to put that
job orf."

"But don't you want to come, Uncle Joe?" asked Millie,
anxiety in her voice.

"Want to come!" repeated Bindle. "Of course I want to come;
but, well, I wanted to be sure you wasn't jest askin' me because
you thought it 'ud please your ole uncle," he concluded somewhat
lamely.

"Oh, Uncle Joe!" cried Millie, "how could you think anything
so dreadful. Why, wasn't it you who gave me Charlie?"

Bindle looked curiously at her. He was always discovering in his
niece naïve little touches that betokened the dawn of womanhood.

"Ain't we becomin' a woman, Millikins!" he cried, whereat
Millie blushed.

"Thank you so much for promising to come," she cried.
"Seven o'clock at Putney Bridge Station. Don't be late, and
don't forget," she cried and, with a nod and a smile, she was
gone.

Bindle watched her neat little figure as she tripped away. At
the corner she turned and waved her hand to him, then disappeared.

"Now I don't remember promisin' nothink," he muttered.
"Ain't that jest Millikins all over, a-twistin' 'er pore ole uncle[Pg 137]
round 'er little finger. Fancy 'Earty 'avin' a gal like that."
He turned in the direction of Fenton Street. "It's like an old
'en 'avin' a canary. Funny place 'eaven," he remarked, shaking
his head dolefully. "They may make marriages there, but they
make bloomers as well."

At five minutes to seven Bindle was at Putney Bridge Station.

"Makes me feel like five pound a week," he murmured, looking
down at his well-cut blue suit, terminating in patent boots, the
result of his historical visit to Lord Windover's tailor. "A pair
o' yellow gloves and an 'ard 'at 'ud make a dook out of a
drain-man. Ullo, general!" he cried as Sergeant Charles Dixon
entered the station with a more than ever radiant Millie clinging
to his arm.

"'Ere, steady now, young feller," cautioned Bindle as he
hesitatingly extended his hand. "No pinchin'!"

Charlie Dixon laughed. The heartiness of his grip was notorious
among his friends.

"I'm far too glad to see you to want to hurt you, Uncle Joe,"
he said.

"Uncle Joe!" exclaimed Bindle in surprise, "Uncle Joe!"

"I told him to, Uncle Joe," explained Millie. "You see,"
she added with a wise air of possession, "you belong to us both
now."

"Wot-o!" remarked Bindle. "Goin'-goin' gone, an' cheap
at 'alf the price. 'Ere, no you don't!" By a dexterous dive he
anticipated Charlie Dixon's move towards the ticket-window.
A moment later he returned with three white tickets.

"Oh, Uncle Joe!" cried Millie in awe, "you've booked first-class."

"We're a first-class party to-night, ain't we, Charlie?" was
Bindle's only comment.

As the two lovers walked up the stairs leading to the up-platform,
Bindle found it difficult to recognise in Sergeant Charles
Dixon the youth Millie had introduced to him two years previously
at the cinema.

"Wonder wot 'Earty thinks of 'im now?" muttered Bindle.
"Filled out, 'e 'as. Wonderful wot the army can do for a feller,"
he continued, regretfully thinking of the "various veins" that
had debarred him from the life of a soldier.

"Well, Millikins!" he cried, as they stood waiting for the train,
"an' wot d'you think of 'is Nibs?"

"I think he's lovely, Uncle Joe!" said Millie, blushing and
nestling closer to her lover.[Pg 138]

"Not much chance for your ole uncle now, eh?" There was
a note of simulated regret in Bindle's voice.

"Oh, Uncle Joe!" she cried, releasing Charlie Dixon's arm
to clasp with both hands that of Bindle. "Oh, Uncle Joe!"
There was entreaty in her look and distress in her voice. "You
don't think that, do you, reeeeeally!"

Bindle's reassurances were interrupted by the arrival of the
train. Millie became very silent, as if awed by the unaccustomed
splendour of travelling in a first-class compartment with a first-class
ticket. She had with her the two heroes of her Valhalla
and, woman-like, she was content to worship in silence. As
Bindle and Charlie Dixon discussed the war, she glanced from
one to the other, then with a slight contraction of her eyes, she
sighed her happiness.

To Millie Hearty the world that evening had become transformed
into a place of roses and of honey. If life held a thorn,
she was not conscious of it. For her there was no yesterday,
and there would be no to-morrow.

"My! ain't we a little mouse!" cried Bindle as they passed
down the moving-stairway at Earl's Court.

"Oh, Uncle Joe, I'm so happy!" she cried, giving his arm
that affectionate squeeze with both her hands that never failed
to thrill him. "Please go on talking to Charlie; I love to hear
you—and think."

"Now I wonder wot she's thinkin' about?" Bindle muttered.
"Right-o, Millikins!" he said aloud. "You got two young men
to-night, an' you needn't be afraid of 'em scrappin'."

As they entered the Universal Café, with its brilliant lights and
gaily chattering groups of diners Millie caught her breath. To
her it seemed a Nirvana. Brought up in the narrow circle of
Mr. Hearty's theological limitations, she saw in the long dining-room
a gilded-palace of sin against which Mr. Hearty pronounced
his anathemas. As they stood waiting for a vacant table, she
gazed about her eagerly. How wonderful it would be to eat
whilst a band was playing—and playing such music! It made
her want to dance.

Many glances of admiration were cast at the young girl who,
with flushed cheeks and parted lips, was drinking in a scene
which, to them, was as familiar as their own finger-nails.

When at last a table was obtained, due to the zeal of a susceptible
young superintendent, and she heard Charlie Dixon order the
three-and-sixpenny dinner for all, she seemed to have reached the
pinnacle of wonder; but when Charlie Dixon[Pg 139] demanded the wine-list and
ordered a bottle of "Number 68," the pinnacle broke into a thousand
scintillating flashes of light.

She was ignorant of the fact that Charlie was as blissfully unaware as
she of what "Number 68" was, and that he was praying fervently that it
would prove to be something drinkable. Some wines were abominably
sour.

"I've ordered the dinner; I suppose that'll do," he remarked with a
man-of-the-world air.

Millie smiled her acquiescence. Bindle, not to be outdone in
savoir-faire, picked up the menu and regarded it with wrinkled brow.

"Well, Charlie," he remarked at length, "it's beyond me. I s'pose it's
all right; but it might be the German for cat an' dog for all I know.
I 'opes," he added anxiously, "there ain't none o' them long white
sticks with green tops, wot's always tryin' to kiss their tails. Them
things does me."

"Asparagus," cried Millie, proud of her knowledge, "I love it."

"I ain't nothink against it," said Bindle, recalling his experience at
Oxford, "if they didn't expect you to suck it like a sugar stick. You
wants a mouth as big as a dustbin, if you're a-goin' to catch the
end."

When the wine arrived Charlie Dixon breathed a sigh of relief, as he
recognised in its foam and amber an old friend with which he had
become acquainted in France.

"Oh! what is it?" cried Millie, clasping her hands in excitement.

"Champagne!" said Charlie Dixon.

"Oh, Charlie!" cried Millie, gazing at her lover in proud
wonder. "Isn't it—isn't it most awfully expensive?"

Charlie Dixon laughed. Bindle looked at him quizzically.

"Ain't 'e a knockout?" he cried. "Might be a dook a-orderin'
champagne as if it was lemonade, or a 'aporth an' a pen'orth."

"But ought I to drink it, Uncle Joe?" questioned Millie doubtfully,
looking at the bubbles rising through the amber liquid.

"If you wants to be temperance you didn't ought to——"

"I don't, Uncle Joe," interrupted Millie eagerly; "but
father——"

"That ain't nothink to do with it," replied Bindle. "You're
grown up now, Millikins, an' you got to decide things for yourself."

And Millie Hearty drank champagne for the first time.

When coffee arrived, Charlie Dixon, who had been singularly
quiet during the meal, exploded his mine. It came about as[Pg 140]
the result of Bindle's enquiry as to how long his leave would
last.

"Ten days," he replied, "and—and I want——" He paused
hesitatingly.

"Out with it, young feller," demanded Bindle. "Wot is it that
you wants?"

"I want Millie to marry me before I go back." The words
came out with a rush.

Millie looked at Charlie Dixon, wide-eyed with astonishment;
then, as she realised what it really was he asked, the blood flamed
to her cheeks and she cast down her eyes.

"Oh! but I couldn't, Charlie. Father wouldn't let me, and—and——"

Bindle looked at Charlie Dixon.

"Millie, you will, won't you, dear?" said Charlie Dixon. "I've
got to go back in ten days, and—and——"

"Oh, Charlie, I—I——" began Millie, then her voice broke.

"Look 'ere, you kids," broke in Bindle. "It ain't no good
you two settin' a-stutterin' there like a couple of machine-guns;
you know right enough that you both want to get married, that
you was made for each other, that you been lying awake o'
nights wonderin' when you'd 'ave the pluck to tell each other so,
and 'ere you are——" He broke off. "Now look 'ere, Millikins,
do you want to marry Charlie Dixon?"

Millie's wide-open eyes contracted into a smile.

"Yes, Uncle Joe, please," she answered demurely.

"Now, Charlie, do you want to marry Millikins?" demanded
Bindle.

"Rather," responded Charlie Dixon with alacrity.

"Then wot d'you want to make all this bloomin' fuss about?"
demanded Bindle.

"But—but it's so little time," protested Millie, blushing.

"So much the better," said Bindle practically. "You can't
change your minds. You see, Millikins, if you wait too long,
Charlie may meet someone 'e likes better, or you may see a cove
wot takes your fancy more."

The lovers exchanged glances and meaning smiles.

"Oh, yes! I understand all about that," said Bindle knowingly. "You're
very clever, ain't you, you two kids? You know everythink there is to
be known about weddin's, an' lovin' and all the rest of it. Now look
'ere, Millikins, are you goin' to send this 'ere boy back to France
un'appy?"

"Oh, Uncle Joe!" quavered Millie.[Pg 141]

"Well, you say you want to marry 'im, and 'e wants to marry you. If
you don't marry 'im before 'e goes back to the front, 'e'll be
un'appy, won't you, Charlie?"

"It will be rotten," said Charlie Dixon with conviction.

"There you are, Millikins. 'Ow's 'e goin' to beat the Kayser if 'e's
miserable? Now it's up against you to beat the Kayser by marryin'
Charlie Dixon. Are you goin' to do it, or are you not?"

They both laughed. Bindle was irresistible to them.