Adventures of Bindle
by Herbert George Jenkins · English · Gutenberg #32285 · 390,975 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Adventures of Bindle
Author: Herbert George Jenkins
Release date: May 7, 2010 [eBook #32285]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/32285
Credits: Produced by David Garcia and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ADVENTURES OF BINDLE ***
Produced by David Garcia and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
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
[Illustration: A HERBERT JENKINS BOOK]
_Twelfth printing, completing 167,461 copies_
MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY PURNELL AND SONS LTD.,
PAULTON (SOMERSET) AND LONDON
TO
THE CHILDREN OF THE DEAD END
There are Fairies in the city,
There are Fairies on the down,
When Wee Hughie comes from Ireland
To visit London Town.
There is sunshine in the dungeon,
There is starlight in the grave,
If June will but remember
The things that April gave.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE COMING OF THE LODGER 9
II. A DOWNING STREET SENSATION 20
III. THE AIR-RAID 35
IV. THE DUPLICATION OF MR. HEARTY 41
V. THE GATHERING OF THE BANDS 50
VI. MR. GUPPERDUCK'S MISHAP 61
VII. THE COURTING OF THE REV. ANDREW MACFIE 69
VIII. THE CHAPEL CONVERSAZIONE 80
IX. THE LETTING OF NUMBER SIX 95
X. THE DOWNFALL OF MR. JABEZ STIFFSON 105
XI. THE CAMOUFLAGING OF MR. GUPPERDUCK 117
XII. THE TRAGEDY OF GIUSEPPI ANTONIO TOLMENICINO 123
XIII. THE RETURN OF CHARLIE DIXON 135
XIV. MR. HEARTY YIELDS 142
XV. A BILLETING ADVENTURE 150
XVI. MILLIE'S WEDDING 162
_All the characters in this book are entirely imaginary and
have no relation whatsoever to any living persons._
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.
"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:
"CHRISTIAN HOME wanted by a single gentleman, chapel-goer,
temperance, quiet, musical, home-comforts, good-cooking,
moderate terms. References given and required. Apply Lonely,
c/o _The Gospel Sentinel_."
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?"
"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.
"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!"
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.
"'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."
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.
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."
"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."
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 conversing
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."
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 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, "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, 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."
[1] Conscientious objectors to military service.
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.
"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," 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.
"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 '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," 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."
"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 entangled 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 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 manoeuvre, 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 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.
"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."
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 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-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.
"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.
"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?"
"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 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."
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 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.
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 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," 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 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 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?
"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."
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. 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
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 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 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 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 drummer 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 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.
"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 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.
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.
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."
"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."
"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."
"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.
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, 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?"
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. Gupperduck,
"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 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."
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 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 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."
"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 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.
"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 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 discipline 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."
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 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."
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 "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. 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.
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-elaborated 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."
"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.
"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.
"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:
There's the blue eye and the brown eye, the grave eye and the sad,
There's the pink eye and the green eye and the eye that's rolling
mad;
But of all the eyes that eye me, be they merciful or bad,
The eye that I would choose is what they call "The Glad."
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 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 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 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.
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! 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 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, ole Mac won't go 'angin' round Millikins again for
many a long day. If 'e does I'll punch 'is bloomin' 'ead."
<tb>
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; 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.
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 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 nu
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