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Bindle: Some Chapters in the Life of Joseph Bindle

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Title: Bindle: Some Chapters in the Life of Joseph Bindle

Author: Herbert George Jenkins


        
Release date: July 26, 2010 [eBook #33261]
                Most recently updated: January 6, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BINDLE: SOME CHAPTERS IN THE LIFE OF JOSEPH BINDLE ***




Produced by Al Haines










BINDLE

  SOME CHAPTERS IN THE
  LIFE OF JOSEPH BINDLE


BY

HERBERT JENKINS



  "Bindle is the greatest Cockney
  that has come into being through
  the medium of literature since
  Dickens wrote Pickwick Papers"
        MR. T. P. O'CONNOR, M.P.



HERBERT JENKINS LIMITED

YORK STREET LONDON S.W.1

1916




  A
  HERBERT
  JENKINS
  BOOK


_Eighteenth Printing Completing 283,711 copies:_



Printed In Great Britain at the Athenaeum Printing Works, Redhill.




  TO
  MY MOTHER

  WHO AS HER SON'S
  BEST FRIEND IS
  PROBABLY HIS
  WORST CRITIC




FOREWORD

Some years ago I wrote an account of one of Bindle's "little jokes," as
he calls them, which appeared in _Blackwood's Magazine_.  As a result
the late Mr. William Blackwood on more than one occasion expressed the
opinion that a book about Bindle should be written, and suggested that
I offer it to him for publication.  Other and weighty matters
intervened, and Bindle passed out of my thoughts.

Last year, however, the same suggestion was made from other quarters,
and in one instance was backed up by a material reasoning that I found
irresistible.

A well-known author once assured me that in his opinion the publisher
who wrote books should, like the double-headed ass and five-legged
sheep, be painlessly put to death, preferably by the Society of
Authors, as a menace to what he called "the legitimate."

Authors have been known to become their own publishers, generally, I
believe, to their lasting regret; why, therefore, should not a
publisher become his own author?  At least he would find some
difficulty in proving to the world that his failure was due to
under-advertising.

H. J.

12, ARUNDEL PLACE,
  HAYMARKET, LONDON, S.W.

_August_, 1916.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER

         FOREWORD
     I.  THE BINDLES AT HOME
    II.  A NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE
   III.  THE HYPNOTIC FIASCO
    IV.  THE HEARTYS AT HOME
     V.  BINDLE TRIES A CHANGE OF WORK
    VI.  THE HOTEL CORRIDOR
   VII.  BINDLE COMMITS AN INDISCRETION
  VIII.  THE GREAT CONSPIRACY
    IX.  THE TEMPERANCE FETE
     X.  MR. HEARTY PRAYS FOR BINDLE
    XI.  MR. HEARTY BECOMES EXTREMELY UNPOPULAR
   XII.  BINDLE AGREES TO BECOME A MILLIONAIRE
  XIII.  OXFORD'S WELCOME TO BINDLE
   XIV.  MR. HEARTY GIVES A PARTY
    XV.  BINDLE AND THE GERMAN MENACE
   XVI.  THE AMATEUR DETECTIVES
  XVII.  BINDLE MAKES A MISTAKE
 XVIII.  BINDLE ASSISTS IN AN ELOPEMENT
   XIX.  THE SCARLET HORSE COTERIE
    XX.  MILLIE LEAVES HOME
   XXI.  CONCLUSION




BINDLE


CHAPTER I

THE BINDLES AT HOME

"Women," remarked Bindle, as he gazed reflectively into the tankard he
had just drained, "women is all right if yer can keep 'em from marryin'
yer."

"I don't 'old wiv women," growled Ginger, casting a malevolent glance
at the Blue Boar's only barmaid, as she stood smirking at the other end
of the long leaden counter.  "Same as before," he added to the barman.

Joseph Bindle heaved a sign of contentment at the success of his rueful
contemplation of the emptiness of his tankard.

"You're too late, ole sport," he remarked, as he sympathetically
surveyed the unprepossessing features of his companion, where freckles
rioted with spots in happy abandon.  "You're too late, you wi' three
babies 'fore you're twenty-five.  Ginger, you're----"

"No, I ain't!"  There was a note of savage menace in Ginger's voice
that caused his companion to look at him curiously.

"Ain't wot?" questioned Bindle.

"I ain't wot you was goin' to say I was."

"'Ow jer know wot I was goin' to say?"

"'Cos every stutterin' fool sez it; an' blimey I'm goin' to 'ammer the
next, an' I don't want to 'ammer you, Joe."

Bindle pondered a moment, then a smile irradiated his features,
developing into a broad grin.

"You're too touchy, Ginger.  I wasn't goin' to say, 'Ginger, you're
barmy.'"  Ginger winced and clenched his fists.  "I was goin' to say,
'Ginger, you're no good at marriage wi'out tack.  If yer 'ad more tack
maybe yer wouldn't 'ave got married."

Ginger spat viciously in the direction of the spittoon, but his
feelings were too strong for accurate aim.

"The parsons say as marriages is made in 'eaven," growled Ginger.  "Why
don't 'eaven feed the kids?  That's wot I want to know."

Ginger was notorious among his mates for the gloomy view he took of
life.  No one had ever discovered in him enthusiasm for anything.  If
he went to a football match and the team he favoured were beaten, it
was no more than he expected; if they were victorious his comment would
be that they ought to have scored more goals.  If the horse he backed
won, he blamed fate because his stake was so small.  The more beer he
absorbed the more misanthropic he seemed to become.

"Funny coves, parsons," remarked Bindle conversationally; "not as I've
any think to say agin' religion, providin' it's kep' for Sundays and
Good Fridays, an' don't get mixed up wi' the rest of the week."

He paused and lifted the newly-filled tankard to his lips.  Presently
he continued reminiscently:

"My father 'ad religion, and drunk 'isself to death 'keepin' the chill
out.'  Accordin' to 'im, if yer wanted to be 'appy in the next world
yer 'ad to be a sort of 'alf fish in this.  'E could tell the tale, 'e
could, and wot's more, 'e used to make us believe 'im."  Bindle laughed
at the recollection.  "Two or three times a week 'e used to go to
chapel to 'wash 'is sins away,' winter an' summer.  The parson seemed
to 'ave to wash the 'ole bloomin' lot of 'em, and my father never
forgot to take somethink on 'is way 'ome to keep the chill out, 'e was
that careful of 'isself.

"'My life is Gawd's,' 'e used to say, 'an' I must take care of wot is
the Lord's.'  There weren't no spots on my father.  Why, 'e used to wet
'is 'air to prove 'e'd been ''mersed,' as 'e called it.  You'd 'ave
liked 'im, Ginger; 'e was a gloomy sort of cove, same as you."

Ginger muttered something inarticulate, and buried his freckles and
spots in his tankard.  Bindle carefully filled his short clay pipe and
lit it with a care and precision more appropriate to a cigar.

"No," he continued, "I ain't nothink agin' religion; it's the people
wot goes in for it as does me.  There's my brother-in-law, 'Earty by
name, an' my missis--they must make 'eaven tired with their moanin'."

"Wot jer marry 'er for?" grumbled Ginger thickly, not with any show of
interest, but as if to demonstrate that he was still awake.

"Ginger!"  There was reproach in Bindle's voice.  "Fancy you arstin' a
silly question like that.  Don't yer know as _no_ man ever marries any
woman?  If 'e's nippy 'e gets orf the 'ook; if 'e ain't 'e's landed.
You an' me wasn't nippy enough, ole son, an' 'ere we are."

"There's somethin' in that, mate."  There was feeling in Ginger's voice
and a momentary alertness in his eye.

"Well," continued Bindle, "once on the 'ook there's only one thing
that'll save yer--tack."

"Or 'ammerin 'er blue," interpolated Ginger viciously.

"I draws the line there; I don't 'old with 'ammerin' women.  Yer can't
'ammer somethink wot can't 'ammer back, Ginger; that's for furriners.
No, tack's the thing.  Now take my missis.  If yer back-answers 'er
when she ain't feelin' chatty, you're as good as done.  Wot I does is
to keep quiet an' seem sorry, then she dries up.  Arter a bit I'll
whistle or 'um 'Gospel Bells' (that's 'er favourite 'ymn, Ginger) as if
to meself.  Then out I goes, an' when I gets 'ome to supper I takes in
a tin o' salmon, an' it's all over till the next time.  Wi' tack,
'Gospel Bells,' and a tin o' salmon yer can do a rare lot wi' women,
Ginger."

"Wot jer do if yer couldn't whistle or 'um, and if salmon made yer ole
woman sick, same as it does mine; wot jer do then?"  Ginger thrust his
head forward aggressively.

Bindle thought deeply for some moments, then with slow deliberation
said:

"I think, Ginger, I'd kill a slop.  They always 'angs yer for killin'
slops."

There was a momentary silence, as both men drained their pewters, and a
moment after they left the Blue Boar.  They walked along, each deep in
his own thoughts, in the direction of Hammersmith Church, where they
parted, Bindle to proceed to Fulham and Ginger to Chiswick; each to the
mate that had been thrust upon him by an undiscriminating fate.

Joseph Bindle was a little man, bald-headed, with a red nose, but he
was possessed of a great heart, which no misfortune ever daunted.  Two
things in life he loved above all others, beer and humour (or, as he
called it, his "little joke"); yet he permitted neither to interfere
with the day's work, save under very exceptional circumstances.  No one
had ever seen him drunk.  He had once explained to a mate who urged
upon him an extra glass, "I don't put more on me back than I can carry,
an' I do ditto wi' me stomach."

Bindle was a journeyman furniture-remover by profession, and the life
of a journeyman furniture-remover is fraught with many vicissitudes and
hardships.  As one of the profession once phrased it to Bindle, "If it
wasn't for them bespattered quarter-days, there might be a livin' in
it."

People, however, move at set periods, or, as Bindle put it, they "seems
to take root as if they was bloomin' vegetables."  The set periods are
practically reduced to three, for few care to face the inconvenience of
a Christmas move.

Once upon a time family removals were leisurely affairs, which the
contractors took care to spread over many days; now, however, moving is
a matter of contract, or, as Bindle himself expressed it, "Yer 'as to
carry a bookcase under one arm, a spring-mattress under the other, a
pianner on yer back, and then they wonders why yer ain't doin'
somethink wi' yer teeth."

All these things conspired to make Bindle's living a precarious one.
He was not lazy, and sought work assiduously.  In his time he had
undertaken many strange jobs, his intelligence and ready wit giving him
an advantage over his competitors; but if his wit gained for him
employment, his unconquerable desire to indulge in his "little jokes"
almost as frequently lost it for him.

As the jobs became less frequent Mrs. Bindle waxed more eloquent.  To
her a man who was not working was "a brute" or a "lazy hound."  She
made no distinction between the willing and the unwilling, and she
heaped the fire of her burning reproaches upon the head of her luckless
"man" whenever he was unable to furnish her with a full week's
housekeeping.

Bindle was not lazy enough to be unpopular with his superiors, or
sufficiently energetic to merit the contempt of his fellow-workers.  He
did his job in average time, and strove to preserve the middle course
that should mean employment and pleasant associates.

"Lorst yer job?" was a frequent interrogation on the lips of Mrs.
Bindle.

At first Bindle had striven to parry this inevitable question with a
pleasantry; but he soon discovered that his wife was impervious to his
most brilliant efforts, and he learned in time to shroud his
degradation in an impenetrable veil of silence.

Only in the hour of prosperity would he preserve his verbal
cheerfulness.

"She thinks too much o' soap an' 'er soul to make an 'owlin' success o'
marriage," he had once confided to a mate over a pint of beer.  "A
little dirt an' less religion might keep 'er out of 'eaven in the next
world, but it 'ud keep me out of 'ell in this!"

Mrs. Bindle was obsessed with two ogres: Dirt and the Devil.  Her
cleanliness was the cleanliness that rendered domestic comfort
impossible, just as her godliness was the godliness of suffering in
this world and glory in the next.

Her faith was the faith of negation.  The happiness to be enjoyed in
the next world would be in direct ratio to the sacrifices made in this.
Denying herself the things that her "carnal nature" cried out for, she
was filled with an intense resentment that anyone else should continue
to live in obvious enjoyment of what she had resolutely put from her.
Her only consolation was the triumph she was to enjoy in the next
world, and she found no little comfort in the story of Dives and
Lazarus.

The forgiveness of sins was a matter upon which she preserved an open
mind.  Her faith told her that they should be forgiven; but she felt
something of the injustice of it all.  That the sinner, who at the
eleventh hour repenteth, should achieve Paradise in addition to having
drunk deep of the cup of pleasure in this world, seemed to her unfair
to the faithful.

To Mrs. Bindle the world was a miserable place; but, please God! it
should be a clean place, as far as she had the power to make it clean.

When a woman sets out to be a reformer, she invariably begins upon her
own men-folk.  Mrs. Bindle had striven long and lugubriously to ensure
Bindle's salvation, and when she had eventually discovered this to be
impossible, she accepted him as her cross.

Whilst struggling for Bindle's salvation, Mrs. Bindle had not
overlooked the more immediate needs of his body.  For many weeks of
their early married life a tin bath of hot water had been placed
regularly in the kitchen each Friday night that Bindle might be
thorough in his ablutions.

At first Mrs. Bindle had been surprised and gratified at the way in
which Bindle had acquiesced in this weekly rite, but being shrewd and
something of a student of character, particularly Bindle's character,
her suspicions had been aroused.

One Friday evening she put the kitchen keyhole to an illicit use, and
discovered Bindle industriously rubbing his hands on his boots, and,
with much use of soap, washing them in the bath, after which he
splashed the water about the room, damped the towels, then lit his pipe
and proceeded to read the evening paper.  That was the end of the bath
episode.

It was not that Bindle objected to washing; as a matter of fact he was
far more cleanly than most of his class; but to him Mrs. Bindle's
methods savoured too much of coercion.

A great Frenchman has said, "Pour faire quelque chose de grande, il
faut etre passione."  In other words, no wanton sprite of mischief or
humour must be permitted to beckon genius from its predestined path.
Although an entire stranger to philosophy, ignorant alike of the word
and its meaning, Mrs. Bindle had arrived at the same conclusion as the
French savant.

"Why don't you stick at somethin' as if you meant it?" was her way of
phrasing it.  "Look at Mr. Hearty.  See what he's done!"  Without any
thought of irreverence, Mrs. Bindle used the names of the Lord and Mr.
Hearty as whips of scorpions with which on occasion she mercilessly
scourged her husband.

At the time of Bindle's encounter with his onetime work-mate, Ginger,
he had been tramping for hours seeking a job.  He had gone even to the
length of answering an advertisement for a waitress, explaining to the
irritated advertiser that "wi' women it was the customers as did the
waitin'," and that a man was "more nippy than a gal."

Ginger's hospitality had cheered him, and he began to regard life once
more with his accustomed optimism.  He had been without food all day,
and this fact, rather than the continued rebuffs he had suffered,
caused him some misgiving as the hour approached for his return to home
and Mrs. Bindle's inevitable question, "Got a job?"

As he passed along the Fulham Palace Road his keen eye searched
everywhere for interest and amusement.  He winked jocosely at the
pretty girls, and grinned happily when called a "saucy 'ound."  He
exchanged pleasantries with anyone who showed the least inclination
towards camaraderie, and the dour he silenced with caustic rejoinder.

Bindle's views upon the home life of England were not orthodox.

"I'd like to meet the cove wot first started talkin' about the ''appy
'ome life of ole England,'" he murmured under his breath.  "I'd like to
introduce 'im to Mrs. B.  Might sort o' wake 'im up a bit, an' make 'im
want t' emigrate.  I'd like to see 'im gettin' away wi'out a scrap.
Rummy thing, 'ome life."

His philosophy was to enjoy what you've got, and not to bother about
what you hope to get.  He had once precipitated a domestic storm by
saying to Mrs. Bindle:

"Don't you put all yer money on the next world, in case of accidents.
Angels is funny things, and they might sort of take a dislike to yer,
and then the fat 'ud be in the fire."  Then, critically surveying Mrs.
Bindle's manifest leanness, "Not as you an' me together 'ud make much
of a flicker in 'ell."

As he approached Fenton Street, where he lived, his leisurely pace
perceptibly slackened.  It was true that supper awaited him at the end
of his journey--that was with luck; but, luck or no luck, Mrs. Bindle
was inevitable.

"Funny 'ow 'avin' a wife seems to spoil yer appetite," he muttered, as
he scratched his head through the blue-and-white cricket cap he
invariably wore, where the four triangles of alternating white and
Cambridge blue had lost much of their original delicacy of shade.

"I'm 'ungry, 'ungry as an 'awk," he continued; then after a pause he
added, "I wonder whether 'awks marry."  The idea seemed to amuse him.
"Well, well!" he remarked with a sigh, "yer got to face it, Joe," and
pulling himself together he mended his pace.

As he had foreseen, Mrs. Bindle was keenly on the alert for the sound
of his key in the lock of the outer door of their half-house.  He had
scarcely realised that the evening meal was to consist of something
stewed with his much-loved onions, when Mrs. Bindle's voice was heard
from the kitchen with the time-worn question:

"Got a job?"

Hunger, and the smell of his favourite vegetable, made him a coward.

"'Ow jer know, Fairy?" he asked with crude facetiousness.

"What is it?" enquired Mrs. Bindle shrewdly as he entered the kitchen.

"Night watchman at a garridge," he lied glibly, and removed his coat
preparatory to what he called a "rinse" at the sink.  It always pleased
Mrs. Bindle to see Bindle wash; even such a perfunctory effort as a
"rinse" was a tribute to her efforts.

"When d'you start?" she asked suspiciously.

How persistent women were! thought Bindle.

"To-night at nine," he replied.  Nothing mattered with that savoury
smell in his nostrils.

Mrs. Bindle was pacified; but her emotions were confidential affairs
between herself and "the Lord," and she consequently preserved the same
unrelenting exterior.

"'Bout time, I should think," she snapped ungraciously, and proceeded
with her culinary preparations.  Mrs. Bindle was an excellent cook.
"If 'er temper was like 'er cookin'," Bindle had confided to Mrs.
Hearty, "life 'ud be a little bit of 'eaven."

Fenton Street, in which the Bindles lived, was an offering to the
Moloch of British exclusiveness.  The houses consisted of two floors,
and each floor had a separate outer door and a narrow passage from
which opened off a parlour, a bedroom, and a kitchen.  Although each
household was cut off from the sight of its immediate neighbours, there
was not a resident, save those who occupied the end houses, who was not
intimately acquainted with the private affairs of at least three of its
neighbours, those above or below, as the case might be, and of the
family on each side.  The walls and floors were so thin that, when the
least emotion set the voices of the occupants vibrating in a louder key
than usual, the neighbours knew of the crisis as soon as the
protagonists themselves, and every aspect of the dispute or discussion
was soon the common property of the whole street.

Fenton Street suited Mrs. Bindle, who was intensely exclusive.  She
never joined the groups of women who stood each morning, and many
afternoons, at their front doors to discuss the thousand and one things
that women have to discuss.  She occupied herself with her home,
hounding from its hiding-place each speck of dust and microbe as if it
were an embodiment of the Devil himself.

She was a woman of narrow outlook and prejudiced views, hating sin from
a sense of fear of what it might entail rather than as a result of
instinctive repulsion; yet she was possessed of many admirable
qualities.  She worked long and hard in her home, did her duty to her
husband in mending his clothes, preparing his food, and providing him
with what she termed "a comfortable home."

Next to chapel her supreme joy in life was her parlour, a mid-Victorian
riot of antimacassars, stools, furniture, photograph-frames, pictures,
ornaments, and the musical-box that would not play, but was precious as
Aunt Anne's legacy.  Bindle was wont to say that "when yer goes into
our parlour yer wants a map an' a guide, an' even then yer 'as to call
for 'elp before yer can get out."

Mrs. Bindle had no visitors, and consequently her domestic holy of
holies was never used.  She would dust and clean and arrange; arrange,
clean, and dust with untiring zeal.  The windows, although never
opened, were spotless; for she judged a woman's whole character by the
appearance of her windows and curtains.  No religieuse ever devoted
more time or thought to a chapel or an altar than Mrs. Bindle to her
parlour.  She might have reconciled herself to leaving anything else in
the world, but her parlour would have held her a helpless prisoner.

When everything was ready for the meal Mrs. Bindle poured from a
saucepan a red-brown liquid with cubes of a darker brown, which
splashed joyously into the dish.  Bindle recognised it as stewed steak
and onions, the culinary joy of his heart.

With great appetite he fell to, almost thankful to Providence for
sending him so excellent a cook.  As he ate he argued that if a man had
an angel for a wife, in all likelihood she would not be able to cook,
and perhaps after all he was not so badly off.

"There ain't many as can beat yer at this 'ere game," remarked Bindle,
indicating the dish with his fork; and a momentary flicker that might
have been a smile still-born passed across Mrs. Bindle's face.

As the meal progressed Bindle began to see the folly of his cowardice.
He had doomed himself to a night's walking the streets.  He cudgelled
his brains how to avoid the consequences of his indiscretion.  He
looked covertly at Mrs. Bindle.  There was nothing in the sharp
hatchet-like face, with its sandy hair drawn tightly away from each
side and screwed into a knot behind, that suggested compromise.  Nor
was there any suggestion of a relenting nature in that hard grey line
that served her as a mouth.  No, there was nothing for it but to "carry
the banner," unless he could raise sufficient money to pay for a
night's lodging.

"Saw Ginger to-day," he remarked conversationally, as he removed a
shred of meat from a back tooth with his fork.

"Don't talk to me of Ginger!" snapped Mrs. Bindle.

Such retorts made conversation difficult.

It was Mrs. Bindle's question as to whether he did not think it about
time he started that gave Bindle the inspiration he sought.  For more
than a week the one clock of the household, a dainty little travelling
affair that he had purchased of a fellow-workman, it having "sort o'
got lost" in a move, had stopped and showed itself impervious to all
persuasion Bindle decided to take it, ostensibly to a clock-repairer,
but in reality to the pawn-shop, and thus raise the price of a night's
lodging.  He would trust to luck to supply the funds to retrieve it.

With a word of explanation to Mrs. Bindle, he proceeded to wrap up the
clock in a piece of newspaper, and prepared to go out.

To Bindle the moment of departure was always fraught with the greatest
danger.  His goings-out became strategical withdrawals, he endeavouring
to get off unnoticed, Mrs. Bindle striving to rake him with her verbal
artillery as he retreated.

On this particular evening he felt comparatively safe.  He was, as far
as Mrs. Bindle knew, going to "a job," and, what was more, he was
taking the clock to be repaired.  He sidled tactically along the wall
towards the door, as if keenly interested in getting his pipe to draw.
Mrs. Bindle opened fire.

"How long's your job for?"  She turned round in the act of wiping out a
saucepan.

"Only to-night," replied Bindle somewhat lamely.  He was afraid of
where further romancing might lead him.

"Call that a job?" she enquired scornfully.  "How long am I to go on
keepin' you in idleness?"  Mrs. Bindle cleaned the Alton Road Chapel,
where she likewise worshipped, and to this she referred.

"I'll get another job to-morrow; don't be down'earted," Bindle replied
cheerfully.

"Down'earted!  Y' ought to be ashamed o' yerself," exploded Mrs.
Bindle, as she banged the saucepan upon its shelf and seized a broom.
Bindle regarded her with expressionless face.  "Y' ought to be ashamed
o' yerself, yer great hulkin' brute."

At one time Bindle, who was well below medium height and average
weight, had grinned appreciatively at this description; but it had a
little lost its savour by repetition.

"Call yerself a man!" she continued, her sharp voice rising in volume
and key.  "Leavin' me to keep the sticks together--me, a woman too,
a-keepin' you in idleness!  Why, I'd steal 'fore I'd do that, that I
would."

She made vigorous use of the broom.  Her anger invariably manifested
itself in dust, a momentary forgetfulness of her religious convictions,
and a lapse into the Doric.  As a rule she was careful and mincing in
her speech, but anger opened the flood-gates of her vocabulary, and
words rushed forth bruised and decapitated.

With philosophic self-effacement Bindle covered the few feet between
him and the door and vanished.  He was a philosopher and, like
Socrates, he bowed to the whirlwind of his wife's wrath.  Conscious of
having done everything humanly possible to obtain work, he faced the
world with unruffled calm.

Mrs. Bindle's careless words, however, sank deeply into his mind.
Steal!  Well, he had no very strongly-grounded objection, provided he
were not caught at it.  Steal!  The word seemed to open up new
possibilities for him.  The thing was, how should he begin?  He might
seize a leg of mutton from a butcher's shop and run; but then Nature
had not intended him for a runner.  He might smash a jeweller's window,
pick a pocket, or snatch a handbag; but in all these adventures
fleetness of foot seemed essential.

Crime seemed obviously for the sprinter.  To become a burger required
experience and tools, and Bindle possessed neither.  Besides, burgling
involved more risks than he cared to take.

Had he paused to think, Bindle would have seen that stealing was crime;
but his incurable love of adventure blinded him to all else.

"Funny thing," he mumbled as he walked down Fenton Street.  "Funny
thing, a daughter o' the Lord wantin' me to steal.  Wonder wot ole
'Earty 'ud say."




CHAPTER II

A NOCTURNAL ADVENTURE


I

Having exchanged the clock for seven shillings and badly beaten the
pawnbroker's assistant in a verbal duel, Bindle strolled along towards
Walham Green in the happiest frame of mind.

The night was young, it was barely nine o'clock, and his whole being
yearned for some adventure.  He was still preoccupied with the subject
of larceny.  His wits, Bindle argued, were of little or no use in the
furniture-removing business, where mediocrity formed the standard of
excellence.  There would never be a Napoleon of furniture-removers, but
there had been several Napoleons of crime.  If a man were endowed with
genius, he should also be supplied with a reasonable outlet for it.

Walking meditatively along the North End Road, he was awakened to
realities by his foot suddenly striking against something that jingled.
He stooped and picked up two keys attached to a ring, which he swiftly
transferred to one of his pockets and passed on.  Someone might be
watching him.

Two minutes later he drew forth his find for examination.  Attached to
the ring was a metal tablet, upon which were engraved the words: "These
keys are the property of Professor Sylvanus Conti, 13 Audrey Mansions,
Queen's Club, West Kensington, W.  Reward for their return, 2s. 6d."

The keys were obviously those of the outer door of a block of mansions
and the door of a flat.  If they were returned the reward was two
shillings and sixpence, which would bring up the day's takings to nine
shillings and sixpence.  If, on the other hand, the keys were retained
for the purpose of----

At that moment Bindle's eye caught sight of a ticket upon a stall
littered with old locks and keys, above which blazed and spluttered a
paraffin torch.  "Keys cut while you wait," it announced.  Without a
moment's hesitation he slipped the two keys from their ring and held
them out to the proprietor of the stall.

"'Ow much to make two like 'em, mate?" he enquired.  The man took the
keys, examined them for a moment, and replied:

"One an' thruppence from you, capt'in."

"Well, think o' me as a pretty girl an' say a bob, an' it's done,"
replied Bindle.

The man regarded him with elaborate gravity for a few moments.  "If yer
turn yer face away I'll try," he replied, and proceeded to fashion the
duplicates.

Meanwhile Bindle deliberated.  If he retained the keys there would be
suspicion at the flats, and perhaps locks would be changed; if, on the
other hand, the keys were returned immediately, the owner would trouble
himself no further.

At this juncture he was not very clear as to what he intended to do.
He was still undecided when the four keys were handed to him in return
for a shilling.

The mind of Joseph Bindle invariably responded best to the
ministrations of beer, and when, half an hour later, he left the bar of
the Purple Goat, his plans were formed, and his mind made up.  He
vaguely saw the hand of Providence in this discovery of Professor
Conti's keys, and he was determined that Providence should not be
disappointed in him, Joseph Bindle.

First he bought a cheap electric torch, guaranteed for twelve or
twenty-four hours--the shopkeeper was not quite certain which.  Then,
proceeding to a chemist's shop, he purchased a roll of medical
bandaging.  With this he retired up a side street and proceeded to
swathe his head and the greater part of his face, leaving only his
eyes, nose, and mouth visible.  Drawing his cap carefully over the
bandages, he returned to the highway, first having improvised the
remainder of the bandaging into an informal sling for his left arm.
Not even Mrs. Bindle herself would have recognised him, so complete was
the disguise.

Ten minutes later he was at Audrey Mansions.  No one was visible, and
with great swiftness and dexterity he tried the duplicate keys in the
open outer door.  One fitted perfectly.  Mounting to the third floor,
he inserted the other in the door of No. 13.  The lock turned easily.
Quite satisfied, he replaced them in his pocket and rang the bell.
There was no answer.  He rang again, and a third time, but without
result.

"Does 'is own charin'," murmured Bindle laconically, and descended to
the ground floor, where he rang the porter's bell, with the result that
the keys were faithfully redeemed.

Bindle left the porter in a state of suppressed excitement over a vivid
and circumstantial account of a terrible collision that had just taken
place in the neighbourhood, between a motor-bus and a fire-engine,
resulting in eleven deaths, including three firemen, whilst thirty
people had been seriously injured, including six firemen.  He himself
had been on the front seat of the motor-bus and had escaped with a
broken head and a badly-cut hand.


II

Professor Conti did not discover his loss until the porter handed him
his keys, enquiring at the same time if the Professor had heard
anything of the terrible collision between the motor-bus and
fire-engine.  The Professor had not.  He mounted to his flat with heavy
steps.  He was tired and dispirited.  In his bedroom he surveyed
himself mournfully in the mirror as he undid the buckle of his
ready-made evening-tie, which he placed carefully in the green
cardboard box upon the dressing-table.  In these days a tie had to last
the week, aided by the application of French chalk to the salient folds
and corners.

Professor Sylvanus Conti, who had been known to his mother, Mrs.
Wilkins, as Willie, emphasised in feature and speech his cockney
origin.  He was of medium height, with a sallow complexion--not the
sallowness of the sun-baked plains of Italy, but rather that of
Bermondsey or Bow.

He had been a brave little man in his fight with adverse conditions.
Years before, chance had thrown across his path a doctor whose hypnotic
powers had been his ruin.  Willie Wilkins had shown himself an apt
pupil, and there opened out to his vision a great and glorious prospect.

First he courted science; but she had proved a fickle jade, and he was
forced to become an entertainer, much against his inclination.  In time
the name of Professor Sylvanus Conti came to be known at most of the
second-rate music halls as "a good hypnotic turn"--to use the
professional phraseology.

One consolation he had--he never descended to tricks.  If he were
unable to place a subject under control, he stated so frankly.  He was
scientific, and believed in his own powers as he believed in nothing
else on earth.

He had achieved some sort of success.  It was not what he had hoped
for; still, it was a living.  It gave him food and raiment and a small
bachelor flat--he was a bachelor, all self-made men are--in a spot that
was Kensington, albeit West Kensington.

The Professor continued mechanically to prepare himself for the night.
He oiled his dark hair, brushed his black moustache, donned his long
nightshirt, and finally lit a cigarette.  He was thinking deeply.  His
dark, cunning little eyes flashed angrily.  A cynical smile played
about the corners of his mouth, half hidden by the bristly black
moustache.

Only that evening he had heard that his rival, "Mr. John Gibson, the
English Mesmerist," had secured a contract to appear at some syndicate
halls that had hitherto engaged only him.

This man Gibson had been dogging Conti for months past.  The barefaced
effrontery of the fellow added fuel to the fire of his rival's anger.
To use an English name for a hypnotic turn upon the English music-hall
stage!  He should have known that hypnotism, like the equestrian and
dressmaking arts, is continental, without exception or qualification.
Yet this man, John Gibson, "the English Mesmerist," had dared to enter
into competition with him, Professor Sylvanus Conti.  Gibson descended
to tricks, which placed him beyond the pale of science.  He had
confederates who, as "gentlemen among the audience," did weird and
marvellous things, all to the glory of "the English Mesmerist."

Still brooding upon a rather ominous future, the Professor wound his
watch--a fine gold hunter that had been presented to him three years
previously by "A few friends and admirers"--and placed it upon the
small table by his bedside, together with his money and other
valuables; then, carefully extinguishing his half-smoked cigarette, he
got into bed.  It was late, and he was tired.  A sense of injustice was
insufficient to keep him awake for long, and, switching off the
electric light, he was soon asleep.

From a dream in which he had just discomfited his rival, "the English
Mesmerist," by placing under control an elephant, Professor Conti
awakened with a start.  He intuitively knew that there was someone in
the room.  Lying perfectly still, he listened.  Suddenly his blood
froze with horror.  A tiny disc of light played round the room and
finally rested upon the small table beside him.  A moment later he
heard a faint sound as of two substances coming into contact.
Instinctively he knew it to be caused by his watch-chain tinkling
against his ash-tray.

He broke out into a cold sweat.  Moist with fear, he reviewed the
situation.  A burglar was in the room, taking his--the
Professor's--presentation watch and chain.  The thought of losing
these, his greatest treasures, awakened in his mind the realisation
that he must act, and act speedily.  With a slow, deliberate movement
he worked his right hand up to the pillow, beneath which he always kept
a revolver.  It seemed an eternity before he felt the comforting touch
of cold metal.  He withdrew the weapon with deliberate caution.

The sound of someone tiptoeing about the room continued--soft, stealthy
movements that, however, no longer possessed for him any terror.  A
fury of anger, a species of blood-lust gripped him.  Someone had dared
to break into his flat.  The situation became intolerable.  With one
swift movement he sat up, switched on the electric light, and cocked
his revolver.

An inarticulate sound, half-cry, half-grumble, came from the corner by
the chest of drawers.  The back of the head, looking curiously like a
monkish crown, flashed into a face, swathed in what appeared to be
medical bandages, through which was to be seen a pair of eyes in which
there was obvious terror.  It was Bindle.

"Hands up, or I shoot!  Up, I say."

Up went Bindle's hands.

The Professor did not recognise his own voice.  Suddenly he laughed.
The ludicrous expression in Bindle's eyes, the unnatural position in
which he crouched, his having caught a burglar red-handed--it was all
so ridiculous.

Then there came the triumphant sense of victory.  The Professor was
calm and collected now, as if the discovery of a burglar in his bedroom
were a thing of nightly occurrence.  There seemed nothing strange in
the situation.  The things to be done presented themselves in obvious
and logical sequence.  He was conscious of the dramatic possibilities
of the situation.

Not so Bindle.

"This comes o' takin' advice of a 'daughter o' the Lord,'" he groaned.
"Wonder wot 'Earty'll say?"

In spite of his situation Bindle grinned.

"Turn round and face the wall, quick!"

It was the Professor's voice that broke in upon Bindle's thoughts.  He
obeyed with alacrity and the tonsured scalp reappeared.

Carefully covering with his revolver the unfortunate Bindle, whose
first effort at burglary seemed doomed to end so disastrously,
Professor Conti slipped out of bed and, without removing his eyes from
Bindle's back, sidled towards a small chest at the other side of the
room.  This he opened, and from it took a pair of handcuffs, a
"property" of his profession.

"Put your hands behind your back," he ordered with calm decision.

For one brief moment Bindle meditated resistance.  He gave a swift
glance over his shoulder; but, seeing the determined look in his
captor's eyes and the glint of the revolver, he thought better of it
and meekly complied.

The handcuffs clicked and Professor Conti smiled grimly.

As he stood gazing at the wall, Bindle's mind was still running on what
Mrs. Bindle would say when she heard the news.  Fate had treated him
scurvily in directing him to a flat where a revolver and handcuffs
seemed to be part of the necessary fittings.  He fell to wondering what
punishment novices at burglary generally received.

He was awakened from his reverie and the contemplation of a
particularly hideous wallpaper, by a sharp command to turn round.  He
did so, and found himself facing a ludicrous and curiously unheroic
figure.  Over his nightshirt Professor Conti had drawn an overcoat with
an astrachan collar and cuffs.  Beneath the coat came a broad hem of
white nightshirt, then two rather thin legs, terminating in a pair of
red woollen bedroom slippers.

Bindle grinned appreciatively at the spectacle.  He was more at his
ease now that the revolver had been laid aside.

"You're a burglar, and you're caught."

The Professor showed his yellow teeth as he made this pronouncement.
Bindle grinned.  "You'll get five years for this," proceeded the
Professor encouragingly.

"I was just wonderin' to meself," responded Bindle imperturbably.  "The
luck's wi' you, guv'nor," he added philosophically.  "Fancy you 'avin'
'andcuffs as well as a revolver!  Sort o' Scotland Yard, this 'ere
little 'ole.  'Spose you get a touch of nerves sometimes, and likes to
be ready.  Five years, you said.  Three was my figure.  P'raps you're
right; it all depends on the ole boy on the bench.  Ever done time,
sir?" he queried cheerfully.

Professor Conti was too intent upon an inspiration that had flashed
upon him to listen to his visitor's remarks.  Suddenly he saw in this
the hand of Providence, and at that moment Bindle saw upon the chest of
drawers one of the Professor's cards bearing the inscription:

  PROFESSOR SYLVANUS CONTI,
  _Hypnotist and Mesmerist._

  13 AUDREY MANSIONS,
    QUEEN'S CLUB,
      WEST KENSINGTON,
        LONDON, W.


He turned from the contemplation of the card, and found himself being
regarded by his captor with great intentness.  The ferret-like eyes of
the Professor gazed into his as if desirous of piercing a hole through
his brain.  Bindle experienced a curious dreamy sensation.  Remembering
the card he had just seen, he blinked self-consciously, licked his
lips, grinned feebly, and then half closed his eyes.

Professor Conti advanced deliberately, raised his hands slowly, passed
them before the face of his victim, keeping his eyes fixed the while.
Over the unprepossessing features of Bindle there came a vacant look,
and over those of the Professor one of triumph.  After a lengthy pause
the Professor spoke.

"You are a burglar.  Repeat it."

"I am a burglar," echoed Bindle in a toneless voice.

The Professor continued: "You tried to rob me, Professor Sylvanus
Conti, of 13 Audrey Mansions, Queen's Club, West Kensington, by
breaking into my flat at night."

In the same expressionless voice Bindle repeated the Professor's words.

"Good," murmured Conti.  "Good!  Now sit down."  Bindle complied, a
ghost of a grin flitting momentarily across his face, as the Professor
turned to reach a chair which he placed immediately opposite to the one
on which Bindle sat, and about two yards distant.  With his eyes fixed,
he commenced in a droning tone:

"You have entered my flat with the deliberate and cold-blooded
intention of robbing, perhaps of murdering me.  It is my intention to
write a note to the police, which you will yourself deliver, and wait
until you are arrested.  Now repeat what I have said."

In a dull, mechanical voice Bindle did as he was told.  For a full
minute the Professor gazed steadily into his victim's eyes, made a few
more passes with his hands, and then, rising, went to a small table and
wrote:


DEAR SIR,

The bearer of this letter is a burglar who has just broken into my flat
to rob me.  I have placed him under hypnotic control, and he will give
himself up.  You will please arrest him.  I will 'phone in the morning.

Yours faithfully,
  SYLVANUS CONTI.


Sealing and addressing the letter, the Professor then removed the
handcuffs from Bindle's wrists, bade him rise, and gave him the
envelope.

"You will now go and deliver this note," he said, explaining with great
distinctness the whereabouts of the police-station.  Bindle was
proceeding slowly towards the door, when the Professor called upon him
to stop.  He halted abruptly.  "Show me what you have in your pockets."

Bindle complied, producing the presentation watch and chain, a gold
scarf-pin, a pair of gold sleeve-links, one diamond and three gold
studs, and a diamond ring.  He omitted to include the Professor's loose
change, which he had picked up from the small table by the bedside.

For a moment the Professor pondered; then, as if coming to a sudden
determination, he told Bindle to replace the articles in his pocket,
and dismissed him.

Having bolted the door, Professor Conti returned to his bedroom.  For
half an hour he sat in his nondescript costume, smoking cigarettes.  He
was thoroughly satisfied with the night's work.  It had been ordained
that his flat should be burgled, and he, Sylvanus Conti, professor of
hypnotism and mesmerism, seizing his opportunity, had diverted to his
own ends the august decrees of destiny.

He pictured Mr. William Gibson reading the account of his triumph in
the evening papers.  He saw the headlines.  He himself would inspire
them.  He saw it all.  Not only would those come back who had forsaken
him for "the English Mesmerist," but others also would want him.  He
saw himself a "star turn" at one of the West-end halls.

He saw many things: fame, fortune, a motor-car, and, in the far
distance, the realisation of his great ambition, a scientific career.
In a way he was a little sorry for the burglar, the instrument of fate.

Throwing off his overcoat and removing his slippers, the Professor
switched off the light, got into bed, and was soon asleep.




CHAPTER III

THE HYPNOTIC FIASCO


I

Whilst Professor Conti was building elaborate castles in the air,
Bindle with tense caution crept down the three flights of stairs that
led to the street.

Everything was quiet and dark.  As he softly closed the outer door
behind him he heard a clock striking three.  Swiftly he removed the
bandages that swathed his head, tucked them in his pockets and stepped
out briskly.

He wanted to think, but above all he wanted food and drink.

As a precaution against the attentions of the police he began to
whistle loudly.  None, he argued, would suspect of being a burglar a
man who was whistling at the stretch of his power.  Once he stopped
dead and laughed.

"Joe Bindle," he remarked, "you been burglin', and you're mesmerised,
an' you're goin' to give yerself up to the police, an' don't you forget
it, as it might 'urt the Professor's feelings."

He slapped his knee, laughed again, recommenced whistling, and
continued on his way.

Occasionally his hand would wander in the direction of the left-hand
pocket of his coat, when, feeling the Professor's watch and chain and
the note to the police, his face would irradiate joy.

He _must_ think, however.  He could not continue walking and whistling
for ever.  He must think; and with Bindle to think it was necessary
that he should remain still.  This he dare not do for fear of arousing
suspicion.

Once in turning a corner suddenly he almost collided with a policeman.

"Tryin' to wake the whole place?" enquired the policeman.  "Where are
you goin', makin' such a row about it?"

"To 'ell, same as you, ole sport," responded Bindle cheerfully.
"Goo'-night!  See yer later!"

The policeman grumbled something and passed on.  Presently Bindle saw
the lights of a coffee-stall, towards which he walked briskly.  Over
two sausages and some bacon he reviewed the situation, chaffed the
proprietor, and treated to a meal the bedraggled remnants of what had
once been a woman, whom he found hovering hungrily about the stall.

When he eventually said "Good-mornin'" to his host and guest, he had
worked out his plan of campaign.

He walked in the direction of the police-station, having first resumed
his bandages.  Day was beginning to break.  Seeing a man approaching
him, he quickened his pace to a run.  As he came within a few yards of
the man, who appeared to be of the labourer class, he slackened his
pace, then stopped abruptly.

"Where's the police-station, mate?" he enquired, panting as if with
great exertion.

"The police-station?" repeated the man curiously.  "Straight up the
road, then third or fourth to the right, then----"

"Is it miles?" panted Bindle.

"'Bout quarter of a mile, not more.  What's up, mate?" the man
enquired.  "Been 'urt?"

"Quarter of a mile, and 'im bleedin' to death!  I got to fetch a
doctor," Bindle continued.  Then, as if with sudden inspiration, he
thrust Professor Conti's letter into the astonished man's hands.

"In the name of the law I order yer to take this letter to the
police-station.  I'll go for a doctor.  Quick--it's burglary and
murder!  'Ere's a bob for yer trouble."

With that, Bindle sped back the way he had come, praying that no
policeman might see him and give chase.

The workman stood looking stupidly from the letter and the shilling in
his hand to the retreating form of Bindle.  After a moment's hesitation
he pocketed the coin, and with a grumble in his throat and the fear of
the Law in his heart, he turned and slowly made his way to the
police-station.


II

When Professor Conti awoke on the morning of the burglary, he was
horrified to find, from the medley of sounds without, produced by
hooters and bells, that it was half-past eight.

Jumping quickly out of bed, he shaved, washed, and dressed with great
expedition, and before nine was in a telephone call-box ringing up the
police.  On learning that his note had been duly delivered, he smiled
his satisfaction into the telephone mouthpiece.

Fortunately he was known to the sergeant who answered him, having
recently given his services at an entertainment organised by the local
police.  After some difficulty he arranged that the charge should be
taken through the telephone, although a most irregular proceeding.

"He's givin' us a lot of trouble, sir.  Talks of having been given the
note, and about a burglary and attempted murder," volunteered the
sergeant.

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the Professor.

"Ha, ha, ha!" echoed the sergeant, and they rang off.

In spite of his laugh, the Professor was a little puzzled by the
sergeant's words.  The man should still be under control.  However, he
reasoned, the fellow was caught, and he had other and more important
things to occupy his mind.  Hailing a passing taxi, he drove to the
offices of _The Evening Mail_.  Sending up his card with the words
IMPORTANT NEWS written upon it, he gained immediate access to the
news-editor.

Within ten minutes the story of the hypnotised burglar was being
dictated by the editor himself to relays of shorthand writers.  The
police had, on the telephone, confirmed the story of a man having given
himself up, and the whole adventure was, in the argot of Fleet Street,
"hot stuff."

By half-past eleven the papers were selling in the streets, and the
Professor was on his way to the police-court.  He had been told the
case would not come on before twelve.  As his taxi threaded its way
jerkily westward, he caught glimpses of the placards of the noon
edition of _The Evening Mail_, bearing such sensational lines as:

  MESMERISM EXTRAORDINARY

  AN AMAZING CAPTURE

  ALLEGED BURGLAR HYPNOTISED


He smiled pleasantly as he pictured his reception that evening, as an
extra turn, at one of the big music-halls.

He fell to speculating as to how much he should demand, and to which
manager he should offer his services.  "The Napoleon of Mesmerists,"
was the title he had decided to adopt.  Again the Professor smiled
amiably as he thought of the column of description with headlines in
_The Evening Mail_.  He had indeed achieved success.


III

The drowsy atmosphere of the West London Police Court oppressed even
the prisoners.  They came, heard, and departed; protagonists for a few
minutes in a drama, then oblivion.  The magistrate was cross, the clerk
husky, and the police anxiously deferential, for one of their number
had that morning been severely censured for being unable to
discriminate between the effects upon the human frame of laudanum and
whisky.

Nobody was interested--there was nothing in which to be interested--and
there was less oxygen than usual in the court, the magistrate had a
cold.  It was a miserable business, this detection and punishing of
crime.

"Twenty shillings costs, seven days," snuffled the presiding genius.

A piece of human flotsam faced about and disappeared.

Another name was called.  The sergeant in charge of the new case
cleared his throat.  The magistrate lifted his handkerchief to his
nose, the clerk removed his spectacles to wipe them, when something
bounded into the dock, drawing up two other somethings behind it.

The magistrate paused, his handkerchief held to his nose, the clerk
dropped his spectacles, the three reporters became eagerly alert--in
short, the whole court awakened simultaneously from its apathy to the
knowledge that this was a dramatic moment.

In the dock stood a medium-sized man with nondescript features, a thin
black moustache, iron-grey hair, and dishevelled clothing.  Each side
of him stood a constable gripping an arm--they were the somethings that
had followed him into the dock.

For a moment the prisoner, who seemed to radiate indignation, looked
about him, his breath coming in short, passionate sobs.

The clerk stooped to pick up his glasses, the magistrate blew his nose
violently to gain time, the reporters prepared to take notes.  Then the
storm burst.

"You shall pay for this, all of you!" shouted the man in the dock,
jerking his head forward to emphasise his words, his arms being firmly
held straight to his sides.  "Me a burglar--me?" he sobbed.

"Silence in the court!" droned the clerk, who, having found his
glasses, now began to read the charge-sheet, detailing how the prisoner
had burglariously entered No. 13 Audrey Mansions, Queen's Club, in the
early hours of that morning.  He was accustomed and indifferent to
passionate protests from the dock.

The prisoner breathed heavily.  The clerk was detailing how the
prisoner had awakened the occupant of the premises by lifting his gold
watch from the table beside the bed.  At this juncture the prisoner
burst out again:

"It's a lie, it's a lie, an' you all know it!  It's a plot!
I'm--I'm----"  He became inarticulate, sobs of impotent rage shaking
his whole body, and the tears streaming down his face.

At that moment Professor Sylvanus Conti entered the court, smiling and
alert.  He looked quickly towards the dock to see if his case had come
on, and was relieved to find that his last night's visitor was not
there.  He had feared being late.

The magistrate cleared his throat and addressed the prisoner:

"You are harming your case by this exhibition.  If a mistake has been
made you have nothing to fear; but if you continue these interruptions
I shall have to send you back to the cells whilst your case is heard."

Turning to the officer in charge of the case, he enquired:

"Is the prosecutor present?"

The sergeant looked round, and, seeing Professor Conti, replied that he
was.

"Let him be sworn," ordered the magistrate.

To his astonishment, Professor Conti heard his name called.  Thoroughly
bewildered, he walked in the direction in which people seemed to expect
him to walk.  He took the oath, with his eyes fixed, as if he were
fascinated, upon the pathetic figure in the dock.  Suddenly he became
aware that the man was addressing him.

"Did I do it?--did I?" he asked brokenly.

"Silence in the court!" called the clerk.

Suddenly the full horror of the situation dawned upon the Professor.
He broke out into a cold sweat as he stood petrified in the
witness-box.  Somehow or other his plan had miscarried.  He looked
round him.  Instinctively he thought of flight.  He felt that he was
the culprit, the passionate, eager creature in the dock his accuser.

"Am I the man?" he heard the prisoner persisting.  "Am I?"

"N-no," he faltered in a voice he could have sworn was not his own.

"You say that the prisoner is not the man who entered your flat during
the early hours of this morning?" questioned the magistrate.

"No, sir, he's not," replied Conti wearily, miserably.  What had
happened?  Was he a failure?

"Please explain what happened," ordered the magistrate.

Conti did so.  He told how he had been awakened, and how he conceived
the idea of hypnotising the burglar and making him give himself up to
the police.

The prisoner was then sworn and related how he had been commanded in
the name of the law to deliver the note at the police-station; how he
had done so, and had been promptly arrested; how he had protested his
innocence, but without result.

The Professor listened to the story in amazement, and to the subsequent
remarks of the magistrate upon quack practices and police methods with
dull resignation.

He did not, however, realise the full horror of the catastrophe that
had befallen him until five minutes after leaving the court, when he
encountered a newsvendor displaying a placard of _The Evening Mail_
bearing the words:

  PROFESSOR CONTI'S GREAT HYPNOTIC FEAT

  CAPTURE OF AN ALLEGED BURGLAR


He then saw that he had lost his reputation, his belief in his own
powers, his living, and about fifty pounds' worth of property.

When he reached his flat late in the afternoon, he was astonished to
find awaiting him a small packet that had come by post, which contained
the whole of the missing property, even down to the small change, also
the two duplicate keys that Bindle had caused to be fashioned.

"I'm a bloomin' poor burglar," Bindle had assured himself cheerfully as
he dropped the parcel containing the proceeds of his "burglary" into a
pillar-box, "a-returnin' the swag by post.  I got to be careful wot
sort o' little jokes I goes in for in future."


IV

That evening Joseph Bindle sat at home in his favourite chair reading
with great relish _The Evening Post's_ account of THE GREAT HYPNOTIC
FIASCO.  Being at bitter enmity with _The Evening Mail_, the _Post_ had
given full rein to its sense of the ludicrous.

Puffing contentedly at a twopenny cigar, Bindle enjoyed to the full the
story so ably presented; but nothing gave him so much pleasure as the
magistrate's closing words.  He read them for the fourth time:

"Professor Conti sought advertisement; he has got it.  Unfortunately
for him, he met a man cleverer than himself, one who is something of a
humorist."  Bindle smiled appreciatively.  "The conduct of the police
in this case is reprehensible to a degree, and they owe it to the
public to bring the real culprit to justice."

With great deliberation Bindle removed his cigar from his mouth, placed
the forefinger of his right hand to the side of his nose, and winked.

"Seem to be pleased with yourself," commented Mrs. Bindle acidly, as
she banged a plate upon the table.  To her, emphasis was the essence of
existence.

"You've 'it it, Mrs. B., I _am_ pleased wi' meself," Bindle replied.
He felt impervious to any negative influence.

"What's happened, may I ask?"

"A lot o' things 'ave 'appened, an' a lot of things will go on
'appenin' as long as your ole man can take an 'int.  You're a wonderful
woman, Mrs. B., more wonderful than yer know; but yer must give 'em
some nasty jars in 'eaven now and then."

Bindle rose, produced from his pocket the tin of salmon that inevitably
accompanied any endeavour on his part to stand up to Mrs. Bindle, then
picking up a jug from the dresser he went out to fetch the supper beer,
striving at one and the same time to do justice to "Gospel Bells" and
his cigar.




CHAPTER IV

THE HEARTYS AT HOME

The atmosphere of the Hearty menage was one of religious gloom.  To Mr.
Hearty laughter and a smiling face were the attributes of the ungodly.
He never laughed himself, and his smile was merely the baring of a
handful of irregular yellow teeth, an action that commenced and ended
with such suddenness as to cast some doubt upon its spontaneity.

He possessed only two interests in life--business and the chapel, and
one dread--his wife's brother-in-law, Joseph Bindle.  As business was
not a thing he cared to discuss with his wife or eighteen-year-old
daughter, Millie, the one topic of conversation left was the chapel.

Mr. Hearty was a spare man of medium height, with a heavy moustache,
iron-grey mutton-chop whiskers, and a woolly voice.

"I never see a chap wi' whiskers like that wot wasn't as 'oly as oil,"
was Bindle's opinion.

Mr. Hearty was negative in everything save piety.  His ideal in life
was to temporise and placate, and thus avoid anything in the nature of
a dispute or altercation.

"If 'Earty's goin' to be a favourite in 'eaven," Bindle had once said
to Mrs. Bindle, "I don't think much of 'eaven's taste in men.  'E can't
'it nothink, either with 'is fist or 'is tongue."

"If you was more like him," Mrs. Bindle had retorted, "you might wear a
top hat on Sundays, same as he does."

"Me in a top 'at!" Bindle had cried.  "'Oly Moses!  I can see it!  Why,
my ears ain't big enough to 'old it up.  Wot 'ud I do if there was an
'igh wind blowin'?  I'd spend all Sunday a-chasin' it up and down the
street, like an ole woman after a black 'en."

Bindle himself was far from being pugnacious; but his conception of
manhood was that it should be ready to hit any head that wanted
hitting.  He had been known to fight men much bigger than himself, not
because he personally had any dispute to settle with them, but rather
from an abstract sense of the fitness of things.  Once when a man was
mercilessly beating a horse Bindle intervened, and a fight had ensued,
which had ended only when both parties were too exhausted to continue.

"Blimey, but you ain't 'arf a fool, Joe," remarked Ginger, to whom a
fight was the one joy in life, regarding with interest Bindle's bruised
and bleeding face as he stood sobbing for breath.  "Wot jer do it for?
'E wasn't 'urtin' you; it was the 'orse."

"Somebody 'ad to 'ammer 'im, Ginger," gasped Bindle with a wry smile,
"an' the 'orse couldn't."  Then after a pause he added, "It ain't good
for a cove to be let 'it things wot can't 'it back."

Meals at the Heartys' table were solemn affairs in which conversation
had little or no part, save when Bindle was present.

Mr. Hearty ate his food with noisy enjoyment.  His moustache, which
seemed bent on peeping into his mouth and, coupled with his lugubrious
appearance, gave him the appearance of a tired walrus, required
constant attention, particularly as he was extremely fond of soups and
stewed foods.  This rendered conversation extremely difficult.  During
the greater part of a meal he would be engaged in taking first one end
and then the other of his moustache into his mouth for the purpose of
cleansing it.  This he did to the accompaniment of a prolonged sucking
sound, suggestive of great enjoyment.

"I likes to watch 'Earty cleanin' 'is whiskers," Bindle had once
remarked, after gazing at his brother-in-law for some minutes with
great intentness.  "'E never misses an 'air."

Mr. Hearty had got very red, and for the rest of the meal refused all
but solid foods.

Bindle was a perpetual source of anxiety to Mr. Hearty, who, although
always prepared for the worst, yet invariably found that the worst
transcended his expectations.  Had he not been a Christian he might
have suggested cutting himself and family adrift from all association
with his brother-in-law.  Even had he been able to overcome his
scruples, there was the very obvious bond of affection between Mrs.
Hearty, Millie, and "Uncle Joe": but, what was more alarming, there was
the question of how Bindle himself might view the severance.

Mrs. Hearty was a woman on whom fat had descended like a plague.  It
rendered her helpless of anything in the nature of exertion.  In her
Bindle found a kindred spirit.  Her silent laugh, which rippled down
her chins until lost to sight in her ample bust, never failed to
inspire him to his best efforts.  He would tell her of his "little
jokes" until Millie would have to intervene with a timid:

"Oh, uncle, don't!  You're hurting mother!"

Great amusement rendered Mrs. Hearty entirely helpless, both of action
and of speech, and to her laughter was something between an anguish and
an ecstasy.

She was quite conscious of the stimulating effect upon Bindle of her
"Oh, Joe, don't!" yet never hesitated to utter what she knew would
eventually reduce her to a rippling and heaving mass of mirth.

She was Bindle's confidante, and seemed to find in the accounts of his
adventures compensation for the atmosphere of repression in which she
lived.  In her heart she regretted that her husband had not been a
furniture-remover instead of a greengrocer; for it seemed to produce
endless diversions.

Little Millie would sit on a stool at her mother's feet drinking in
Uncle Joe's stories, uttering an occasional half-laughing,
half-reproachful, "Oh, Uncle Joe!"

If Mrs. Hearty had a weakness for Bindle's stories, Mrs. Bindle found
in Alfred Hearty her ideal of what a man should be.  When a girl she
had been called upon to choose between Alfred Hearty, then a
greengrocer's assistant, and Joseph Bindle, and she never quite forgave
herself for having taken the wrong man.

In those days Bindle's winning tongue had left Alfred Hearty without
even a sporting chance.  To Mrs. Bindle her mistaken choice was the
canker-worm in her heart, and it was not a little responsible for her
uncompromising attitude towards Bindle.

In a moment of pride at his conquest Bindle had said to Hearty:

"It's no good goin' after a woman wi' one eye on the golden gates of
'eaven, 'Earty, and that's why I won."

Since then Bindle had resented Hearty's apathetic courtship, which had
brought about his own victory.  Many times Bindle had thought over the
folly of his wooing, and he always came to the same conclusion, a
muttered:

"If 'e 'ad 'ad a little more ginger 'e might 'ave won.  They'd 'ave
made a tasty pair."

The result had been that Mrs. Bindle's sister, Martha, had caught Mr.
Hearty at the rebound, and had since regretted it as much as she ever
regretted anything.

"When you're my size," she would say, "you don' trouble much about
anything.  It's the lean ones as worries.  Look at Lizzie."  Lizzie was
Mrs. Bindle.

Mrs. Bindle herself had been very different as a girl.  Theatres and
music-halls were not then "places of sin"; and she was not altogether
above suspicion of being a flirt.  When it dawned upon her that she had
made a mistake in marrying Bindle and letting her sister Martha secure
the matrimonial prize, a great bitterness had taken possession of her.

As Mr. Hearty slowly climbed the ladder towards success, Mrs. Bindle's
thoughts went with him.  He became her great interest in life.  No wife
or mother ever watched the progress of husband or son with keener
interest or greater admiration than Mrs. Bindle watched that of her
brother-in-law.

Gradually she began to make him her "pattern to live and to die."  She
joined the Alton Road Chapel, gave up all "carnal" amusements, and
began a careful and elaborate preparation for the next world.

Bindle, as the unconscious cause of her humiliation--the supreme
humiliation of a woman's life, marrying the wrong man--became also the
victim of her dissatisfaction.  He watched the change, marvelling at
its cause, and with philosophic acceptance explaining it by telling
himself that "women were funny things."

As a girl Mrs. Bindle had been pleasure-loving, some regarded her as
somewhat flighty; and the course of gradual starvation of pleasure to
which she subjected herself had embittered her whole nature.  There
was, however, no suggestion of sentiment in her attitude towards her
brother-in-law.  He was her standard by which she measured the failure
of other men, Bindle in particular.

Like all women, she bowed the knee to success, and Alfred Hearty was
the most successful man she had ever encountered.  He had begun life on
the tail-board of a parcels delivery van, he was now the owner of two
flourishing greengrocer's shops, to say nothing of being regarded as
one of Fulham's most worthy citizens.

From van-boy to a small greengrocer, he had risen to the important
position of calling on customers to solicit orders, and here he had
shown his first flash of genius.  He had cultivated every housewife and
maid-servant assiduously, never allowing them to buy anything he could
not recommend.  When eventually he started in business on his own
account, he had carefully canvassed his late employer's customers, who,
to a woman, went over to him.

"It was that 'oly smile of 'is wot done it," was Bindle's opinion.

When in the natural course of events his previous employer retired a
bankrupt, it was taken as evidence of the supreme ability of the man
who had taken from him his livelihood.

In the administration of his own business Alfred Hearty had shown his
second flash of genius--he never allowed his own employes an
opportunity of doing as he had done, but, by occasional personal calls
upon his customers, managed to convey the idea that it was he who was
entirely responsible for the proper execution of their orders.  As a
further precaution he constantly changed the rounds of his men, and
thus safeguarded himself from any employe playing Wellington to his
Napoleon.

Occasionally on Sunday evenings Bindle and Mrs. Bindle would be invited
to supper at the Heartys' in Fulham High Street, where they lived over
their principal shop.  Mr. Hearty and Mrs. Bindle would return after
chapel with Millie; Bindle invariably arranged to arrive early in order
to have a talk with Mrs. Hearty, who did not go to chapel because her
"breath was that bad."

"Funny thing, you and Lizzie bein' sisters; you seem to have got all
the meat an' left 'er only the bones!" Bindle would say.

Bindle hated anything that was even remotely connected with lemons, a
fruit that to him symbolised aggressive temperance.  Mr. Hearty was
very partial to lemon flavouring, and in consequence lemon puddings,
lemon cakes, and lemon tarts were invariably served as sweets at his
table.

"Lemonade, lemon cakes, and lemon faces, all as sour as an unkissed
gal, that's wot a Sunday night at Hearty's place is," Bindle had
confided to a mate.

Once the chapel party returned, the evening became monotonous.

After supper Millie was sent to the harmonium and hymns were sung.
Mrs. Bindle had a thin, piercing voice, Millie a small tremulous
soprano, and Mr. Hearty was what Bindle called "all wool and wind."
Mrs. Hearty appeared to have no voice at all, although her lips moved
in sympathy with the singers.

At first Bindle had been a silent and agonised spectator, refusing all
invitations to join in the singing.  He would sit, his attention
divided between Mr. Hearty's curious vocal contortions, suggestive of a
hen drinking water, and the rippling motion of Mrs. Hearty's chins.
When singing Mr. Hearty elevated his head, screwed up his eyes and
raised his eyebrows; the higher the note the higher went his eyebrows,
and the more closely he screwed up his eyes.

"'E makes faces enough for a 'ole band," Bindle had once whispered to
Mrs. Hearty, who had brought the evening to a dramatic termination by
incontinently collapsing.

"A laugh and an 'ymn got mixed," was Bindle's diagnosis.

It was soon after this episode that Bindle hit upon a happy idea for
bringing to a conclusion these, to him, tedious evenings.  Mrs.
Bindle's favourite hymn was "Gospel Bells," whereas Mr. Hearty seemed
to cherish an equally strong love for "Pull for the Shore, Sailors."
Never were these hymns sung less than three times each during the
course of the evening.

Bindle had thought of many ways of trying to end the performance.  Once
he had dexterously inserted his penknife in the bellows of the
harmonium whilst looking for a pencil he was supposed to have dropped.
This, however, merely added to the horror of the situation.

"The bloomin' thing blew worse than 'Earty," he said.

One evening he determined to put his new idea into practice.  The gross
volume of sound produced by the quartette with the harmonium was
extremely small, and Bindle conceived the idea of drowning it.

"I'll stew 'em in their own juice," he muttered.

He had no voice, and very little idea either of tune or of time.  What
he did possess he was careful to forget.  The first hymn in which he
joined was "Pull for the Shore, Sailors."

From the first Bindle's voice proved absolutely uncontrollable.  It
wavered and darted all over the gamut, and as it was much louder than
the combined efforts of the other three, plus the harmonium, Bindle
appeared to be soloist, the others supplying a subdued accompaniment.
Unity of effort seemed impossible.  Whilst they were in the process of
"pulling," he was invariably on "the shore"; and when they had arrived
at "the shore," he had just started "pulling."  Time after time they
stopped to make a fresh start, but without improving the general effect.

Bindle showed great concern at his curious inability to keep with the
others, and suggested retiring from the contest; but this Mr. Hearty
would not hear of.  To help matters he beat time with his hand, but as
his vocal attitude was one of contemplation of the ceiling, generally
with closed eyes, he very frequently hit Millie on the head, causing
her to lose her place and forget the pedals, with the result that the
harmonium died away in a moan of despair.  Bindle, however, always went
on.  All he required was the words, to which he did full justice.

The evening was terminated by the collapse of Mrs. Hearty.

On the following day Bindle could not talk above a whisper.

One result of Bindle's vocal efforts had been that invitations to spend
Sunday evenings with the Heartys had become less frequent, a
circumstance on which Mrs. Bindle did not fail to comment.

"You're always spoilin' things for me.  I enjoyed those evenin's," she
complained.

"Shouldn't have arst me to sing," Bindle retorted.  "Yer know I ain't a
bloomin' canary, like you and 'Earty."

To Mr. Hearty the visits of the Bindles took on a new and more alarming
aspect.  Sunday was no day for secular things, and he dreaded his
brother-in-law's reminiscences and comments on "parsons," and his views
regarding religion.  Sooner or later Bindle always managed to gather
the desultory threads into his own hands.

"Y' oughter been a parson, 'Earty," Bindle remarked pleasantly one
Sunday evening apropos nothing.  "So ought Ginger, if 'is language
wasn't so 'ighly spiced.  It's no good lookin' 'appy if you're a
parson.  Looks as if yer makin' a meal o' the soup in case the fish
ain't fresh.

"I remember movin' a parson once," remarked Bindle, puffing away
contentedly at a cigar he had brought with him (Mr. Hearty did not
smoke), now thoroughly well-launched upon a conversational monologue.
"Leastways 'e was a missionary.  'E was due somewhere in Africa to
teach niggers 'ow uncomfortable it is to 'ave a soul.

"'E 'ad to go miles into the jungle, and all 'is stuff 'ad to be
carried on the 'eads of niggers.  Forty pounds a man, and the nigger
a-standin' by to see it weighed, an' refusin' to budge if it was a
ounce overweight.  I never knew niggers was so cute.  This missionary
was allowed about ten bundles o' forty pounds each.  Lord! yer should
'ave seen the collection of stuff 'e'd got.  About four ton.  The
manager worked it out that about two 'undred niggers 'ud be wanted.

"'E 'ad 'is double-bed; the top itself weighed seventy pounds.  Wot a
missionary wants with a double-bed in the jungle does me.  'E gave up
the bedstead idea, an' 'e give it to me instead o' beer money.  That's
'ow Mrs. B. comes to sleep in a missionary's bed.  'E stuck to a
grandfather clock, though.  Nothink could persuade 'im to leave it
be'ind.  The clock and weights was too much for one nigger, so I put
the weights in wi' the tea-things."

"Oh, Uncle Joe!" from Millie.

"Yes, 'e's got the time in the jungle, but if 'e wants 'is tea 'e'll
'ave to drink it out of 'is boot.  Them weights must 'ave made an 'oly
mess of the crockery!"

At this juncture Mr. Hearty made a valiant effort to divert the
conversation to the forthcoming missionary tea; but Bindle was too
strong for him.

"There was one parson," he continued, "'oo was different from the
others.  'E was a big gun.  I moved 'im when 'e was made a dean.  'E'd
come an' sit an' talk while we 'ad our dinner, which 'e used to give
us.  Beer too, 'Earty.  No lemon flavourin' about 'im.

"One day I sez to 'im, 'Funny thing you bein' a parson, sir, if you'll
forgive me sayin' so.'

"'Why?' he arst.

"'Well, you seem so 'appy, just like me and 'Uggles.'  'Uggles is
always grinnin' when 'e ain't drunk.

"'E laughed as if it was the best joke 'e'd ever 'eard.

"'If religion don't make yer 'appy, it's the wrong religion,' 'e says.

"Now look at 'Earty and Lizzie; do they look 'appy?"

Mrs. Hearty and Millie looked instinctively at the two joyless faces.

"They got the wrong religion, sure as eggs," pronounced Bindle, well
pleased at the embarrassment on the faces of Mrs. Bindle and Mr.
Hearty.  "I went to 'ear that cove preach.  I liked 'is Gawd better'n
yours, 'Earty.  'E didn't want to turn the next world into a sort of
mixed grill.  He was all for 'appiness and pleasure.  I could be
religious with a man like that parson.  He was too good for 'is job.

"There's some people wot seem to spend their time a-inventin' 'orrible
punishments in the next world for the people they don't like in this."

"I wish you'd learn 'ow to be'ave before your betters," remarked Mrs.
Bindle, in the subdued voice she always adopted in the presence of Mr.
Hearty.  "I'm ashamed of you, Bindle, that I am."

"Don't you worry, Mrs. B.  'Earty knows me bark's worse'n me bite,
don't yer, ole sport?"

Mr. Hearty shivered, but bared his teeth in token of Christian
forbearance.

"An' now, Mrs. Bindle, it's 'ome and 'appiness and the missionary's
bed."

As Bindle was in the hall, putting on his coat, Millie slipped out.

"Uncle," she whispered, "will you take me to the pictures one night?"

"O' course I will, little Millikins.  Name the 'appy day."

"Friday," she whispered; "but ask before father; and uncle, will you
put on your hard hat and best overcoat?"

Bindle eyed his niece curiously.

"Wot's up, Millikins?" he enquired; whereat Millie hid her face against
his sleeve.

"I'll tell 'you Friday.  You will come, won't you?"  There was a tremor
in her voice, and a sudden fear in her eyes.

"At seven-thirty J.B.'ll be 'ere at yer ladyship's service, 'at an'
all.  'E'd put on 'is best face only 'e ain't got one.

"That pretty face of 'ers 'll cause 'Earty a nasty jar one of these
days," muttered Bindle, as he and Mrs. Bindle walked home in silence.




CHAPTER V

BINDLE TRIES A CHANGE OF WORK

"Paintin' 'as its points," Bindle would remark, "that is, providin' it
ain't outdoor paintin', when you're either on top of a ladder, which
may be swep' from under yer and bang yer goes to Kingdom Come, or else
you're 'angin' like a bally worm on an 'ook."

In the spring when moving was slack, Bindle invariably found a job as a
painter.  It was shortly after his encounter with Professor Conti that
he heard hands were wanted at the Splendid Hotel, where a permanent
staff of painters and decorators was kept.  It was the pride of the
management to keep the hotel spotless, and as it was always full, to
give a wing bodily over to the painters and decorators would mean a
considerable loss of revenue.  Consequently all the work of renovation
was done during the night.

The insides of the bedrooms were completely redecorated within the
space of twenty-four hours.  All corridors and common-rooms were done
between midnight and the hot-water hour, special quick-drying materials
being used; but most important of all was the silence of the workers.

"The bloomin' miracles," Bindle called the little army that transformed
the place in the course of a few hours.

When first told of the system he had been incredulous, and on applying
for a job to the foreman in charge he remarked:

"I've 'eard tell of dumb dawgs, mebbe it's true, and dumb waiters; but
dumb painters--I won't believe it--it ain't natural."

The foreman had eyed him deliberately; then in a contemptuous tone,
remarked:

"If you get this job you've got to go without winkin' or breathin' in
case you make a noise.  If you want to cough you've got to choke; if
you want to sneeze you've got to bust instead.  You'll get to like it
in time."

"Sounds pleasant," remarked Bindle drily; "still, I'll join," he added
with decision, "though it's like bein' a night-watchman in a museum."

The hours were awkward and the restrictions severe, but the pay was
good, and Bindle had in his mind's eye the irate form of Mrs. Bindle
with her inevitable interrogation, "Got a job?"

"You starts at eleven p.m.," proceeded the foreman, "and you leaves off
at eight next mornin'--if you're lucky.  If y'ain't you gets the sack,
and leaves all the same."

At first Bindle found the work inexpressibly dreary.  To be within a
few yards of a fellow-creature and debarred from speaking to him was an
entirely new experience.  Time after time he was on the point of
venturing some comment, checking himself only with obvious effort.  He
soon discovered, however, that if he were to make no noise he must
devote his entire attention to his work.

"Mustn't drop a bloomin' brush, or fall over a bloomin' paint-pot," he
grumbled, "but wot yer gets the sack.  Rummy 'ole, this."

Once his brush slipped from his hand, but by a masterly contortion he
recovered it before it reached the ground.  The foreman, who happened
to be passing at the time, eyed him steadily for several seconds, then
with withering scorn remarked in a hoarse whisper as he turned on his
heel:

"Paintin's your job, slippery, not jugglin'."

Not to be able to retort and wither an opponent was to Bindle a new
experience; but to remain silent in the face of an insult from a
foreman was an intolerable humiliation.  To Bindle foremen were the
epitome of evil.  He had once in a moment of supreme contempt remarked
to his brother-in-law:

"Call yerself a man, 'Oly Moses!  I've seen better things than you in
bloomin' foremen's jobs!"

Mr. Hearty had not appreciated the withering contempt that underlay
this remark, being too much aghast at its profanity.  Bindle had said
to his wife:

"You and 'Earty is always so busy lookin' for sin that you ain't time
to see a joke."

Bindle quickly tired of the work, and after a few days allowed it to
transpire, as if quite casually, that he was a man of many crafts.  He
gave his mates to understand, for instance, that he was a carpenter of
such transcendental ability as to be entirely wasted as a painter.  He
threw out the hint in the hope that it might reach the ears of the
foreman and result in an occasional change of work.

He was inexpressibly weary of this silent painting.  The world had
changed for him.

"Sleepin' all the sunny day," he grumbled, "and dabbin' on paint all
the bloomin' night; not allowed to blow yer nose, an' me not knowin'
the deaf-and-dumb alphabet."

He would probably have been more content had it not been for the
foreman.  He had known many foremen in his time, but this man carried
offensiveness to the point of inspiration.  He had been at his present
work for many years, and was consequently well versed in the arts of
conveying insult other than by word of mouth.

He was possessed of many gestures so expressive in their power of
humiliating contempt, that upon Bindle their effect was the same as if
he had been struck in the face.  One of these Bindle gathered he had
learned from a sailor, who had assured him that in Brazil the
inevitable response was the knife.  Ever after, Bindle had a great
respect for the Brazilian, and the laws of a country that permitted the
arbitrary punishment of silent insult.

Henceforward the foreman became the centre of Bindle's thoughts.  Too
genial and happy-go-lucky by nature himself to nourish any enmity
against his superior, Bindle was determined to teach him a lesson,
should the chance occur.  The man was a bully, and Bindle disliked
bullies.  At last his chance came, much to Bindle's satisfaction, as a
result of his own foresight in allowing it to become known that he
possessed some ability as a carpenter.

The third floor corridor, known as No. 1 East, was to be redecorated.
In painting the doors all the numbers, which were separate figures of
gun-metal, had to be removed before the painting was commenced and
replaced after it was completed.  This required great care, not only
that the guests might not be awakened, but that the partially dried
paint might not be smeared.  The foreman always performed this delicate
operation himself, regarding it as of too great importance to entrust
to a subordinate.

On this particular occasion, however, the foreman had received an
invitation to a beanfeast at Epping.  This was for the Saturday, and
the corridor was to be redecorated on the Friday night.  As an early
start was to be made, the foreman was anxious to get away and obtain
some sleep that he might enjoy the day to its full extent.

He had done all he could to postpone the work until the next week, but
without success, so it became necessary for him either to find a
substitute, or go weary-eyed and sleepless to his pleasure.

For a man of the social temperament of the foreman to decline such an
invitation was unthinkable.

Just as he had arrived at the conclusion that he would have to go
straight from work, his eye lighted on Bindle, and remembering what he
had heard about his varied abilities, he beckoned him to follow to a
room that temporarily served as an Office of Works.  Inside the room
Bindle gazed expectantly at his superior.

"I 'ear you've been a carpenter," the foreman began.

"Funny 'ow rumours do get about," remarked Bindle pleasantly.  "I
remember when my brother-in-law, 'Earty's 'is name--ever met him?
Quaint ole bird, 'Earty.--Well, when 'e----"

"Never mind 'im," returned the foreman, "can you 'andle a screw-driver?"

"'Andle any think except a woman.  Married yerself?" Bindle
interrogated with significance.

Ignoring the question the foreman continued: "Can you take the numbers
off them rosy doors in the east corridor, and put 'em back again
to-night without makin' a stutterin' row?"

"Me?" queried Bindle in surprise.

"I got to go to a funeral," continued the foreman, avoiding Bindle's
eye, "an' I want to get a bit o' sleep first."

Bindle eyed his superior curiously.

"Funny things, funerals," he remarked casually.  "Goin' to 'ave a
cornet on the 'earse?"

"A what?"

"The last time I went to a funeral the guv'nor saw me on the box, next
to Ole 'Arper, and all the boys a-shoutin' somethink about 'Ope and
Glory.  The ole guv'nor didn't ought to 'ave been out so early.  Ole
'Arper could play; 'e'd wake a 'ole village while another man was
thinkin' about it," he added reminiscently.

"It's my mother wot's dead," said the foreman dully, unequal to the
task of stemming the tide of Bindle's loquacity and at the same time
keeping on good terms with him.

"Yer mother?  I'm sorry.  Buryin' 'is mother twice got 'Oly Jim into an
'orrible mess.  He fixed 'er funeral for February--all serene; but wot
must he go an' do, the silly 'Uggins, but forget all about it and start
a-buryin' of 'er again in June.  'Is guv'nor used to keep a book o'
buryin's, and it took Jim quite a long time to explain that 'is buryin'
of 'er twice all come about through 'im bein' a twin."

The foreman's impatience was visibly growing.  "Never you mind about
Jim, 'oly or otherwise.  Can yer take off and put on again them
numbers?"

Then after a pause he added casually, nodding in the direction of a
cupboard in the corner:

"There's a couple of bottles o' beer and some bread an' cheese an'
pickles in that cupboard."

Bindle's face brightened, and thus it was that the bargain was struck.

When Bindle left the room it was with the knowledge that his superior
had been delivered into his hands.  He did not then know exactly how he
intended to compass the foreman's downfall.  Inspiration would come
later.  It was sufficient for him to know that correction was to be
administered where correction was due.

In Bindle there was a strong sense of justice, and his sympathies were
all with his mates, who suffered the foreman's insults rather than lose
good jobs.  Bindle was always popular with his fellow-workers.  They
liked and respected him.  He was free with his money, always ready with
a joke or a helping hand, was sober and clean of speech without
appearing to notice any defect in others save on very rare occasions.
He had been known to fight and beat a bigger man than himself to save a
woman from a thrashing, and when Mrs. Bindle had poured down reproaches
upon his head on account of his battered appearance, he had silently
gone to bed and simulated sleep, although every inch of his body ached.

It was about nine o'clock in the evening that the foreman had seen in
Bindle the means of his obtaining some sleep and arriving at his
bean-feast refreshed.  At eleven o'clock he left the hotel, after
having given to his deputy the most elaborate instructions.  His
parting words filled Bindle with unholy joy.

"If anythin' goes wrong I'll lose my job, and don't you forget it."
Bindle promised himself that he would not.

"I'll not forget it, ole son," he murmured, with the light of joy in
his eyes.  "I'll not forget it.  It's your beano to-morrow, but it's
goin' to be mine to-night.  Last week yer sacked poor ole Teddy Snell,
an' 'im wi' seven kids," and Bindle smiled as St. George might have
smiled on seeing the dragon.

For some time after the foreman's departure, Bindle cogitated as to how
to take full advantage of the situation which had thus providentially
presented itself.  Plan after plan was put aside as unworthy of the
occasion.

There are great possibilities for "little jokes" in hotels.  Bindle
remembered an early effort of his when a page-boy.  The employment had
been short-lived, for on his first day the corridors were being
recarpeted.  The sight of a large box of exceedingly long carpet nails
left by the workmen at night had given him an idea.  He had crept from
his room and carefully lifted the carpet for the whole length of the
corridor, inserting beneath it scores of carpet nails points upwards;
later he had sounded the fire alarm and watched with glee the visitors
rush from their rooms only to dance about in anguish on the points of
the nails, uttering imprecations and blasphemies.

This effort had cost him his job and a thrashing from his father, but
it had been worth it.

It was, however, merely the crude attempt of a child.

It was one of the chambermaids, a rosy-cheeked girl recently up from
the country, who gave Bindle the idea he had been seeking.  As he was
unscrewing the numbers with all the elaborate caution of a burglar, he
felt a hand upon his shoulder, and found the chambermaid beside him.

"Mind you put them numbers back right," she whispered, "or I shan't
know t'other from which."

Bindle turned and eyed her gravely.

"My dear," he remonstrated, "I'm a married man, and if Mrs. Bindle was
to see you wi' yer arm round me neck--wot!"

The pretty chambermaid had soundly boxed his ears.

"A girl would have to have tired arms to rest them round _your_ neck,"
she whispered, and tripped off down the corridor.

For some minutes Bindle worked mechanically.  His mind was busy with
the chambermaid's remark.  At the end of half an hour all the numbers
were removed and the painters busy on the doors.  Bindle returned to
the Office of Works.

"'Oly angels," he muttered joyously, as he attacked the bread and
cheese and pickles, and poured out a glass of beer.  "'Oly angels, if I
was to forget, and get them numbers mixed, an' them bunnies wasn't able
to get back to their 'utches!"

He put down his glass, choking.  When he had recovered his breath, he
wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, finished his meal, and
returned to the corridor.

It was the rule of the hotel that no workmen should be seen about after
seven-thirty.  Just before that hour Bindle had completed his work of
replacing the numbers on the doors, and had removed from the corridor
the last traces of the work that had been in progress.  He returned to
the Office of Works which commanded a view of the whole length of the
East Corridor.  He was careful to leave the door ajar so that he had an
uninterrupted view.  He sat down and proceeded to enjoy the morning
paper which the "Boots" had brought him, the second bottle of the
foreman's beer, and the remains of the bread and cheese.

"Shouldn't be surprised if things was to 'appen soon," he murmured, as
he rose and carefully folded the newspaper.




CHAPTER VI

THE HOTEL CORRIDOR


I

As Bindle watched, a face peeped cautiously round the door of one of
the bedrooms.  It was a nervous, ascetic face, crowned by a mass of
iron-grey hair that swept from left to right, and seemed to be held
back from obliterating the weak but kindly blue eyes only by the
determination of the right eyebrow.

The face looked nervously to the right and to the left, and then, as if
assured that no one was about, it was followed by a body clothed in
carpet slippers, clerical trousers and coat, with a towel hanging over
its shoulders.

"Parson," muttered Bindle, as the figure slid cautiously along the
corridor towards him.

At the sight of Bindle emerging from the Office of Works the clergyman
started violently.

"C-c-can you direct me to the bath-room, please?" he enquired nervously.

"Ladies' or gents', sir?" demanded Bindle.

"Ladies', of--I mean gentlemen's."  The pale face flushed painfully,
and the tide of hair refused to be held back longer and swept down,
entirely obliterating the right eye.

"Must 'ave forgot 'is dressin'-gown," remarked Bindle, as the cleric
disappeared round a corner in the direction of the bath-room furthest
from his own room, to which he had been directed.

"'E must get over that nervousness of 'is," was Bindle's excuse to
himself, as he returned to his room.

He was just wiping his mouth on his coat sleeve after draining the last
drop of beer, when he heard a suppressed scream from the corridor.  He
opened the door suddenly, and was startled to find himself confronted
by a woman of uncertain age in an elaborate rose-pink neglige and mob
cap--beneath which was to be seen a head suspiciously well-coiffed for
that hour of the morning.

"Oh!  Oh!!  Oh!!!" she gasped, as she entered the room, obviously
labouring under some great emotion.

"Anythink I can do, miss?" enquired Bindle respectfully, marvelling at
the make-up that lay thick upon her withered cheeks.

"Looks like an apple wot they've forgot to pluck," he commented
inwardly.  "Anythink I can do, miss?"

"There's--there's a--a m-m-man in my room," she gasped.

"A wot, miss?" enquired Bindle in shocked surprise.

"A m-m-man."

"Yer 'usband, mum," Bindle suggested diplomatically.

"I haven't got one," she stuttered.  "Oh! it's dreadful.  He--he's in
my bed, and he's bald, and he's got black whiskers."

Bindle whistled.  "'Ow long's 'e been there, miss?" he enquired.

"I went to the bath-room and--and he was there when I got back.  It's
horrible, dreadful," and two tears that had hung pendulously in the
corner of her eyes decided to made the plunge, and ploughed their way
through the make-up, leaving brown trails like devastating armies.

"Oh, what shall I do?"

"Well, since you arst me, miss, I shouldn't say any think about it,"
replied Bindle.

"Nothing about it, nothing about a man being in my bed?"  She was on
the verge of hysterics.  "What do you mean?"

"Well, miss, 'otels is funny places.  They might put 'im on the bill as
a extra."

"You--you----"

What it was that Bindle most resembled he did not wait to hear, but
with great tact stepped out into the corridor, closing the door behind
him.

"Some'ow I thought things would 'appen," he murmured joyously.

A few yards from him he saw the form of a fair-haired youth,
immaculately garbed in a brilliantly hued silk kimono, with red Turkish
slippers and an eye-glass.  He was gazing about him with an air of
extreme embarrassment.

"Hi!  You!" he called out.

Bindle approached the young exquisite.

"There's--er--someone got into my room by mistake.  She's in my bed,
too.  What the devil am I to do?  Awfully awkward, what!"

Bindle grinned, the young man laughed nervously.  He was feeling "a
most awful rip, you know."

"Some people gets all the luck," remarked Bindle with a happy grin.  "A
lady 'as just complained that she's found a man in 'er bed, bald 'ead
and black whiskers an' all, an' now 'ere are you a-sayin' as there's a
girl in yours.  'As she a bald 'ead and black whiskers, sir?"

"She's got fair hair and is rather pretty, and she's asleep.  I stole
out without waking her.  Now, I can't walk about in this kit all day."
He looked down at his elaborate deshabille.  "I must get my clothes,
you know.  How the deuce did she get there?  I was only away twenty
minutes."

Bindle scratched his head.

"You're in a difficult sort of 'ole, sir.  I'm afraid it's like once
when I went a-bathin', and a dog went to sleep on me trousers and
growled and snapped when I tried to get 'em away.  I 'ad to go 'ome
lookin' like an 'Ighlander."

"Look here," remarked the young man.  "I'll give you a sovereign to go
and fetch my things.  I'll dress in a bath-room."

He was a really nice young man, one who has a mother and sisters and
remembers the circumstance.

"I'm afraid Mrs. Bindle--my wife, sir, my name's Bindle, Joseph
Bindle--wouldn't like it, sir.  She's very particular, is Mrs. B.  I
think yer'd better go in there," indicating the Office of Works, "an'
I'll call the chambermaid."

"Ah, that's a brainy idea," remarked the youth, brightening.  "I never
thought of that."

Bindle opened the door and the youth entered.

There was a shrill scream from the pink neglige.

"It's all right, miss.  This gentleman's like yerself, sort o' got
hisself mixed up.  There's a lady in 'is room--ahem! in 'is bed too.
Kind o' family coach goin' on this mornin', seems to me."

The youth blushed rosily, and was just on the point of stammering
apologies for his garb, when a tremendous uproar from the corridor
interrupted him.

Bindle had purposely left the door ajar and through the slit he had, a
moment previously, seen the clergyman disappear precipitately through
one of the bedroom doors.  It was from this room that the noise came.

"Mon Dieu!" shrieked a female voice.  "Il se battent.  A moi! a moi!"
There were hoarse mutterings and the sound of blows.

"'Ere, you look arter each other," Bindle cried, "it's murder this
time."  And he sped down the corridor.

He entered No. 21 to find locked together in a deadly embrace the
clergyman and a little bald-headed man in pyjamas.  In the bed was a
figure, Bindle mentally commended its daintiness, rising up from a foam
of frillies and shrieking at the top of her voice "silly things wot
wasn't even words," as Bindle afterwards told Mrs. Hearty.

"Mon Dieu!  Mon Dieu!  Il sera tue!"

"Regular fightin' parson," muttered Bindle, as he strove to part the
men.  "If 'e don't stop a-bumpin' 'is 'ead on the floor 'e'll break it.
'Ere, stop it, sir.  Yer mustn't use 'is 'ead as if it was a cokernut
and yer wanted the milk.  Come orf!"

Bindle had seized the clergyman from behind, and was pulling with all
his strength as he might at the collar of a bellicose bull-terrier.

"Come orf, yer mustn't do this sort o' thing in an 'otel.  I'm
surprised at you, sir, a clergyman too."

Half choking, the clergyman rose to his feet, and strove to brush the
flood of hair from his eyes.  His opponent seized the opportunity and
flew back to bed, where he sat trying to staunch the blood that flowed
from his nose and hurling defiance at his enemy.

"Wot's it all about?" enquired Bindle.

"I--I came back from my bath and found this man in my bed with a--a----"

"Ma femme," shrieked the little Frenchman.  "Is it not that we have
slept here every night for----"

"'Ush, sir, 'ush!" rebuked Bindle over his shoulder with a grin.  "We
don't talk like that in England."

"Sort of lost yer way, sir, and got in the wrong room," Bindle
suggested to the clergyman.

"He rushed at me and kicked me in the--er--stom--er--well, he kicked
me, and I--I forget, and I--I----"

"Of course yer did, sir; anyone 'ud 'a done the same."

Then to the Frenchman Bindle remarked severely:

"Yer didn't ought to 'ave kicked 'im, 'im a clergyman too.  Fancy
kicking a clergyman in the--well, where you kicked 'im.  Wot's the
number of yer room, sir?" he enquired, turning to the clergyman.

"Twenty-one; see, it's on the door."

Bindle looked; there was "21" clear enough.

"Wot's yer number, sir?" he asked the Frenchman.

"Vingt-quatre."

"Now don't you go a-using none of them words 'fore a clergyman.  Wot's
yer number? that's wot I'm arstin'."

"Twenty-four--vingt-quatre."

"Well," said Bindle with decision, "you're in the wrong room."

"Mais c'est impossible," cried the Frenchman.  "We have been here all
night.  Is it not so, cherie?"  He turned to his wife for corroboration.

Bindle had no time to enter further into the dispute.  Suddenly a fresh
disturbance broke out further along the corridor.

"What the devil do you mean by this outrage, sir?" an angry and
imperious voice was demanding.  "What the devil do you----"

With a hasty word to the clergyman, who now looked thoroughly ashamed
of himself, and a gentle push in the direction of the Office of Works,
Bindle trotted off to the scene of the new disturbance.  He heard
another suppressed scream from the pink neglige betokening the entry of
the clergyman.

"What the devil do you mean by entering my room?"

A tall, irate man, with the Army stamped all over him, dressed in
pyjamas, with a monocle firmly wedged in his left eye, was fiercely
eyeing a smaller man in a bath-robe.

"Not content with having got into my room, but damme, sir, you must
needs try and get into my trousers.  What the devil do you mean by it?"

Bindle looked along the corridor appreciatively.  "Looks like a
shipwreck at night, it do," he remarked to the chambermaid.

"It's my room," said the man in the bathrobe.

"Confound you," was the reply, "this is my room, and I'll prosecute you
for libel."

"My room is No. 18," responded the other, "and I left my wife there
half an hour ago."

He pointed to the figures on the door in proof of his contention.  The
man in the monocle looked at the door, and a puzzled expression passed
over his face.

"Damme," he exploded, "my room is No. 15, but I certainly slept in that
room all night."  He darted inside and reappeared a moment after with
his trousers in his hand.

"Here are my trousers to prove it.  Are these your trousers?"  The man
in the bath-robe confessed that they were not.

"That seems to prove it all right, sir," remarked Bindle, who had come
up.  "A man don't sleep in a different room from his trousers,
leastways, unless 'e's a 'Ighlander."

Similar disturbances were taking place along the corridor.  The uproar
began to attract visitors from other corridors, and soon the whole
place was jammed with excited guests, in attire so varied and
insufficient that one lady, who had insisted on her husband
accompanying her to see what had happened, immediately sent him back to
his room that his eyes might not be outraged by the lavish display of
ankles and bare arms.

The more nervous among the women guests had immediately assumed fire to
be the cause of the disturbance, and thinking of their lives rather
than of modesty and decorum, had rushed precipitately from their rooms.

"It might be a Turkish bath for all the clothes they're wearin',"
Bindle whispered to the exquisite youth, who with his two fellow-guests
had left the Office of Works.  "Ain't women funny shapes when they
ain't braced up!"

The youth looked at Bindle reproachfully.  He had not yet passed from
that period when women are mysterious and wonderful.

At the doors of several of the rooms heated arguments were in progress
as to who was the rightful occupant.  Inside they were all practically
the same, that was part of the scheme of the hotel.  The man with the
monocle was still engaged in a fierce altercation with the man in the
bath-robe, who was trying to enter No. 18.

"My wife's in there," cried the man in the bath-robe fiercely.

At this moment the deputy-manager appeared, a man whose face had
apparently been modelled with the object of expressing only two
emotions, benignant servility to the guests and overbearing contempt to
his subordinates.  As if by common consent, the groups broke up and the
guests hastened towards him.  His automatic smile seemed strangely out
of keeping with the crisis he was called upon to face.  Information and
questions poured in upon him.

"There's a girl in my bed."

"There's a man in my room."

"Somebody's got into my room."

"Is it fire?"

"It's a public scandal."

"This man has tried to take my trousers."

"Look here, I can't go about in this kit."

"I left my wife in room 18, and I can't find her."

"I shall write to _The Times_."

"I protest against this indecent exhibition."

The more questions and remarks that poured down upon him, the more
persistently the deputy-manager smiled.  He looked about him
helplessly.  Hitherto in the whole of his experience all that had been
necessary for him to do was to smile and promise attention, and bully
his subordinates.  Here was a new phase.  He wished the manager had not
chosen this week-end for a trip to Brighton.

The eyes of the deputy-manager roved round him like those of a trapped
animal seeking some channel of escape.  By a lucky chance they fell
upon the fireman who was just preparing to go off duty.  The
deputy-manager beckoned to him; the smile had left his face, he was now
talking to a subordinate.

"What's the meaning of this?" he enquired.

The fireman looked up and down the corridor.  He had been at the hotel
over ten years, that is, since its opening, and knew every inch of the
place.  From the crowd of figures he glanced along the corridor.  He
was a man of few words.

"Somebody's been 'avin' a joke.  The numbers 'ave all been changed.
That," pointing to No. 18, "is No. 15, and that," pointing to No. 24,
"is No. 21."

At the fireman's words angry murmurs and looks were exchanged.  Each of
the guests suspected the others of the joke.  The fireman, who was a
man of much resource as well as of few words, quickly solved the
problem by obtaining some envelopes and putting on the doors the right
numbers.  Within a quarter of an hour every guest had found either his
clothes, his lost one, or both, and the corridor was once more deserted.

"Well," murmured Bindle, as he stepped out of the service lift, "I
s'pose they won't be wantin' me again, so I'll go 'ome an' get a bit o'
sleep." And he walked off whistling gaily, whilst the fireman searched
everywhere for the one man the deputy-manager most desired to see.


II

On the Monday evening following the hotel episode Mr. and Mrs. Bindle
were seated at supper.  Bindle had been unusually conversational.  He
was fortunate in having that morning obtained employment at a
well-known stores.  He was once more a pantechnicon-man.  "King Richard
is 'isself again," he would say, when he passed from a temporary alien
employment to what he called the "legitimate."

He had felt it desirable to explain to Mrs. Bindle the cause of his
leaving the Splendid Hotel.  She had seen nothing at all humorous in
it, and Bindle had studiously refrained from any mention of women being
in the corridors.

He had just drawn away from the table, and was sitting smoking his pipe
by the fire, when there was a loud knock at the outer door.  He looked
up expectantly.

Mrs. Bindle went to the door.  From the passage he heard a familiar
voice enquiring for him.  It was Sanders, the foreman, who followed
Mrs. Bindle into the room.  He made no response to Bindle's pleasant,
"Good-evenin'."

"D'you know what you done?" enquired Sanders aggressively.  "You lost
me my ruddy job.  You did it a-purpose, and I've come to kill yer."

"Ain't yer 'ad enough of buryin'?" enquired Bindle significantly.
"Buryin' yer mother on Saturday, and now yer wants to kill yer ole pal
on Monday."

The menacing attitude of the foreman had no effect upon Bindle.  He had
a great heart and would cheerfully have stood up to a man twice the
size of Sanders.  The foreman made a swift movement in the direction of
Bindle.

"You stutterin', bespattered----Gawd!"

Mrs. Bindle, seeing that trouble was impending, had armed herself with
a very wet and very greasy dishcloth, which she had thrown with such
accurate aim as to catch the foreman full in the mouth.

"You dirty 'ound," she vociferated, "comin' into a Christian 'ome and
usin' that foul language.  You dirty 'ound, I'll teach yer."

Mrs. Bindle's voice rose in a high crescendo.  She looked about her for
something with which to follow up her attack and saw her favourite
weapon--the broom.

"You dirty-mouthed tyke," she cried, working herself into a fury.  "You
blasphemin' son o' Belial, take that."  Crack came the handle of the
broom on the foreman's head.  Without waiting to observe the result,
and with a dexterous movement, she reversed her weapon and charged the
foreman, taking him full in the middle with the broom itself.  In
retreating he stumbled over the coal-scuttle, and sat down with a
suddenness that made his teeth rattle.

Bindle watched the episode with great interest.  Never had he so
approved of Mrs. Bindle as at that moment.  Like a St. George
threatening the dragon she stood over the foreman.

"Now then, will yer say it again?" she enquired menacingly.  There was
no response.  "Say, 'God forgive me,'" she ordered.  "Say it," she
insisted, seeing reluctance in the foreman's eye.  "Say it, or I'll 'it
yer on yer dirty mouth with this 'ere broom.  I'm a daughter of the
Lord, I am.  Are yer goin' to say it or shall I change yer face for
yer?"

"God forgive me," mumbled the foreman, in a voice entirely devoid of
contrition.

Mrs. Bindle was satisfied.  "Now up yer get, and orf yer go," she said.
"I won't 'it yer again if yer don't talk, but never you think to come
a-usin' such words in a Christian 'ome again."

The foreman sidled towards the door warily, When he was within reach of
it he made a sudden dive and disappeared.

Bindle regarded his wife with approval as she returned from banging the
door after him.

"I didn't know," he remarked, "that they taught yer that sort of thing
at chapel.  I likes a religion that lets yer do a bit in the
knock-about business.  Can't understand you and 'Earty belongin' to the
same flock of sheep.  Rummy thing, religion," he soliloquised, as he
applied a match to his pipe; "seems to 'ave its Bank 'Olidays, same as
work."




CHAPTER VII

BINDLE COMMITS AN INDISCRETION

"Anyone would think you was goin' to a weddin'."  Mrs. Bindle eyed
Bindle aggressively.

"Not again; I got one little canary bird; two might make me un'appy."

Bindle had remembered his promise to his niece, Millie, in every
particular, and had added as his own contribution a twopenny cigar
resplendent in a particularly wide red-and-gold band, which he had been
careful not to remove.

"Anythink might 'appen to me in this get-up," he remarked pleasantly,
"so don't expect me till I'm 'ome----"

"You never take me out," broke in Mrs. Bindle stormily, "but you can
take that chit of a girl out first time she asks."

"You don't like the pictures, Mrs. B., they ain't 'oly enough, an' some
of the young women in 'em are a bit generous like with showin' their
ankles--but there, there!"

"You used to take me out before we was married," replied Mrs. Bindle,
ignoring Bindle's remark.

Bindle looked at her curiously.

"Them was the days when yer wasn't above goin' to a music-'all.  There
ain't nowhere to take yer 'cept the chapel, an' I don't enjoy it as you
an' 'Earty do."

"Where do you expect to go to?" demanded Mrs. Bindle angrily.  She
always became angry when mention was made of the pleasures she once
enjoyed.  "Where do you expect to go to?"

"Well," remarked Bindle judicially, "accordin' to you an' 'Earty it's a
place where yer don't 'ave to pay no water rates."

Mrs. Bindle sniffed derisively.

"Look 'ere, my one an' only," continued Bindle, "I got to 'ave a pretty
bad time in the next world, accordin' to wot you an' 'Earty believes,
so I'm goin' to the pictures an' I'll 'ave a drink or two in this.  If
I was as sure of 'eaven as you an' 'Earty is, maybe I'd be more
careful."

Mrs. Bindle banged the iron she was using down upon the rest, but made
no comment.

"Well, see you later, if I'm lucky," said Bindle, and he was gone.

He found Millie in a fever of expectation.  She opened the door to him
herself, looking very pretty and smart in her Sunday hat.

"I was so afraid you'd forget, uncle," she whispered, snuggling against
him as they walked along.  "You look so nice," she added.

Bindle looked down at himself and grinned.

"I pays for dressin'," he observed.  "The cigar was me own idea.  It
gives a sort o' finish, eh, Millikins?"

They walked past the Fulham Grand Theatre, and at the Cinema Palace on
the Fulham side of the bridge Bindle paused.

"Not this one, the one over the bridge," Millie cried anxiously.

"Further to walk for yer ole uncle."

"But--but--" faltered Millie, "Charlie Chaplin's at the other and I do
so want to see him."

"Charlie Chaplin's 'ere too, Millikins.  Look, it says so."

"Oh, uncle, please, _please_, the other one."  There were tears in
Millie's eyes and her voice shook.

Bindle was puzzled, but to please her he would have walked over many
bridges.

"Uncle, you _are_ good," was all she said as she smiled at him happily.

They passed over the bridge in silence, watching the stream of trams,
buses, and people.  When with Millie, Bindle never ventured upon those
little personalities in which he indulged when alone.

"Do yer like chapel, Millikins?" Bindle enquired suddenly.

"I hate it, Uncle Joe!"  There was such feeling and decision in
Millie's voice that Bindle turned and regarded her curiously.

"Why?"

"I want to be happy, oh! I do so want to be happy, Uncle Joe."  There
was almost a sob in Millie's voice and her eyes were moist with unshed
tears.

Bindle said nothing, but he pondered deeply as they walked slowly
along.  When they saw the brilliant lights of the Putney Pavilion
Millie visibly brightened.

As they entered Millie looked eagerly round, and a sigh of contentment
escaped her as her eyes rested on a tall, pale-faced youth who stood
smoking a cigarette.  He raised his hat about an inch from his head,
squaring his elbow in the process as if saluting.  The action was
awkward and sheepish.

Bindle looked from the young man to Millie, then remembering Millie's
distress at his suggestion of going to the other cinema, light dawned
upon him.  With elaborate courtesy, and to the youth's obvious
astonishment, he returned the salute, then walking across seized his
hand and shook it effusively.

"Millikins, this is a young man I used to know, but 'ave forgotten.  'E
remembers me, 'owever, and that's all that matters.  This is me niece
Millie," he added to the youth who, staring in utter bewilderment from
Bindle to Millie, stood with downcast head.

"Goin' in to see the pictures?" Bindle enquired casually.

"Er--no--er--yes, of course," stuttered the youth.

"Nice evenin' for pictures," continued Bindle, thoroughly enjoying the
situation.  "Don't yer think so?" he added, as the youth did not reply.

"Yes, very."

"Now you an' me's ole pals, but I've quite forgot yer name.  Is it
'Orace?"

"Dixon, Charlie Dixon."  A faint smile flickered across the young man's
face as he caught Millie's eye.  He was beginning to realise that
somewhere in this astonishing adventure there was fun, and that Bindle
had been first to see it.

For some seconds Bindle, who was a shrewd judge of character, regarded
the young man.  He was obviously nervous, but his grey eyes looked out
honestly from a rather pleasant face into those of Bindle.

Suddenly he laughed.  Millie looked from one to the other, her pretty
brows puckered.  The situation was obviously beyond her.

"Uncle, I want to speak to you, _please_."  Millie's voice was scarcely
audible.

"All right, my dear, we'll go and buy the tickets.  You wait here,
young feller," he added.  "We'll be back in two ticks."

When out of earshot Millie whispered shyly, "That's Charlie Dixon, and
we--we like each other, and I'm--I'm a wicked girl, Uncle Joe.  I told
him to be here and----"

"That's all right, Millikins, don't you worry."

Millie gave his arm an ecstatic squeeze as he left her to purchase the
tickets.

When Bindle and his niece rejoined Charlie Dixon Bindle's mind was made
up.  He liked the look of the young man.  He also remembered his own
youth, and a glance at the happy face of his niece decided him upon his
course of action.

"'Ow long 'ave yer known each other?" he enquired.

"More than six months," replied Charlie Dixon.

"Seems a lifetime, eh?" he grinned.

"I knew you'd understand, dear Uncle Joe," whispered the now radiant
Millie.

"Look 'ere," said Bindle to Charlie Dixon, "I jest remembered I got to
see a mate round the corner.  You two go in wi' these tickets and I'll
follow in ten minutes.  If I misses yer, be 'ere in this 'all at ten
sharp.  See?"

They both saw, and exchanged rapturous glances.

"Mind, ten sharp, or I'll get the sack."

"Thank you, Mr. Bindle," said Charlie Dixon, raising his hat, to which
Bindle responded with an elaborate sweep that brought a smile to the
face of the attendant.

Just before turning into Putney High Street Bindle looked round to see
Millie and Charlie Dixon in earnest converse, walking slowly towards
the door leading in to the pictures--and bliss.

Bindle sighed involuntarily.  "I wonder if I done right.  Funny thing
me playin' Coopid.  Wonder wot Mrs. B. and 'Earty 'ud say.  There's
goin' to be trouble, J. B., and you're a-goin' to get yerself in an
'oly sort o' mess.  If it 'adn't been for petticoats yer might a' been
Mayor of Fulham or Charlie Chaplin."

At a quarter to ten Bindle left a merry group of intimates at the
Scarlet Horse, and a few minutes later was waiting in the vestibule of
the Pavilion, where he was joined by the lovers.

"I never knew Millikins was such a pretty gal," muttered Bindle, as
they approached.  Then aloud, "Where'd you two got to?  I been
searchin' everywhere."

With a wealth of detail they explained exactly where they had been
sitting.

"Funny I didn't see yer," remarked Bindle.  "Now you two must say
good-night; and," turning to the youth, "if yer'll follow across the
bridge slowly, maybe I'll see yer outside the Grand Theatre after I've
taken this young woman 'ome."

Millie was strangely silent as the three crossed Putney Bridge.  She
was thinking deeply of her new-found happiness and, as she gripped
Bindle's arm with both hands, she felt that he represented her special
Providence.  She could tell him anything, for he understood.  She would
always tell Uncle Joe everything.

Outside Fulham Theatre she said good-night to Charlie Dixon.

"You ain't said a word since I met you, Millikins.  Wot's up?" enquired
Bindle, puzzled at Millie's silence.

"I've been wondering, Uncle Joe," replied the girl in a subdued voice.

"Wot about?  Tell yer ole uncle."

"I've been wondering why you are so good to me, and why you don't think
me a wicked girl."  Then, turning to him anxiously, "You don't, Uncle
Joe, do you?"

"Well, Millikins, there ain't any think very wicked, so far as I can
see, in wantin' to be 'appy in the way you do.  'Is nibs looks a nice
young chap, an' if 'e ain't 'e'll wish 'e'd never seen your ole uncle."
There was a grim note in Bindle's voice that surprised his niece.

"You don't think God minds us being happy that--that way, do you, Uncle
Joe?" questioned Millie earnestly.

"I'm sure 'E don't, Millikins.  'E's all for the 'appiness wot don't do
nobody any 'arm.  That parson chap told me, an' 'e was a dean or
somethink, an' 'e ought to know."

Millie drew a sigh of relief.  Then her mood suddenly changed.

"Uncle, let's run," she cried; and without waiting for the protest that
was forming itself on Bindle's lips, she caught him by the hand and
dashed off.  After a moment's hesitation Bindle entered into her mood
and the pair tore up Fulham High Street, Millie running obliquely in
front, striving to urge Bindle to a greater pace.

Just as they reached the Heartys' private door, Mr. Hearty himself
emerged on his way to post a letter.  Millie running sideways did not
see him.  Bindle was unable to avoid the inevitable collision, and
Millie's elbow took her father dead in the centre of his waistcoat and
drove the breath out of his body.

"Oh, father!" cried his horrified daughter.

"Millie!" gasped Mr. Hearty when he had regained sufficient breath for
speech.

"My fault, 'Earty.  I likes a run now and again; we was 'avin' a bit of
a race.  Millikins beats me in the matter o' legs."

To Mr. Hearty women had limbs, not legs, and he disliked intensely
Bindle's reference to those of his daughter.

"I hope this will not occur again," he said severely.  "I shall have to
stop these--these----"  Unable to find the word, Mr. Hearty passed on
to the pillar-box.

Millie stood watching him, horror in her eyes.

"Oh, Uncle Joe, am I a very bad girl?  Father always makes me feel so
wicked."

"'E'd make an 'oly saint feel a bit of a rip.  You're just about as bad
as a first-class angel; but p'raps it 'ud be better not to 'old sports
outside the shop.  Might get me a bad name.  Now in yer go, young 'un,
an' we'll 'ave another bust next Friday, eh?  I'll be seein' 'is nibs
on me way 'ome."

"Good-night, dear Uncle Joe.  I'm glad you're my uncle."  She put her
arms round his neck and kissed him, and Bindle experienced a curious
sensation in his throat.

"Gawd bless yer, Millikins," Bindle mumbled in an unsteady voice, as
she tripped along the passage.

"Fancy me sayin' that!" he muttered, as he closed the door.  "It kind
o' slipped out."

A few yards down the High Street Bindle met his brother-in-law
returning from the post.

"I'm sorry, 'Earty, about that collision.  It was all my fault.  I like
playin' wi' kids."  There was an unaccustomed humility in Bindle's
voice, assumed for the purpose of making things easier for Millie, that
pleased Mr. Hearty.

"Millie is no longer a child, Joseph," he remarked, "but we'll say no
more about it.  I'm not hurt.  Good-night."  He bared his yellow teeth
in token of forgiveness.

As he passed on, Bindle gazed up at the skies meditatively.  "I wonder
if Gawd really likes that sort?" he murmured with a seriousness that
was unusual to him.

Outside the theatre he found waiting for him Charlie Dixon, who greeted
him with:

"Will you bring her again, Mr. Bindle?"

"'Ere, I ain't a nurse, young feller.  Nice mess you got me in.  It's
all through you that Millikins nearly killed 'er father.  Ran clean
into 'im and sort o' knocked the wind out of 'is bellows."  Bindle told
the story of the collision with great gusto.

"Now," he continued, "you and me's got to 'ave a talk, an' we'll 'ave a
glass of beer at the same time."

Bindle learned the story of Millie's romance.  It appeared that she and
Charlie Dixon, who was in a shipping-office, went to the city by the
same train every morning, Millie being a typist at a wholesale
draper's.  Young Dixon had watched her week after week, and he
eventually became acquainted owing to a breakdown on the line, which
resulted in a corresponding breakdown of the passengers' usual reserve.
After that they went up regularly together, met at lunch, after
business hours and on every occasion that Millie could possibly manage
it.  Once they had each obtained a half-holiday, which they had spent
at the Zoo.

Charlie Dixon's frankness and obvious devotion to Millie Hearty
entirely won Bindle's heart.

"You will help us, Mr. Bindle, won't you?" he pleaded.

"Look 'ere, young feller," said Bindle, with an unusual note of
seriousness in his voice, "I don't know nothink about yer, an' before I
'elps I got to be sure wot I thinks yer are.  Now you jest get me a
letter or two from them as knows wot sort of a villain yer are, an'
then p'r'aps I'll be the same sort of ole fool I been to-night.  See?"

They parted with mutual regard and promises to meet again next Friday,
when Charlie Dixon was to bring such documents as would vouch for his
respectability.

"Yes; I been an ole fool," muttered Bindle, as he walked home.  "This
'ere business is goin' to lead to trouble between me an' 'Earty.  What
a pity people gets it as bad as 'Earty.  No man didn't ought to be
religious all the week.  It ain't natural."

That night Bindle entered his house whistling "Gospel Bells" with
unaccustomed abandon.

"Been enjoyin' yerself, leavin' me at 'ome to slave and get yer meals
ready," snapped Mrs. Bindle.  "One o' these days you'll come 'ome and
find me gone."

"'Oo's the man?" interrogated Bindle with a temerity that surprised
himself.

That night Bindle lay awake for some time thinking over life in general
and the events of the evening in particular.  He never could quite
understand why he had been precipitated into an atmosphere so foreign
to his nature as that surrounding Mrs. Bindle and Mr. Hearty.  He had
striven very hard to stem the tide of religious gloom as it spread
itself over Mrs. Bindle.  Unaware of the cause, he not unnaturally
selected the wrong methods, which were those of endeavouring to make
her "cheer up."

"The idea of goin' to 'eaven seems to make her low-spirited," was
Bindle's view.

Even Mrs. Bindle was not entirely proof against his sallies, and there
were times when a reluctant smile would momentarily relieve the grim
severity of her features.  There were occasions even when they chatted
quite amiably, until the recollection of Mr. Hearty, and the mental
comparison of his success with Bindle's failure, threw her back into
the slough from which she had temporarily been rescued.

"There must be somethink funny about me," Bindle had once confided to
Mrs. Hearty.  "My father was as religious as a woman wi' one leg, then
I gets Lizzie an' she turns away from me an' 'Mammon'--I don't rightly
know 'oo 'e is, but she's always talkin' about 'im--then you goes back
on me an' gives me a sort of brother-in-law 'oo's as 'oly as ointment.
You ain't been a real pal, Martha, really you ain't."

If called upon to expound his philosophy of life Bindle would have
found himself in difficulties.  He was a man whose sympathies were
quickly aroused, and it never troubled him whether the object of his
charity were a heathen, a Christian, or a Mormon.  On one occasion when
a girl had been turned out of doors at night by an outraged father who
had discovered his daughter's frailty, it was Bindle who found her
weeping convulsively near Putney Pier.  It was he who secured her a
night's lodging, and stood her friend throughout the troubled weeks
that followed, although it meant neither beer nor tobacco for some
months.

On another occasion a mate had been ill, and it was Bindle who each
week collected what pence he could from his fellow-workmen and made up
from his own pocket the amount necessary to keep the man, his wife, and
child.  To do this he had done work as a whitewasher and labourer,
never working less than one whole night a week in addition to his
regular occupation, until his mate was well again.

No one knew of these little acts, which Bindle kept profound secrets.
He would have felt ashamed had they become known, more particularly had
Mrs. Bindle or Mr. Hearty heard of them.

Once he had remarked, apropos some remark of Mr. Hearty's regarding
what in his opinion would be Heaven's attitude towards some unfortunate
wretch who had stolen food for his wife, "I shouldn't like to 'ave a
Gawd I'd sometimes 'ave to feel ashamed of," whereat Mr. Hearty had
become very red and embarrassed.




CHAPTER VIII

THE GREAT CONSPIRACY


I

At Harridge's Stores Bindle had made himself very popular with the
manager of the Furniture Removing Department.  His cheery outlook on
life, his racy speech and general trustworthiness resulted in his being
frequently entrusted with special jobs where reliability was required.

When the order was received to supply the refreshments for the Barton
Bridge Temperance Fete, Bindle was selected to go down to erect the
marquee and stalls, and be generally responsible for the safe transit
of the eatables and drinkables.

"Yer can always trust me wi' lemonade and religion," he had assured the
manager.  "I don't touch neither; they sort of goes to me 'ead."

The Barton Bridge Temperance Society had determined to celebrate the
twenty-fifth anniversary of its foundation in a manner that should
attract to it the attention of the temperance world.  After much
deliberation and heart-burning, an English Rustic Fete had been decided
upon.

The whole of the surrounding country had been put under contribution,
and everyone had responded either with generosity or with scorn.  Old
Sir John Bilder, of Bilder's Entire, had replied with ponderous humour
that he "would supply all the ale required."  When he received a
request for three gross of pint bottles of a particular kind of
temperance ale he had been surprised.  "Well, I'm damned!" was his
comment; but being a sportsman he had sent the ale, which he regarded
as a fair price for a good story.

Barton Bridge was proud of its Temperance Society, but prouder still of
its breadth of mind.  It had been a tradition for a quarter of a
century that the Society should be non-sectarian.  It is nothing to the
discredit of Barton Bridge that the Temperance Society was the only
thing in the place that had not been warped from its orbit by sect.

For a churchman to be discovered eating bread of Mr. Lacey's baking,
Mr. Lacey being a nonconformist, would have meant social ostracism.  He
must, by virtue of his beliefs, masticate none but bread kneaded and
baked by Mr. Carter, the church baker.

A one-time vicar had sought to demolish this "ridiculous wall of
prejudice" by dealing alternately with church and chapel tradesmen.
There had been no protest from the chapel people, but the indignation
of the church tradesmen had been so great, and their absence from
service so persistent, that the vicar had been forced to give way.
Tolerance was an acquired habit rather than an instinctive virtue in
Barton Bridge, and the temperance meetings were solemn minglings of
bodies accompanied by a warring of souls.

A witty Frenchman has said that, "In order to preserve the purity of
his home life, the Englishman invented the Continental excursion."  It
is a cynicism; but at least it shows how dear tradition is to the
Englishman's heart.  It was this same spirit of tradition that raised
above the strife of sect the Barton Bridge Temperance Society.

The question of the doctor was another instance of the effect of
tradition upon what, at first glance, might appear to be a grave
problem.  There was not room for two doctors at Barton Bridge, and no
doctor could reasonably be expected to be a bi-religionist.  It
therefore became the accepted thing that the Barton Bridge doctor
should attend neither church nor chapel; but it was incumbent upon him
to become a member of the Temperance Society.

The catering for the Temperance Fete had at first presented a serious
difficulty, and at one time had even threatened to divide the camp.
The church party recoiled in horror from the thought of eating
nonconformist sandwiches; whilst if the lemonade were of church
manufacture it would mean that scores of dissenters would have a
thirsty afternoon.

The problem had been solved by Lady Knob-Kerrick, who insisted that the
order should be placed with a London firm of caterers, which, as a
limited company, could not be expected to have religious convictions.
Thus it was that the order went to Harridge's Stores.


II

By eight o'clock on the morning of the Fete a pantechnicon was
lumbering its ungainly way along the Portsmouth Road.  Bindle sat
meditatively on the tail-board, smoking and obviously bored.

With the wholesome contempt of an incorrigible cockney he contemplated
the landscape.

"'Edges, trees, an' fields, an' a mile to walk for a drink.  Not me,"
he muttered, relighting his pipe with solemn gravity.

As the pantechnicon rumbled its ponderous way through hamlet and
village, Bindle lightly tossed a few pleasantries to the rustics who
stood aside to gaze at what, to them, constituted an incident in the
day's monotony of motor-cars and dust.

The morning advanced, and Bindle grew more direct in his criticisms on,
and contempt for, the bucolic life.  At last out of sheer loneliness he
climbed up beside the driver.

"'Owd jer like to live 'ere, ole son?" he enquired pleasantly, as they
approached a tiny hamlet where a woman, a child, and some ducks and
chickens seemed to be the only living inhabitants.

"All right with a bit o' land," responded the driver, looking about him
appreciatively.

Bindle gazed at his colleague curiously, then, feeling that they had
nothing in common regarding the countryside, continued:

"Funny thing you an' me comin' to a temperance fete."  Then regarding
the driver's face critically, he proceeded: "'Ope you've got yer
vanity-case wi' yer.  You'll want to powder that nose o' yours 'fore
the ladies come.  Course it's indigestion, only they mightn't believe
it."

The driver grunted.

"Fancy," continued Bindle, "'avin' to 'aul about chairs and make up
tables a day like this, an' on lemonade too.  Can't yer see it, mate,
in glass bottles wi' lemons stuck in the tops and no froth?"

The driver grumbled in his throat.

The start had been an early one and he was dry, despite several
ineffectual attempts to allay his thirst at wayside inns.

It was nearly eleven o'clock before a sprinkling of houses warned them
that they were approaching Barton Bridge.  Soon the pantechnicon was
awaking echoes in the drowsy old High Street.  Half-way along what is
practically the only thoroughfare stands the Pack Horse, outside which
the driver instinctively pulled up, and he and Bindle clambered down
and entered, ostensibly to enquire the way to the Fete ground.

Behind the bar stood Mr. Cutts, wearing the inevitable red knitted cap
without which no one had ever seen him during business hours.  He was
engaged in conversation with Dick Little, the doctor's son, and by
common consent the black sheep of Barton Bridge.  The subject of their
talk was temperance.  He showed no particular inclination to come
forward, and Bindle was extremely thirsty.

After regarding the red cap for a moment Bindle approached the landlord.

"No offence, your 'Oliness!  Sorry to be a noosance, but can yer tell
me where the Temperance Fete is to be 'eld?  Me and my mate is
delegates come all the way from London.  No; your 'Oliness is wrong,
it's indigestion.  That nose of 'is always takes a lot of explainin'."

Mr. Cutts flushed a deep purple at the reference to his cap.  He wore
it to hide his baldness, and was extremely sensitive.  Dick Little
laughed outright.  It was he who answered Bindle.

"Half a mile up, and down the avenue of poplars."

"D' yer 'ear, mate?"  Bindle turned to the driver.  "D' yer know a
poplar when yer see it?  Same for me."  The last remark referred to the
driver's order for a pint of ale.  After finishing his draught the
driver went out to see to the watering of his horses, whilst Mr. Cutts,
having cast at Bindle a look which he conceived to be of withering
scorn, retired to his parlour.

"Seem to 'ave 'urt Old Bung's feelin's," Bindle remarked genially to
Dick Little.

"You said you were going to the Temperance Fete?"

"Yes; we're carryin' along the buns, sangwidges, cakes, an' lemonade,
likewise tents and things."

"Like a drink?" enquired Little.

"Well!" grinned Bindle judicially, as he surveyed his empty glass, "it
would lay the dust a bit; provided," he added with mock gravity, "it
ain't a split soda.  Never could digest split sodas.  Where's 'is
'Oliness?" he enquired, looking round.

"Never mind him," responded Little, taking a flask from his pocket.
"Wash the glass out."

Bindle did so, and threw the water in a delicate line upon the floor.
Little emptied the greater part of the contents of the flask into the
glass held before him.  With a happy look in his eyes Bindle took a
short drink, tasted the liquid critically, looked at Little, then with
a puzzled expression emptied the glass at the second attempt.

"Wot jer call it, sir?  It's new to me," he remarked, as he replaced
his glass upon the counter.

"It hasn't got a name yet.  I make it myself.  It's not bad, eh?"

"It beats all I've ever tasted, sir.  It ain't for suckin'-babes,
though.  Pretty strong."

"Yes; you said you had lemonade for the Temperance Fete in there,
didn't you?" enquired Little.

"Well, not exactly, sir.  It's got to be watered down, see?  Ther'll be
about fifty gallons, 'sides bottled stuff."

"Are you open to earn a sovereign?" asked Little.

"Well, sir, it's funny you should arst that.  Jest 'fore I came away
from 'ome this morning my missus told me the Income Tax paper 'ad come
in.  That ole Lloyd George is fairly messin' up my estates.  Yes, I
don't mind if I do."

At this moment the driver put his head in at the door and muttered
something about getting on.

"'Arf a mo', ole son," responded Bindle; then turning to Little added
with a grin, "I makes it a rule never to keep me 'orses waitin',
mister; the coachman gets so cross."

When Mr. Cutts returned to the bar he saw Dick Little in deep
conversation with Bindle, which surprised him.  He saw Bindle's face
irradiating joy and heard him remark:

"'Old me, somebody, 'old me, I say!  You jest leave it to me, sir."

Presently they both went out.  A moment later the pantechnicon rumbled
off, leaving Mr. Cutts still wondering.

The pantechnicon lumbered on towards the meadow adjoining Kerrick
Castle, which had been placed at the disposal of the committee of the
Temperance Society by its owner.  On the tail-board sat Bindle, a
metamorphosed Bindle.  All the morning's gloom had vanished from his
features, giving place to a joy not entirely due to the partial
quenching of a persistent thirst.

Dick Little walked slowly home to an early lunch.  He had many old
scores to settle with Barton Bridge, and he realised that there was an
excellent chance of a balance being struck that afternoon.

His one anxiety was lest his father should be involved.  Between Dr.
Little and his two sons, Dick and Tom, there was little in common save
a great bond of affection.  Dr. Little was serious-minded, inclined to
be fussy, but of a generous nature and a genial disposition that gained
for him the regard of all his patients.  His son Dick was a rollicking
dandy, an inveterate practical joker, and the leader of every
mischievous escapade at St. Timothy's Hospital, known as "Tim's," where
he enjoyed an all-round popularity.


III

By half-past one o'clock everything was ready for the Temperance Fete.
The large marquee had been erected, the chairs and tables had been
dotted about the meadow.  Rustic stalls, gay with greenery and bunting,
invited the visitor to refresh himself.  In the centre of a roped-off
space stood a gaily beribboned maypole.

A "cokernut shy," a Punch-and-Judy Show, and the old English game of
Aunt Sally were some of the diversions provided.  There was also to be
Morris dancing, the dancers having been trained by Miss Slocum, the
vicar's daughter, aided, for reasons of policy rather than individual
prowess, by Miss McFie, the sister of the Congregational minister.  The
girl attendants in their gaily coloured dresses and sun-bonnets, and
the men in smock-frocks and large straw hats, added picturesqueness to
the scene.

Bindle's activity had been prodigious.  With the ease of a man who is
thoroughly conversant with his subject, he had taken charge of the
drink department.  The lemonade had been distributed to the various
stalls, and the right amount of water added, according to the
directions upon each cask.  Every drop of water had been fetched under
the supervision of Bindle himself.

On arriving at the Fete ground Bindle had gone direct to a corner of
the meadow and brought forth half a dozen stone jars, each capable of
holding about two gallons.  The contents of these he had carefully
poured into the casks containing the nucleus of the lemonade.  These
same jars had been subsequently used for fetching water with which to
weaken the lemonade.

Finally they had been stowed away in the far end of the pantechnicon.

Bindle stood out in strong relief from the other workers, both on
account of his costume and personality.  He wore the green baize apron
of his class.  On his head was the inevitable cricket cap.  His face
had taken on the same hue as his nose, and the smile that irradiated
his features transcended in its joyous abandon the smiles of all the
others.  For everyone he had a merry word.  In the short space of two
hours he had achieved an astonishing popularity.

By three o'clock the Fete was in full swing.  Every stable in Barton
Bridge was full, and the High Street presented a curious appearance,
with its rows of horseless carriages, carts, and traps.  The
coach-houses and available sheds had all been utilised to give shelter
to the scores of horses.  The members of the committee, wearing big
dark-blue rosettes, smiled largely their satisfaction.  They knew that
reporters were present from _The Blue Ribbon News_ and _The Pure Water
World_.

Bindle had entered into the spirit of the revelry in a way that
attracted to him the attention of many members of the organising
committee.

"An extremely droll fellow, quite a valuable addition to our
attendants," the vicar remarked to the Rev. Andrew McFie, the young
Congregational pastor, as they stood surveying the scene.

"An admeerable man, Meester Slocum," the cautious Scot had replied.  "I
have no wish to be uncharitable, but I meestrust his nose."

Entirely unconscious that he was a subject of conversation between the
two shepherds of Barton Bridge, Bindle was standing behind a
refreshment stall that he had appropriated to himself, surrounded by an
amused crowd of revellers.

He was discoursing upon the virtues of lemonade upon a hot day.  "Give
'er a drink, sir," he called to one sheepish-looking rustic, who stood
grasping in his the hand of a lumpy, red-faced girl.  "Give 'er a
drink, sir, do, or she'll faint.  'Er tongue's almost 'anging out as it
is.  Be a sport.  No, miss, it's no use your looking at me; my wife
won't let me."

As they took their first sip of the much-praised lemonade, many looked
wonderingly at Bindle.  There was about it an unaccustomed something
that they could not quite analyse or describe.  Whatever it was, it was
pleasant to the taste, and it gave them courage.  Eyes that had
previously been sheepish became merry, almost bold.  The prospect of
joy seemed nearer.

The fame of the lemonade soon spread.  The fringes about the stalls
deepened.  The air became bright with shouts and laughter.

A spirit of wild revelry was abroad.  The cokernut-shy was the centre
of an uproarious throng.  Balls were bought and flung with such
wildness that none dared to replace the cokernuts that had been knocked
off, or to fetch what by rights was his own property.

Mr. Slocum and Mr. McFie strolled round the grounds, sedately benign.
They, the representatives of a Higher Power, must of necessity keep
aloof from such pleasures, even temperance pleasures; still, they were
glad to see about them evidences of such simple and wholesome gaiety.

With measured steps they approached a considerable group of young
people who were laughing and shouting boisterously.  When within about
twenty yards of the crowd it suddenly opened out.

"It's a race, sir," shouted someone, and they smilingly stood aside to
see the sport.  A moment after their smiles froze upon their faces and
gave place to a look of wonder and of horror.  It was indeed a race;
but such a race!  Coming towards them were five youths, each bearing,
pick-a-back fashion, a girl.  There was an exhibition of feminine
frilleries that caused the reverend gentlemen to gasp, to look at each
other quickly and then turn hurriedly aside.  When just opposite to
where they stood, one couple came to the ground and the pair following
immediately behind fell over the others.  Mr. McFie blushed, and Mr.
Slocum, remembering his companion's youth, gripped him by the arm and
hurried him away with a muttered, "Dreadful, dreadful!"

No other word was spoken until they reached the refreshment-stall over
which Bindle presided, and then the vicar once more murmured,
"Dreadful!"

"Have you any tea?" enquired Mr. McFie, more from a desire to say
something than a feeling of thirst.

"No, sir," responded Bindle, "tea's over there, sir.  Try the lemonade,
sir; it's A-1.  It'll pull yer together, sir.  Do try it, sir," Bindle
added eagerly.  "You look 'ot and tired, sir.  It'll do yer good."

The two pastors looked curiously at Bindle, but accepted each without
comment a glass of lemonade.  They put it to their lips, tasted it,
looked at each other and then drank greedily.

"Another, sir?" enquired Bindle of the vicar when he had finished his
glass.

"Er ... no," murmured Mr. Slocum; but Bindle had already refilled his
glass and was doing a like service for Mr. McFie.  When they left the
stall it was arm-in-arm, and Mr. McFie directed his steps to the spot
where, a few minutes previously, he had received so severe a shock; but
the sport was over and the crowd had dispersed.




CHAPTER IX

THE TEMPERANCE FETE

When Lady Knob-Kerrick drove round to the Fete ground she was surprised
to find the gate open and unattended, but was rendered speechless with
astonishment at the noise that assailed her ears.  At first she thought
there had been an accident; but in the medley of hoarse shouts and
shrill screams she clearly distinguished the sound of laughter.  She
turned to Miss Isabel Strint, her companion, whom she always persisted
in treating as she would not have dared to treat her maid.  Miss Strint
elevated her eyebrows and assumed a look that was intended to be purely
tentative, capable of being developed into either horror or amusement.

"People say it takes beer to make the lower classes gay," remarked her
ladyship grimly.

"I'm sure they couldn't make more noise if they were intoxicated,"
responded Miss Strint, developing the tentative look into one of amused
tolerance.

"Strint, you're a fool!" remarked Lady Knob-Kerrick.

Miss Strint subsided.

Lady Knob-Kerrick looked round her disapprovingly.  She was annoyed
that no one should be there to welcome her.

"Strint, see if you can find Mr. Slocum and Mr. McFie, and tell them I
am here."  Then to the footman, "Thomas, come with me."

At that moment Dick Little came towards the small group.

"How d'you do, Lady Kerrick?" he smiled easily.  "Delighted to be the
first to welcome the Lady of the Feast.  May I get you some
refreshment?"

"You may not," was the ungracious response.

Lady Knob-Kerrick disliked both Little and his well-bred manner.  She
was accustomed to deference and servility.  She also disapproved of
what she conceived to be her daughter Ethel's interest in the doctor's
son, and for that reason had not brought her to the Fete.

With a smile and a lifting of his hat, Little passed on in the
direction of Barton Bridge.

Just as Lady Knob-Kerrick was preparing to descend from her carriage, a
girl with a flushed face darted round the canvas screen that had been
erected inside the gate.  A moment after a man followed, coatless,
hatless, and flushed.  He caught her, lifted her in his arms and
carried her back laughing and screaming.  Neither had seen the carriage
or its occupants.  Tool, the coachman, looked only as a well-trained
man-servant can look, wooden; but Thomas grinned, and was withered by
his mistress's eye.

The man who had pursued and caught the girl was Mr. Marsh, the people's
churchwarden, a widower with grown-up daughters.

With an air of stern determination, Lady Knob-Kerrick descended from
her carriage and marched boldly round the screen.  Never had she beheld
such a scene.  She did not faint, she did not cry out, she grimly stood
and watched.

Bindle had relinquished his refreshment-stall to assume the direction
of the revels.  All seemed to look to him for inspiration.  The dingy
cricket cap was to be seen bobbing about everywhere, his grin of
enjoyment was all-embracing.  He it was who set the Morris dancers
going and picked them up when they fell.  He it was who explained to
Miss Slocum, who hitherto had refreshed herself with tea, that their
inability to keep an upright position was due to the heat.

"It's the 'eat, miss, 'as a wonderful effect.  Look at 'er now."  He
indicated to Miss Slocum's horror-stricken gaze the form of Miss McFie,
who was sitting on the ground, hat awry, singing quietly to herself.

It was Bindle, too, who fetched for Miss Slocum a glass of lemonade,
after which she seemed to see more with the others.

The maypole dance was in full progress when Lady Knob-Kerrick entered
the meadow.  Youths and girls, men and women staggered unsteadily round
the gaily decorated scaffold-pole that had been lent by Mr. Ash, the
builder.  Lady Knob-Kerrick distinguished many of her tenants among the
fringe of stumbling humanity, and two of her own domestics.

The principal object of the men dancers seemed to be to kiss each girl
as she passed, and that of the girls to appear to try to avoid the
caress without actually doing so.  The dance ended prematurely, there
being none of the dancers any longer capable of preserving an upright
position.

A little to the right of the maypole Lady Knob-Kerrick beheld the Rev.
Andrew McFie, who was endeavouring to give a representation of his
native sword-dance to an enthusiastic group of admirers.  On his head
was a pink sunbonnet, round his waist, to represent a kilt, was tied a
girl's jacket.  His trousers were tucked up above the knee.  On the
ground sat a girl producing, by the simple process of holding her nose
and tapping her throat, strange piercing noises intended to represent
the bagpipes.

In another part of the meadow Mr. Grint, the chapel butcher, and an
elder of irreproachable respectability, was endeavouring to instruct a
number of girls in the intricacies of a quadrille, which, as he
informed them, he had once seen danced in Paris.  It was this
exhibition of shameless abandon that decided Lady Knob-Kerrick upon
immediate action.

"Strint," she called, looking about for her companion, "Strint."  But
Miss Strint was at that moment the centre of a circle of laughing,
shouting, and shrieking men and women, hesitating in her choice of the
man she should kiss.

"Thomas!"

"Yes, m'lady," replied Thomas, his eyes fixed intently upon a group of
youths and girls who were performing a species of exalted barn dance.

"Fetch Saunders and Smith; tell them to fix the fire-hose to the
hydrant nearest the meadow, and connect as many lengths as are
necessary to reach where I am standing.  Quick!"

The last word was uttered in a tone that caused Thomas to wrench his
eyes away from the dancers as if he had been caught in the act of some
impropriety.

"Yes, m'lady," and he reluctantly left the scene of festivity, full of
envy and self-pity.

As Thomas disappeared round one side of the canvas screen, Dr. Little
bustled round the other.  He had been detained by an important patient
who lived ten miles away.  When his eyes beheld the scene before him,
he stopped as if he had been shot.  He looked about in a dazed fashion.
Then he closed his eyes and looked again.  Finally he saw Lady
Knob-Kerrick, and hurried across to her.

"Dear me, dear me!" he fussed.  "Whatever does this mean?  Is everybody
mad?"

"Either that or intoxicated, doctor.  I'm not a medical man.  I've sent
for my fire-hose."  There was a note of grim malevolence in Lady
Knob-Kerrick's voice.

"Your fire-hose?  I--I don't understand!"  The doctor removed his
panama and mopped his forehead with a large handkerchief.

"You will when it comes," was the reply.

"Dear me, dear me!" broke out the alarmed doctor; "but surely you're
not----"

"I am," interrupted Lady Knob-Kerrick.  "I most certainly am.  It's my
meadow."

"Dear me!  I must enquire into this.  Dear me!"  And the doctor trotted
off in the direction of the maypole.  The first object he encountered
was the prostrate form of the vicar, who lay under the shadow of a
refreshment-stall, breathing heavily.  The doctor shook him.

"Slocum," he called.  "Slocum!"

"Goo' fellow tha'," was the mumbled response.  "Make him my curate.  Go
'way."

"Good God!" ejaculated the doctor.  "He's drunk.  They're all drunk.
What a scandal."

He sat down beside the vicar, trying to think.  He was stunned.
Eventually he was aroused from his torpor of despair by a carelessly
flung cokernut hitting him sharply on the elbow.  He looked round
quickly to admonish the culprit.  At that moment he caught sight of the
Rev. Andrew McFie arm-in-arm with Mr. Wace, the vicar's churchwarden,
singing at the top of their voices, "Who's your Lady Friend?"  Mr.
McFie's contribution was limited to a vigorous but tuneless drone.  He
was obviously unacquainted with either the melody or the words, but was
anxious to be convivial.  He also threw in a rather unsteady sort of
dance.  Mr. Wace himself seemed to know only about two lines of the
song, and even in this there were gaps.

"Shisssssssssssh!"  The two roysterers were on their backs gasping and
choking beneath a deluge of water.  Lady Knob-Kerrick's hose had
arrived, and in the steady hands of Saunders, the head-gardener, seemed
likely to bring the Temperance Fete to a dramatic conclusion.

"A water-spout!" mumbled Mr. Wace vacuously.

"Water spout!" cried Mr. McFie.  "It's that red-headed carlin wi' the
hose."

With a yell of rage he sprang to his feet and dashed at Saunders.  Lady
Knob-Kerrick screamed, Dr. Little uttered a plaintive "Dear me!"
Saunders stood as if petrified, clinging irresolutely to the hose.  He
was a big man and strong, but the terrifying sight of the minister
bearing down upon him with murder in his eyes clearly unnerved him.
Releasing his hold of the hose he incontinently bolted.  For a moment
the force of the water caused the hose to rear its head like a snake
preparing to strike, then after a moment's hesitation it gracefully
descended, and discharged its stream full in the chest of Dr. Little,
who sat down upon the grass with a sob of surprise.

McFie's yell had attracted to him an ever-enlarging crowd.

"Turned the hose on me," he explained thickly.  "Me, Andrew McFie of
Auchinlech."  Suddenly catching sight of the retreating form of Lady
Knob-Kerrick, he yelled, "It's all her doin', the old sinner."

With a whoop he sprang after Lady Knob-Kerrick, who at that moment was
disappearing round the canvas screen seeking her carriage.  The crowd
followed, and some bethought themselves of the hose.

Lady Knob-Kerrick was just in the act of getting into her carriage when
the jet of water from the hose took her in the small of the back and
literally washed her into her seat as, a moment later, it washed her
coachman off his.  The horses reared and plunged; but McFie and Bindle
rushed to their heads.  Several men busied themselves with undoing the
traces, the frightened animals were freed from the pole, and a cut from
the whip, aided by the noise of the crowd, was sufficient to send them
clattering down the road.

Hitherto Bindle had been by tacit consent the leading spirit; but now
the Rev. Andrew McFie assumed the mantle of authority.  Ordering the
coachman and footman to take their mistress home, he caused the
carriage to be drawn into the meadow and placed across the gateway,
thus forming a barricade.  This done, he mounted upon the box and
harangued the throng.

Cokernuts and the balls used at the shies, together with the Aunt Sally
sticks, were collected and piled up near the gate, and every
preparation made to hold the meadow against all comers.  McFie
succeeded in working his hearers into a state of religious frenzy.
They danced and sang like mad creatures, ate and drank all that was
left of the provisions and lemonade, made bonfires of the stalls and
tables; in short, turned Lady Knob-Kerrick's meadow into a very
reasonable representation of an inferno.

"There's a-goin' to be trouble over this 'ere little arternoon's
doin's," murmured Bindle to himself, as he slipped through a hole in
the hedge and made his way towards Barton Bridge, whither he had
already been preceded by a number of the more pacific spirits.  "The
cops 'll be 'ere presently, or I don't know my own mother."

Bindle was right.  Lady Knob-Kerrick had telephoned to Ryford, and the
police were already on their way in three motor-cars.

At Barton Bridge they were reinforced by the two local constables and
later by the men-servants from the Castle.  When they arrived at the
entrance to the meadow they found McFie leading an extremely
out-of-tune rendering of "Onward, Christian Soldiers."  Immediately he
saw the approaching forces of Mammon, as he called them, he climbed
down from his post of vantage and secured the hose.

The police and the retainers from the Castle approached the carriage to
remove it and thus gain entrance to the meadow.  Led by the red-faced
superintendent from Ryford, they presented an imposing array.  Allowing
them to approach quite close, McFie suddenly gave the signal for the
water to be turned on.  He had taken the precaution to post men at the
hydrant to protect it.

The superintendent's legs flew up into the air as the jet of water
caught him beneath the chin.  In a few seconds the attacking party had
been hosed into a gasping, choking, and struggling heap.  Cokernuts,
wooden balls, sticks, bits of chairs, glasses and crockery rained upon
them.

The forces of Mammon gathered themselves together and retired in
disorder.  Andrew McFie's blood was up.  Victory was at hand.  In his
excitement he committed the tactical blunder of causing the carriage to
be removed, that he might charge the enemy and complete its
discomfiture.  His followers, however, had too long been accustomed to
regard the police with awe, and most of the men, fearful of being
recognised, sneaked through holes in the hedges, and made their way
home by circuitous routes.

Those who remained, together with a number of girls and women, fought
until they were overpowered and captured, and the Barton Bridge
Temperance Fete came to an inglorious end.


That same evening, having laden the van with such of the property and
tents as had not been utilised for bonfires and missiles, Bindle took
his seat on the tail-board, and the van lumbered off in the direction
of London.

He proceeded to review the events of the day.  What particularly
diverted him was the recollection of the way in which horses and
vehicles had been mixed up.

When he had returned to the High Street he found there numbers of those
who had visited the Fete and were now desirous only of getting home.
He helped them to harness their horses, assuring them that the beasts
were theirs.  If he were asked for a dog-cart he selected the first to
hand, and then sought out a horse of suitable size and harnessed it to
the vehicle.

If any demur were made, or if identification marks were sought, he
hurried the objector off, telling him that he ought to be glad he had
got a horse at all.

Bindle was grinning comfortably at the thought of the days it would
take to sort out the horses and vehicles, when he saw in the distance a
bicycle being ridden by someone obviously in a hurry.

As it came nearer he recognised the rider as Dick Little, who pedalled
up beside the van and tendered a sovereign to Bindle.

"No, sir," Bindle remarked, shaking his head.  "I'm a bit of a sport
myself.  Lord! wasn't they drunk!"  He chuckled quietly.  "That young
parson chap, too.  No, sir, I been paid in fun."

After a somewhat lengthy discussion carried on in whispers, so that the
driver should not hear, Bindle suggested that Dick Little had better
come inside the van, as if anyone were to see them it might result in
suspicion.

"Yer seem to like a little joke," he added.  "I can tell yer about some
as won't make yer want to cry."

An hour later, when Dick Little hunched his bicycle from the tail of
the van he said:

"Well, come and see me in London; I'm generally in Sunday evenings."

"Right, sir; I will," replied Bindle; "but might I arst, sir, wot it
was that made 'em so fidgety?"

"It was pure alcohol mixed with distilled mead," was the reply.

"Well, it done the trick.  Good-night, sir.  Lord! won't there be some
'eads wantin' 'oldin' in the mornin'," and he laughed joyously as the
pantechnicon rumbled noisily Londonwards.




CHAPTER X

MR. HEARTY PRAYS FOR BINDLE

Mrs. Bindle had just returned from evening chapel.  On Sundays,
especially on Sunday evenings, when there had been time for the
cumulative effect of her devotions to manifest itself, Mrs. Bindle was
always in a chastened mood.  She controlled those gusts of temper which
plunged her back into the Doric and precipitated Bindle "into 'ell,
dust an' all."

On this particular evening she was almost gentle.  The bangs with which
she accentuated the placing of each plate and dish upon the table were
_piano_ bangs, and Bindle duly noted the circumstance.

With him Sunday was always a day of intellectual freedom.  He aired his
views more freely on that than on other days.

Having laid the supper, Mrs. Bindle began to remove her bonnet.  With a
hat-pin in her mouth and her hands stretched behind her head in the act
of untying an obstreperous veil that rested like a black line across
the bridge of her nose, she remarked, in that casual tone which with
her betokened an item of great interest and importance:

"Mr. Hearty prayed for you to-night, Bindle."

Bindle sat up in his chair as if he had been shot.

"'Earty wot?" he interrogated, with unaccustomed anger in his voice,
and an unwonted flash in his eye.  "'Earty wot?"

"He prayed for you," replied Mrs. Bindle in what was for her a hushed
voice; "a beautiful prayer about a brother who had fallen by the
wayside, a wheat-ear among thorns."

"'_E_ prayed for _me--'im_?"

Bindle removed his pipe from his mouth, and gripping the bowl between
thumb and finger, pointed what remained of the stem at Mrs. Bindle, as
she stuck a hat-pin through her bonnet and placed it on the dresser.

"'_E_ prayed for _me_?"  The words came with such deliberation and
intensity that Mrs. Bindle glanced round sharply.

"Yes!" she snapped, "an' you want it.  You're nothin' but an 'eathen."
Mrs. Bindle was forgetting her careful articulation.

"A brother fallen by the roadside----"

"Wayside," corrected Mrs. Bindle, as she banged a loaf on the table.

"A brother 'oo 'as fallen by the wayside, a wheat-ear among thorns,"
murmured Bindle as if to himself.  Suddenly he grinned; the humour of
the thing seemed to strike him.  "Prayed for in church--leastwise
chapel--jest like the Royal Family an' rain.  You're comin' on, Joe
Bindle," he chuckled.

"Seems to amuse you," remarked Mrs. Bindle as she took her place at the
table.

"Yer've 'it it," replied Bindle, as he skilfully opened the tin of
salmon.  "Yer've just 'it it.  Alfred 'Earty was sent to annoy 'eaven
with 'is 'ymns and tickle up Joe Bindle with 'is prayers."

"If you was more like what he is, you'd be a better man."

"'Earty is as 'Earty does," flashed Bindle with a grin.  Then after a
pause to enable him to reduce a particularly large mouthful of bread
and salmon to conversational proportions, he continued:

"If I 'ad the runnin' of this 'ere world, there'd be some rather big
alterations, with a sort of 'end o' the season' sale, an' there'd be
some pretty cheap lines in parsons an' greengrocers, not to speak of
chapel-goers."

"I'm surprised at you, Bindle, talking such blasphemies in a Christian
'ome.  Unless you stop I'll go out."

"Not while there's any salmon left, Mrs. B.," remarked Bindle
oracularly.

"You're a bad man.  I done my best, I'm sure----"

"You 'ave; if yer'd done yer second best or yer third best, Joe Bindle
might 'a been a better man than wot 'e is."  Bindle dug a morsel of
salmon out of the tin with the point of his knife.  "I been too well
brought up, that's wot's the matter wi' me."

"You're always scoffin' and sneerin' at me an' the chapel," responded
Mrs. Bindle tartly.  "It don't hurt me, whatever you may think."

"There you're wrong, me blossom."  Bindle was in high spirits.  His
mind had been busily at work, and he saw a way of "bein' a bloomin'
thorn in 'Earty's wheat-ear 'ole."

"I ain't a scoffer; it's just that I don't understan' 'ow a thing wot
was meant to make people 'appy, seems to make 'em about as joyful as a
winkle wot feels the pin."

"Winkles are boiled first," retorted the literal Mrs. Bindle, wiping
round her plate with a piece of bread; "an' bein' dead don't feel pins.
I wouldn't eat them if it hurt.  Besides, winkles haven't anythin' to
do with religion."

"That's wot makes 'em so tasty," retorted Bindle.  "You an' 'Earty 'ave
sort o' spoiled me appetite for religion; but winkles still 'old me."
After a short silence he continued, "I never see a religious cove yet
wot I 'ad any likin' for, leastwise, wot said 'e was religious.  It's a
funny thing, but as soon as people become good they seems to get about
as comfortable to live with as an 'edge'og in bed.

"Funny thing, religion," Bindle continued.  "There was one cove I
know'd 'oo spent 'is time in 'avin' D.T.'s and gettin' saved, about
'alf an' 'alf, with a slight leanin' to D.T.'s.  We called 'im Suds an'
Salvation, 'suds' bein' 'is name for beer.

"Look at 'Earty, now.  'E's always talkin' of 'eaven, but 'e ain't in
no 'urry to get there.  'E's as nippy as a cat if 'e 'ears a motor
'ooter when 'e's crossin' the road; and 'e 'ustles like 'ell to get
inside of a bus when it's rainin'."

"His life is not 'is own, and he's waitin' his call."

Bindle looked up with a laugh.

"'Ow'll 'e know it's for 'im an' not next door?" he asked.

"I won't listen to your evil talk," announced Mrs. Bindle, half rising
from her chair, and then resuming her seat again as if thinking better
of her determination.

"When," continued Bindle imperturbably, "I 'ears of a place where the
beer's better an' cheaper than wot I gets 'ere, orf I goes like a bunny
after a lettuce.  Now you an' 'Earty knows that in 'eaven 'appiness is
better an' cheaper than wot it is 'ere, yet yer does all yer can to
keep away from it; and they're all the same.  That's wot does me."

"If you wasn't such an 'eathen you'd understand," stormed Mrs. Bindle,
"and my life would be 'appier.  You won't go to chapel, an' you won't
'ave a bath, and----"

"I don't 'old with all this talk o' washin'.  It ain't natural," broke
in Bindle cheerfully.  "Look at the ladies.  Wot do they do?  When they
gets sort o' soiled, do they wash?  Not a bit of it; they shoves on
another coat of powder to cover it up.  I seen 'em doin' it."

"Scarlet women!"  Mrs. Bindle's jaws snapped loudly.

"Yes, an' pink an' white 'uns too.  I seen all sorts doin' it--which
reminds me of 'ow ole Snooker lorst 'is job.  'E wos sent round by 'is
guv'nor to a lady with an estimate for white-washin' and paper-'angin'.
When she saw the price she gives a sort of screech o' surprise.

"'This is very expensive,' she says.  'It didn't cost little more than
'alf this last time.'

"'It's the right price, mum,' says Snooker.  'I been through it
myself,' 'e says.

"'But I don't understand,' says she.

"'Well, mum,' says Snooker, 'there's the ceilin's to be washed off,' 'e
says, 'an' the old paper to be stripped off the walls,' 'e says, 'and
it all takes time.'

"'But is that necessary?' says the lady.

"'Well, mum,' says Snooker, quiet like, 'yer wouldn't put clean
stockin's on dirty legs, would yer?' says 'e.

"She was as angry as an 'en, and wrote in that Snooker 'ad been sayin'
disgustin' things, 'im wot blows a cornet in the Salvation Band o'
Sundays.  Why, 'e ain't got enough wind left on week-days to be
disgustin' with.  Any'ow 'e lorst 'is job, and the lady went to someone
else as didn't talk about legs."

"Y' ought to be ashamed of yourself, Joseph Bindle, telling me such
lewd tales."

"'Lewd!'  Wot's that?" queried Bindle.

"An abomination in the sight of the Lord," replied Mrs. Bindle
sententiously.  "Your talk ain't fit for a woman to listen to.  Last
time we was at Mr. Hearty's you was speakin' of babies in front of
Millie.  I went hot all over."

"Is babies lewd then?" enquired Bindle innocently.

"They're born in sin."

"Oh, Lord!" grinned Bindle, "I'm always doin' it.  Fancy babies bein'
as bad as that."

"You shouldn't speak about them before a young girl like Millie."

"Babies is funny things," remarked Bindle, replacing his empty glass on
the table, and wiping his mouth with the back of his disengaged hand.
"Babies is funny things.  If yer want one it never seems to come; but
if yer don't want 'em it rains babies, an' 'fore yer know it you've got
a dose or two o' triplets at three pound a bunch from the King.  There
wos 'Arry Brown; 'e wanted a kid, and 'e 'ated kittens.  Yet 'is missis
never 'ad a baby, though the cat was always 'avin' kittens, which shows
as there wasn't anythink wrong wi' the 'ouse."

"I'm goin' to bed," announced Mrs. Bindle, as she rose.  "Your talk
ain't fit for decent ears to listen to.  If it wasn't the Sabbath I'd
tell you wot I think of you."

"I'm goin' out," announced Bindle with decision.

"At this time?  You ain't goin' round to Mr. Hearty's?"  There was a
note of anxiety in Mrs. Bindle's voice.  "It's past nine o'clock."

"I ain't decided whether I'll punch 'Earty's 'ead or go an' get drunk.
I'm sick of all this 'umbug."

Whilst speaking, Bindle had seized his coat and cap, and made for the
door.  The utterance of the last word synchronised with the banging of
the door itself.

Bindle walked to the Fulham Road, where he boarded an east-bound bus.
At Beaufort Street he alighted, and a few minutes later was ringing the
bell at 550 Beaufort Mansions, the address given to him by Dick Little.
The door was opened by Little himself.

"Why, it's Aristophanes," he said with obvious pleasure.

"No, sir, Joe Bindle."

"Come in, man, whoever you are.  Come in, you're just the man we want,"
said Dick Little heartily.

At that moment there was a gust of laughter from an adjoining room.

"I'm afraid you got friends, sir," said Bindle, hesitating on the mat.
"I'll call round another night, sir.  Shouldn't like to interrupt you."

"Rot!  Come in," Little replied, dragging Bindle towards the room from
whence the laughter came.  Through the door he cried out:

"Shut up that damned row.  Here's Bindle, the immortal Bindle."

The momentary hush that Little's command had produced was followed by
yells of delight which crystallised into, "For he's a Jolly Good
Fellow!"

Bindle stood at the door listening in amazement; then with a grin
remarked to Little:

"Seem to know me, sir; seem sort o' fond of me."

"Know you, Bindle, my boy?  There's not a fellow in Tim's that doesn't
know and love you.  A toast, you fellows," he cried.

Little seized a glass half-full of whisky-and-soda.  "A toast," he
cried, "to Bindle the Incomparable, rival of Aristophanes as a maker of
mirth."

Cries of "Bindle!  Bindle!" echoed from all parts of the smoke-dimmed
room, and again there broke out what Dick Little called "the National
Anthem of Good Fellowship," followed by calls for a speech.

Before he knew it Bindle was hoisted upon the table, where he stood
gazing down upon some eight or ten flushed faces.

"Gentlemen, chair, please."  Little rapped a glass on the table.
Silence ensued.  "Now, Aristophanes," to Bindle.

"Bindle, sir, plain Joe Bindle, _if_ you please."  Then turning to the
expectant faces round him Bindle began his first speech.

"Gentlemen--leastways, I 'ope so.  You all seem to know me, and
likewise to be very fond o' me; well, p'r'aps I might become fond o'
you if I don't get to know too much about yer 'abits.  I'm sorry to
break up this 'ere prayer-meetin', but I come to 'ave a word with Mr.
Little."  (Cries of "Have it with us.")  "Very well, then," continued
Bindle.  "I got a brother-in-law, 'Earty by name."  (There were cries
of "Good old Hearty!")  "Seem to know 'im too.  P'r'aps yer sings in
the choir at 'is chapel.  Any'ow, 'Earty's been prayin' for me to-night
at 'is chapel, an' I come to arst Mr. Little wot I'd better do."

Bindle's announcement caused a sensation and something of an uproar.
His voice was drowned in cries of "Shame!"

"Just a moment, gentlemen, and I've done.  'E called me 'a brother
fallen by the wayside, a wheat-ear among thorns.'"

Yells of laughter followed this announcement, and Bindle was pulled
down and drink forced upon him.  Soon he was sitting in the most
comfortable armchair in the room, smoking a colossal cigar, with a
large kitchen jug full of beer at his elbow.  He saw before him nearly
a dozen of the most riotous spirits in London listening with eager
interest to his stories and opinions, which they punctuated with gusts
of laughter.  The night was far advanced when at length he rose to go.

"Well, gentlemen," he said, "I never thought that doctors was such
sports.  Now I understand why it is that the ladies is always gettin'
ill.  S' long, and thanks for this friendly little evenin'.  If I've
talked too much you jest come and 'ear Mrs. Bindle one evenin' and
yer'll be glad it's me and not 'er."

As Dick Little showed him out Bindle enquired:

"'Ow am I to get 'ome on that psalm-singin' brother-in-law o'
mine?--that's wot I wants to know.  Prayin' for me in chapel."  Bindle
wreaked his disgust on the match he was striking.

"I'll think it over," said Little, "and let you know.  Good-night, and
thanks for coming.  We shall always be glad to see you any Sunday
night."

"Different from 'Earty's Sunday nights," muttered Bindle, as he walked
away.  "I wonder which makes the best men.  It's a good job I ain't got
anythink to do with 'eaven, or them wheat-ears might sort o' get mixed
wi' the thorns."




CHAPTER XI

MR. HEARTY BECOMES EXTREMELY UNPOPULAR

"'Earty may be all 'ymns an' whiskers," Bindle had said, "an' I 'ate
'is 'oly look an' oily ways; but 'e sticks to his job an' works like a
blackleg.  It don't seem to give 'im no pleasure though.  'E don't
often smile, an' when 'e does it's as if 'e thought Gawd was a-goin' to
charge it up against 'im."

Mr. Hearty was an excellent tradesman; he sold nothing that he had not
bought himself, and Covent Garden knew no shrewder judge of what to buy
and what not to buy, or, as Bindle phrased it:

"'E's so used to lookin' for sin in the soul that 'e can see a rotten
apple in the middle of a barrel without knockin' the top off.  Yes,
I'll give 'Earty 'is due.  There ain't many as can knock spots off 'im
as a greengrocer, though as far as bein' a man, I seen better things
than 'im come out o' cheese."

On the Saturday morning after Bindle's visit to Dick Little, Mr. Hearty
was busily engaged in superintending the arrangement of his Fulham High
Street shop, giving an order here and a touch there, always with
excellent results.

According to his wont he had returned from market before eight o'clock,
breakfasted, hurried round to his other shop in the Wandsworth Bridge
Road, and before ten was back again at Fulham.

He was occupied in putting the finishing touches to a honey-coloured
pyramid of apples, each in its nest of pink paper like a setting hen,
when an ill-favoured man entered leading an enormous dog, in which the
salient points of the mastiff, bull-terrier, and French poodle
struggled for expression.  The man looked at a dirty piece of paper he
held in his hand.

"Name of 'Earty?" he interrogated.

"I am Mr. Hearty," was the reply, uttered in a voice that was intended
to suggest dignity with just a dash of Christian forbearance.

"I brought your dawg," said the man with ingratiating geniality, baring
three dark-brown stumps that had once been teeth; "I brought your
dawg," he repeated, looking down at what appeared to be four enormous
legs loosely attached to a long, sinuous body.

"You're mistaken," said Mr. Hearty.  "It's not mine; I don't keep a
dog."

"My mistake, guv'nor," replied the man with a grin; "I should 'a said
the dawg wot you're a-lookin' for.  'Ere, Lily, drop it."

This last remark was addressed to the dog, who, seeing Mr. Hearty's
soft black felt hat lying on a box, had seized it in her enormous jaws.
She looked up at her master and shook the hat roguishly with a gurgle
of joy; but a sharp cuff on the muzzle caused her to drop what her
teeth and saliva had already ruined.

"This is just the dawg you're wantin'," continued the man pleasantly,
indicating Lily, who had lain down and was now occupying the entire
centre of the shop, looking about her with distended jaws and a great
flap of whitey-red tongue hanging out amiably.  "Playful as a kitten,
and an 'ouse-dog as 'ud eat a burglar an' then go back to dawg-biscuit
wivout a murmur.  She's some dawg, is Lily!"

"But I don't want a dog," replied Mr. Hearty, eyeing his hat, which the
man was endeavouring to clean with his coat-sleeve.  "Will you please
take it away?"  There was a note of asperity in his voice.

"Don't want a dawg?  Don't want a dawg?"  There was menace in the man's
manner that caused Mr. Hearty some anxiety, and he looked appealingly
at Smith, his chief assistant, and the boy, who stood regarding the
episode with an enjoyment they dare not express.

"Don't want a dawg?" repeated the man for the third time.  "You jest
read this," thrusting out towards Mr. Hearty the dirty piece of paper
he held in his hand.  "You jest read this an' you'll ruddy well see
that yer do want a dawg, an' this 'ere is the dawg yer want."

Mr. Hearty mechanically took the piece of paper the man thrust towards
him.  It was a cutting of an advertisement, which read:


"DOG WANTED, breed not important, provided it is a large and good
house-dog.  Not to cost more than L4.  Apply personally with animal to
Alfred Hearty, 530 Fulham High Street, S.W., on Saturday at 10.30 a.m."


Mr. Hearty looked from the paper to Lily's owner in an uncomprehending
way and then back to the advertisement again.

"The breed ain't important in Lily," remarked the man.  "She's took
prizes as a mastiff, a French poodle, a bull-terrier, and a pom., and
she got hon'ble mention as a grey'ound once.  She'll chaw up a man she
don't like, won't yer, Lily, old gal?"

Lily looked up with a ridiculously amiable expression for a dog
possessed of such qualities.

"But I don't want a dog," repeated Mr. Hearty, looking helplessly at
Smith.

"Then wot the grumblin' 'ereafter do yer put in this advertisement
for?" growled the man angrily.

"But I didn't."

"Is your name 'Earty?"

"I am Mr. Hearty."

"Then you want a dawg, an' Lily's your dawg, an' I want four pound.
Now, 'and it over, guv'nor.  I'm in a 'urry.  I ain't a bloomin'
non-stop."

At that moment a middle-aged woman entered, followed by a very small
boy with a very large dog, as indeterminate as to pedigree as Lily
herself.  The woman looked about her and approached Smith.

"Mr. Hearty?" she almost whispered.

Smith, a man of few words, jerked his thumb in the direction of his
employer.  The woman walked over to him.  Meanwhile the new dog had
growled ominously at Lily, who, throwing out her forepaws and
depressing her head upon them, had playfully challenged it to a romp.

"Mr. Hearty?" meekly enquired the woman.

As she spoke a woman and two more men with other dogs entered the shop.
These were quickly followed by another woman of a
I
-know-what-I-want-and-'Uggins-is-my-name-an'-I've-got-me-marriage-lines
appearance.  Following her came a mild-mannered man with yet another
dog, larger and more bewildering in the matter of breed than Lily and
the other animal combined.

"I want to see Mr. 'Earty," announced the third woman to Smith.  Smith
indicated Mr. Hearty in his usual manner by a jerk of the thumb.

"I come in answer to the advertisement," she announced.

"For a dawg?" enquired Lily's owner suspiciously.

"For an 'ousekeeper," replied the woman aggressively.  "Wot's that got
to do wi' you?  You ain't Mr. 'Earty, are yer?  You jest shut yer ugly
face."

The man subsided.

The shop was now full.  Lily and the second dog had decided to be
friends, and had formed an alliance against the third dog.  In their
gambols they had already upset a basket of apples.

Whilst Mr. Hearty was endeavouring to convince Lily's owner that not
only did he not require a dog, but that as a matter of fact he had a
marked antipathy for the whole species, other animals continued to
arrive.  They grouped themselves outside with their owners, together
with a nondescript collection of men, women, and boys, with and without
dogs.  All seemed inspired with the same ambition--to interview Mr.
Hearty.

Mr. Hearty looked at the sea of faces outside as an actor suffering
from stage-fright might gaze at the audience that had bereft him of the
power to speak or move.  He felt that he must act promptly, even
sternly; but he was not a brave man and saw that he was faced by a
crowd of potential enemies.  Summoning up all his courage he turned to
Lily's owner.

"Kindly remove that dog," he ordered in what he meant to be a stern
voice, indicating Lily, who was playing a game of hide-and-seek round
an apple-barrel with a pomeranian-Irish-terrier.

"'Oo are you talkin' to?  Just answer me that," demanded Lily's owner.

Mr. Hearty saw clearly that the man intended to be awkward, even
insolent.

"I am speaking to you, and unless you take that dog away, I--I----"
Mr. Hearty stopped, wondering what he really would do.  What ought he
to do under such circumstances?

"Why did yer advertise?" demanded the aggressive woman.

"I didn't," replied Mr. Hearty miserably, turning to his new assailant.
"I have advertised for nothing."

"Didn't yer advertise for a 'ousekeeper?" continued the woman.

"No!"

"Yer a blinkin' liar."

At this uncompromising rejoinder Mr. Hearty started.  He was
unaccustomed to such directness of speech.

"Unless you are civil I shall order you out of my shop," retorted Mr.
Hearty angrily.

"An' if yer do I shan't go; see?"  The woman placed her hands on her
hips and looked at Mr. Hearty insultingly.  "Look at 'im," she
continued, addressing the crowd, "playin' 'is dirty jokes on pore
people.  I paid eightpence return to get 'ere all the way from Brixton,
then 'e says it's a joke."

There was an ominous murmur from the others.  All sorts of epithets
were hurled at Mr. Hearty.

"Will yer pay our fares?"

"I'll punch 'is bloomin' 'ead till it aches!"

"Let me get at 'im!"

"Yer dirty tyke!"

"You goin' to buy my dawg?" demanded Lily's owner, thrusting his face
so close to Mr. Hearty's that their noses almost touched.

"No, I'm not," shouted Mr. Hearty in desperation.  "Smith, put this man
and his dog out."

Smith looked embarrassed and Lily's owner laughed outright, a sneering,
insulting laugh, which his black stumps of teeth seemed to render more
sinister and menacing.

Mr. Hearty felt that the situation was passing beyond his control.  How
had it all happened and what did it mean?  Events had followed upon one
another so swiftly that he was bewildered.  Where were the police?
What did he pay rates and taxes for if he were to be subjected to this?
What would be the end of it all?  Would they kill him?

Just as he saw himself being bruised and buffeted by a furious crowd, a
shadow fell across the shop as a pantechnicon drew up outside.  It was
one of three, and from the tail-board of the last Bindle slipped off
and began forcing his way towards the shop entrance.

"Now then," he called out cheerfully, "make way there.  I'm the brother
o' the corpse.  Wot's it all about--a fire or a dog-show?"

The crowd good-humouredly made room.  Pushing his way into the shop he
hailed his brother-in-law.

"'Ullo, 'Earty; 'oldin' a levee?  What-oh!"

"'E wants a dawg," broke in the dog man, indicating Lily with a jerk of
his thumb.

"I come all the way from Brixton," shouted the would-be housekeeper.

"An' very nice, too," replied Bindle, as he pushed his way to the side
of Mr. Hearty, who was listening with anguished intentness to an eager
group of women whose one desire seemed to caretake for him.

Bindle looked round the shop with a puzzled expression, his eyes
finally resting on Lily.

"Call that a dawg?" he enquired of Lily's owner with an incredulous
grin.

"Yus, I do," replied the man aggressively.  "What 'ud you call it?  A
rosy kitten?"

"Well," remarked Bindle imperturbably, regarding Lily critically,
"since you arsts me, I'd call it a bloomin' 'istory o' dawgs in one
volume."

"Where'll yer 'ave the coal, guv'nor?" bawled a voice from the fringe
of the crowd.

At that moment Mrs. Hearty entered from the parlour behind the shop.
She gazed about her in mild wonderment.

"We don't want any coals, Alf.  We had them in last week."  Mrs. Hearty
subsided into a chair.  Suddenly her eyes fell upon Lily, who was
trying to shake off her head Mr. Hearty's hat, which someone had placed
there, and she collapsed, helpless with laughter.

"'Ere, get out of it," cried Bindle, giving Lily a cuff, whereat she
yelped dismally.  Providence had evidently intended her for doughty
deeds, having endowed her with the frame of an Amazon, but had then
lost interest and given her the heart of a craven.

By dint of threats, badinage, and persuasion Bindle at last cleared the
shop of all save Mr. and Mrs. Hearty, Smith, and the boy.  Posting the
staff at the door with instructions to admit no one, Bindle approached
his brother-in-law.

"Wot jer been doin', 'Earty?  The 'ole bloomin' street's full o' carts
and people wantin' to see yer.  I brought three vans.  What's it all
about?"

Never had Mr. Hearty been so genuinely pleased to see Bindle.  Before
he had time to reply to his question, a big man pushed his way past
Smith and entered the shop.

"Where'll yer 'ave the beer, guv'nor?" he shouted in a thick, hearty
voice redolent of the Trade.

"'Ere, come out of the way," shouted a small wiry man who had followed
him in.  "All this little lot goin'?" he asked, nodding in the
direction of the crowd that blocked the street.  "I only got three
brakes, an' they won't take 'em all."

"What's _your_ little game?" Bindle enquired of the newcomer.

The brakeman eyed him with scornful contempt.

"You Mr. 'Earty?" he enquired.

"I'm 'is brother; 'e's been took ill.  There's a mistake.  You better
get 'ome."

"Get 'ome!" shouted the man.  "'Oo's goin' to pay?"

"Try Lloyd George!" suggested Bindle cheerfully.

A policeman pushed his way into the shop and Bindle slipped out.  The
real drama was being enacted outside.  From all directions a steady
stream of people was pouring towards Mr. Hearty's shop.

"'Earty, 'Earty," murmured Bindle joyously to himself, as he surveyed
the High Street, "wot 'ave yer been an' done?"

The place presented an extraordinary appearance.

There were coal-carts, strings of them, brewers'-drays, laundry-carts,
railway-vans, huge two-horse affairs, pantechnicons, char-a-bancs,
large carts, small carts, and medium-sized carts.  There were vehicles
with one, two, and three horses.  There were motor-cars, motor-vans,
motor-lorries, and motor-cycles.  There were donkey-carts,
spring-carts, push-carts, and pull-carts.  Everything capable of
delivering goods was represented, and all were locked together in a
hopelessly congested mass.

Everything had come to a standstill and the trams strove in vain to
clang their way through the inextricable tangle.

The footpaths were crowded with men, women, boys, and dogs, all
endeavouring to reach Mr. Hearty's shop, the Mecca of their pilgrimage.
Crowds overflowed the paths into the roadway and seemed to cement
together the traffic.

Bindle passed along the line intent on gleaning all the information he
could.

"'Ave yer come after the job o' 'ousekeeper, nurse, or dawg?" he asked
one seedy-looking man with an alarming growth of nose.

"'Ow about my railway fare?"' enquired Lily's owner, recognising
Bindle.  "'Oo's goin' to pay it?"

"You're a-goin' to pay it yerself, ole sport, unless you're goin' to
walk."  Then eyeing the man critically he added, "A little exercise
might ease yer figure a bit."

Bindle pushed among the throng of disappointed applicants for
employment and deliverers of goods.  Fate had been kind to him in
sending him this glorious jest.

"Might 'a been foundin' a colony," he muttered, as he passed from group
to group; "'e ain't forgot nothink: plumbers, bricklayers, vans,
'ousekeepers, dawgs, kids to adopt, 'orses, carpenters, caretakers,
shovers; an' 'e's ordered everythink what ever growed or was made,
_includin'_ beer, enough to keep the Guards drunk for a year.  'Earty's
mad, pore chap.  Religion do take some that way."

At first Bindle had been puzzled to account for the throngs of
applicants; but enquiry made things very clear.  In every case the
advertisements--and they had appeared in every daily and innumerable
weekly papers--stated the wages, which were unusually high.  A vanman
was offered fifty shillings a week, a housekeeper thirty shillings a
week all found; for an errand-boy fifteen shillings a week was
suggested, and ten pounds as a bonus to the parents of the child that
was to be adopted.

The officials at Putney Bridge station were puzzled to account for the
extraordinary increase in the westward-bound traffic on that Saturday
morning; but what particularly surprised them was the stream of dogs
that each train seemed to pour forth.

The run upon dog-tickets at certain East-end stations broke all
records, and three stationmasters had to telephone to headquarters for
a further supply.

Dogs occupied the gangways of every train arriving at Putney Bridge
station between 10 a.m. and 10.40 a.m.  Dogs growled, fawned, and
quarrelled.

The stream of dogs, however, was as nothing to the stream of men, women
and boys, and small children for adoption.  The station officials and
the bus-men outside wearied of instructing people how to get to Fulham
High Street.

The congestion of traffic in Fulham High Street was felt as far east as
Piccadilly and the Strand, where the police on point duty were at a
loss to account for it.  The disorganisation in the tram service was in
evidence equally at Wood Green and Wandsworth.

Certain elements in the crowd, notably the younger and more
light-hearted sections, in particular those who lived in the
neighbourhood and were not out of pocket for railway fares, were
inclined to regard the whole affair as a huge joke, and badinage flowed
freely.  There was, however, another section that thirsted for
somebody's blood, and was inclined to regard Mr. Hearty as the person
most suitable to supply this.

In the immediate vicinity of the shop-door the excitement was intense,
everyone pushing and striving to get nearer.  There was no suggestion
of personal feeling save in the case of those who were bent on the same
errand.  Thus a potential housekeeper felt nothing but friendliness for
a would-be dog-seller, whilst a hopeful housemaid was capable of
experiencing almost an affection for a mother who had a spare offspring
she was wishful of having adopted.

When the first brewers' dray drew up it was greeted with cheers, and
one man who drove up in a donkey-cart with a flashily-dressed young
woman was greeted with the inevitable:

  "Who's your lady friend?  I am surprised at you,
  It isn't the one I saw you with at 'Ampstead,"

sung by a score of robust voices.

Cries, cat-calls, and advice to those inside to "save a drop for
uncle," and "'urry up," were continuous.  Many crude jokes were
levelled at Mr. Hearty's name.

When the helmets of the police were seen bobbing their way through the
crowd there were prolonged cheers.

The first policeman to arrive, having foreseen the possibility of
trouble, had promptly telephoned for assistance.  At the time the
reinforcements arrived, including an inspector and two mounted
constables, the attitude of the crowd was beginning to assume an ugly
look.  One of the more aggressive spirits had endeavoured to single out
Mr. Hearty as a target for one of his own potatoes; but he had,
unfortunately for him, hit the policeman, whose action had been so
swift and uncompromising that there was no further attempt at disorder.

The inspector quickly saw that very little that was coherent could be
obtained from Mr. Hearty.  It was Bindle who supplied the details of
what had occurred.

"'Earty's me brother-in-law," he replied.  "'E's either gone off 'is
onion or someone's been pullin' 'is leg.  All this 'ere little lot,"
and Bindle indicated the congested High Street, "'as brought 'im things
they says 'e's ordered, and 'e says 'e ain't, an' them crowds of men,
women, and dogs and kids 'as come sayin' he wants to give 'em jobs or
'omes."

The inspector asked a few questions, and gleaned sufficient information
to convince him that this was a huge practical joke, and that prompt
action was imperative.  He telephoned for more men and set to work in
an endeavour to organise the traffic and reduce it to manageable
proportions.

Constables were placed at different points along the main thoroughfare
leading to Fulham High Street, asking all drivers and chauffeurs if
they were bound for Mr. Alfred Hearty's shop in Fulham High Street, and
if so sending them back.  Men were stationed at Hammersmith and Putney
High Street to divert the streams of traffic that still poured towards
Fulham.

Putney and Fulham had never seen anything like it.  Families went
dinnerless because housewives either could not get to the shops, or
could not get away from them again.  Telephones rang, and irate
housekeepers enquired when the materials for lunch were coming.
Taxicab drivers with fares sat stolidly at the wheel, conscious that
their income was increasing automatically, whilst the fares themselves
fumed and fussed as they saw their twopences vanish.

It was not until past one o'clock that the trams restarted, and it was
2.30 before Bindle got back to the yard with his three pantechnicons.

"Poor ole 'Earty's got it in the neck this time," he muttered as he
turned back towards Fulham High Street to lend a hand in putting things
straight.  Mr. Hearty was distracted at the thought that none of his
customers had received their fruit and vegetables, and Bindle was
genuinely sorry for him.  All that afternoon and late into the night he
worked, helping to weigh up and deliver orders; and when he eventually
left the shop at a few minutes before midnight, he was "as tired as a
performin' flea."

"I like 'Earty when 'e goes mad," he muttered to himself as he left the
shop.  "It sort o' wakes up sleepy old Fulham.  I wonder 'oo it was.
Shouldn't be surprised if I could spot 'im.  If it ain't Mr. Dick
Little call me Jack Johnson.  I wish 'e 'adn't done it, though."

Bindle was thinking of the pathetic figure Mr. Hearty had cut, and of
the feverish manner in which he had worked to make up for the lost
hours, Bindle had been genuinely touched when, as he was about to leave
the shop, his brother-in-law had shaken him warmly by the hand and, in
an unsteady voice, thanked him for his help.  Then looking round as if
searching for something, he had suddenly seized the largest pineapple
from the brass rail in the window, thrust it upon the astonished
Bindle, and fled into the back room.

For some seconds Bindle had stood looking from the fruit to the door
through which his brother-in-law had disappeared, then, replacing it on
the rack, he had quietly left the shop, muttering: "It takes a long
time to get to know even yer own relations.  Queer ole card, 'Earty."




CHAPTER XII

BINDLE AGREES TO BECOME A MILLIONAIRE


I

As the intervals between Mr. Hearty's invitations for Sunday evenings
lengthened, Bindle became a more frequent visitor at Dick Little's
flat, where he could always be sure of finding jovial kindred spirits.

Both Mrs. Hearty and Millie missed Bindle, and broadly hinted the fact
to Mr. Hearty; but he enjoyed too well his Sunday evening hymns to
sacrifice them on the altar of hospitality.  Millie in particular
resented the change.  She disliked intensely the hymn-singing, and she
was greatly attached to "Uncle Joe."

At Dick Little's flat Bindle found ample compensation for the loss of
Mr. Hearty's very uncordial hospitality.

"Mrs. Bindle ain't at 'er best Sunday evenin's," he had confided to
Dick Little.  "'Er soul seems to sort of itch a bit an' 'er not able to
scratch it."

He was always assured of a welcome at Chelsea, and the shout that
invariably greeted his entrance flattered him.

"Different from ole 'Earty's 'Good-evenin', Joseph,'" he would remark.
"I'd like 'Earty to meet this little lot."

One Sunday evening, about nine o'clock, Bindle made his way round to
the flat, and found Dick Little alone with his brother Tom, who was
spending the week-end in town.  Bindle had not previously met Tom
Little, who, however, greeted him warmly as an old friend.

"P'r'aps I'd better be goin'," suggested Bindle tentatively, "seein' as
you're----"

"Not a bit of it," broke in Dick Little; "sit down, mix yourself a
drink; there are the cigars."

Bindle did as he was bid.

"We were talking about Gravy when you came in," remarked Tom Little.

"An' very nice too, with a cut from the joint an' two vegs.," remarked
Bindle pleasantly.

Dick Little explained that "Gravy" was the nickname by which Mr.
Reginald Graves was known to his fellow-undergraduates.  "We're about
fed up with him at Joe's," Tom Little added.

"An' 'oo might Joe be, sir, when 'e's at 'ome, an' properly labelled?"
enquired Bindle.

"It's St. Joseph's College, Oxford, where my brother is," explained
Dick Little.

In the course of the next half-hour Bindle learned a great deal about
Mr. Reginald Graves, who had reached Oxford by means of scholarship,
and considered that he had suffered loss of caste in consequence.  His
one object in life was to undo the mischief wrought by circumstances.
He could not boast of a long line of ancestry; in fact, on one occasion
when in a reminiscent mood he had remarked:

"I had a grandfather----"

"Had you?" was the scathing comment of another man.  The story had been
retailed with great gusto among the men of St. Joseph's.

Reginald Graves was a snob, which prompted him to believe that all men
were snobs.  _Burke's Peerage_ and _Kelly's Landed Gentry_ were at once
his inspiration and his cross.  He used them constantly himself,
looking up the ancestry of every man he met.  He was convinced that his
lack of "family" was responsible for his unpopularity.

In his opinion, failing "blood" the next best thing to possess was
money, and he lost no opportunity of throwing out dark and covert hints
as to the enormous wealth possessed by the Graves and Williams
families, Williams being his mother's maiden name.

His favourite boast, however, was of an uncle in Australia.  Josiah
Williams had, according to Graves, emigrated many years before.
Fortune dogged his footsteps with almost embarrassing persistence
until, at the time that his nephew Reginald went up to Oxford, he was a
man of almost incredible wealth.  He owned mines that produced fabulous
riches, and runs where the sheep were innumerable.

Graves was purposely vague as to the exact location of his uncle's
sheep-stations, and on one occasion he spent an unhappy evening
under

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