From the direction of Putney Bridge a large crowd was approaching. People were leaning over the sides of omnibuses, staring out of the windows of trams, boys were whistling and exchanging comments, the purport of which Mr.Hearty could not quite catch. In this new excitement he forgot the "alibis," who gradually became absorbed in the growing throng that collected outside the shop.
Mr. Hearty gazed at the approaching multitude, misgiving in his soul. He caught a glimpse of what looked like a pineapple walking in the midst of the crowd, next he saw a carrot, then an orange. He turned away, blinked his eyes and looked again. This time he saw, moving in his direction, an enormous bean, followed by a potato. Yes, there was no doubt about it, fruit and vegetables were walking up Putney High Street!
As they came nearer he saw that each vegetable was leading a donkey, on whose back were two boards, meeting at the top, thus forming a triangle, the base of which was strapped to the animal's back. People were pointing to the boards and laughing. Mr. Hearty could not see what was written on them.
The sensation was terrific. A group of small boys who had run on ahead took up a position near the door of Mr. Hearty's shop.
"That's 'im," cried one, "that's Napoleon."
"No, it ain't," said another, "that's Caesar."
Mechanically Mr. Hearty waved the boys away. They repeated words that to him were meaningless, and then pointed to the approaching crowd. Mr. Hearty was puzzled and alarmed.
"Look! guv'nor, there they are," shouted one of the boys.
Instinctively Mr. Hearty looked. At first he beheld only the donkeys, the animated fruit and the approaching crowd, then he suddenly saw his own name. A motor omnibus intervened. A moment later the donkeys and their boards came into full view. Mr. Hearty gasped.
On their boards were ingenious exhortations to the public to support the enterprise of Alfred Hearty, greengrocer, of Putney, Fulham and Wandsworth. Mr. Hearty read as one in a dream:
Alfred HeartyThe Napoleon of GreengrocersAlfred HeartyThe Caesar of FruiterersAlfred HeartyThe Prince of Potato MerchantsHearty's Two-Shilling PineappleTry it in Your BathHearty's Jerusalem ArtichokesGeneral Allenby Eats ThemThe Germans Fight ForHearty's Brussels Sprouts
As the six animals filed past, Mr. Hearty was conscious that hundreds of eyes were gazing in his direction. He read one sign after another as if hypnotised, then he read them again. Scarcely had the animals passed him, when the pineapple swung round leading his donkey, the others immediately followed. As they came back on the other side of the way, that nearest to Mr. Hearty, he had the benefit of reading further details about the wonderful properties of the fruit and vegetables he retailed. The second set of exhortations to the housewives of Putney ran:
Eat Hearty's Filberts, Oh! Gilbert,The NutNut-Crackers With Every BagHearty's French BeansSaved VerdunTry Hearty's Juicy CabbagesThey Cure BaldnessThe Food Controller Recommends CarrotsTry Hearty's—I HaveAlfred HeartyKnown As Pineapple AlfIf You Don't Buy Your VegetablesFrom Alfred HeartyYou Will Be What I Am
The last-named was particularly appreciated, everybody being able to see the joke and, thinking that no one else had been so clever, each took infinite pains to point it out to his neighbour.
At first Mr. Hearty went very white, then, realising that the crowd was laughing at him, and that he was being rendered ridiculous, he flushed crimson,—turning round he walked intothe shop. There was a feeling in his throat and eyes that reminded him of what he had felt as a child after a storm of crying. His brain seemed deadened. From out the general hum he heard a boy's shrill voice enquiring the whereabouts of his mate, and the mate's reply was heard in the distance.
Suddenly a new sensation dwarfed that of the donkeys.
"Here's another! here's another!" yelled a shrill voice.
The crowd looked up the High Street towards the bridge. With stately lope a camel was pursuing its majestic way. On its back was an enormous water-melon, through which appeared the head of the driver shaded by leaves, a double stalk concealing his legs.
From the shelter of the double brass-rail Mr. Hearty watched the camel as if fascinated. The donkeys had come to a standstill outside the shop. Behind him stood Mrs. Bindle and Smith, the one very grim, the other grinning expansively, whilst from the gloom behind, Mrs. Hearty was heard wheezing and demanding what it was all about.
With stately and indifferent tread the camel approached, with head poised rather like a snake about to strike. Slung over its back on each side were notices. The one Mr. Hearty first saw read:
I've Got the HumpThrough Not Buying Hearty's Vegetables
As the beast swung round, the other motto presented itself:
Eat Hearty's LeeksThey Defy the Plumber
Cheers, cat-calls, loud whistlings and the talk of an eager, excited Saturday-afternoon crowd formed a background to the picture.
"Well, I'm blowed!" muttered Bindle, who had read the notices with keen relish. "Well, I'm blowed! They done it in style."
The excitement was at its height when the steady pounding of a drum was heard in the distance. As it drew nearer, the attention of the crowd was attracted from the donkeys and the camel. Putney was in luck, and it looked gratefully in the direction of where Mr. Hearty stood, a shadowy form behind his double brass-rail.
Bindle recognised the tune the band was playing as that ofMr. Hearty's favourite hymn, "Pull for the Shore, Sailor." As the band entered the High Street, another was heard in the opposite direction.
Bindle turned into the shop and walked up to his brother-in-law, who still stood staring at the strange and curious beasts that were advertising his wares.
"Look 'ere, 'Earty," he said, in his most official manner, "this may be all very well in the way of business; but you're blocking the 'ole bloomin' 'Igh Street."
Mr. Hearty gazed at Bindle with unseeing eyes.
"These bands yours, too, 'Earty?" Bindle enquired.
Mr. Hearty shook his head in hopeless negation. Nothing was his, not even the power to move and rout this scandalous, zoological-botanical exhibition.
"Well, wot are they a-playin' 'ymns for?" demanded Bindle.
"Hymns?" enquired Mr. Hearty in a toneless voice.
"Yes, can't you 'ear 'em?" Bindle gazed at his brother-in-law curiously. "Enough to blow your 'ead orf."
The first band was now blaring out its "Pull for the Shore, Sailor," with full force. At its head walked a man carrying a representation of a cabbage, on which was painted:
Hearty For Cabbages
The bandsmen wore strangely nondescript clothes. With one exception they all seemed to possess the uniform cap, that exception was a man in khaki. Four of them had caps without tunics. Only one had the full regulation uniform; but he was wearing odd boots. The bandmaster, in a braided frock-coat, which reached well below his knees, was spasmodically putting in bits on a cornet; he was short of stature with a constricted wind, and the pace was fast.
The second band approached, the man at its head bearing a carrot with a similar legend as that of the rival concern; but in relation to carrots. "Onward, Christian Soldiers" was its melody. The noise became diabolical. The second band had uniform caps only, and two of its members had taken off their coats and hung them over their shoulders. It was a hot and tiring day.
At the moment when the second band was within a hundred yards of the shop, the camel raised its head and gave vent to its terrifying roar, a rather indifferent attempt to imitate that of a lion.
The "Onward, Christian Soldiers" band was the first to reachthe shop, having a shorter distance to traverse. Its leader was a tall man with a weary face, and a still more weary moustache. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, and his face dripping with perspiration as he blew out what brains he possessed upon a silver cornet. He marched straight up to the door of the shop, blowing vigorously. Suddenly a double beat of the drum gave the signal to stop. Taking off his cap, with the back of his hand he wiped the sweat from his brow. Pushing past Mr. Hearty he entered, a moment after followed by his eleven confrères.
For a moment Mr. Hearty stared, then he retreated backwards before the avalanche of musicians.
"What do you want?" he demanded feebly.
"This the way upstairs, guv'nor?" enquired the tall man.
"Upstairs?" interrogated Mr. Hearty.
"Yus, upstairs, like me to say it again?" queried the man who was tired and short-tempered.
"But, what——?" began Mr. Hearty.
"Oh, go an' roast yourself!" responded the man. "Come along, boys," and they tramped through the back-parlour. Mr. Hearty heard them pounding up the stairs.
The drum, however, refused to go through the narrow door. The drummer tried it at every conceivable angle. At last he recognised that he had met his Waterloo.
"Hi, Charlie!" he yelled.
"'Ullo! That you, Ted?" came the reply from above.
"Ruddy drum's stuck," yelled the drummer, equally hot and exasperated.
"Woooot?" bawled Charlie.
"Ruddy drum won't go up," cried Ted.
"All right, you stay down there, you can 'ear us and keep time," was the response.
The drummer subsided on to a sack of potatoes. Mr. Hearty approached him.
"What are you doing here? You're not my band," he said, eyeing the man apprehensively.
The drummer looked up with the insolence of a man who sees before him indecision.
"Who the blinkin' buttercups said we was?" he demanded.
"But what are you doing here?" persisted Mr. Hearty.
"Oh!" responded the man with elaborate civility, "we come to play forfeits, wot jer think?"
At that moment from the room above the shop the band broke into full blast with "Shall We Gather at the River." The drummer made a grab at his sticks, but was late, and for the rest of the piece, was a beat behind in all his bangs.
Mr. Hearty looked helplessly about him. Another cheer from without caused him to walk to the door. Outside, the "Pull for the Shore, Sailor," faction was performing valiantly. Their blood was up, and they were determined that no one should gather at the river if they could prevent it.
In the distance several more bands were heard, and the pounding became terrific. All traffic had been stopped, and an inspector of police was pushing his way through the crowd in the direction of Mr. Hearty. Bindle joined the inspector, saluting him elaborately.
The inspector eyed Mr. Hearty with official disapproval.
"You must send these men away, sir," he said with decision.
"But—but," said Mr. Hearty, "I can't."
"But you must," said the inspector. "There will be a summons, of course," he added warningly.
"But—why?" protested Mr. Hearty.
The inspector looked at Mr. Hearty, and then gazed up and down Putney High Street. He was annoyed.
"You have blocked the whole place, sir. We've had to stop the trams coming round the Putney Bridge Road. Hi!" he shouted to the drummer who was conscientiously earning his salary.
"Stop that confounded row there!"
The man did not hear.
"Stop it, I say!" shouted the inspector.
The drummer stopped.
"Wot's the matter?" he enquired.
"You're causing an obstruction," said the inspector warningly.
"Ted!" yelled the voice of the leader at the top of the house, who was gathering at the river upon the cornet in a fine frenzy, "wot the 'ell are you stoppin' for?"
"It's the pleece," yelled back Ted informatively.
"The cheese?" bawled back Charlie. "Shouldn't eat it; it always makes you ill. Go ahead and bang that ruddy drum."
"Can't," yelled Ted. "They'll run me in."
The leader was evidently determined not to bandy words with his subordinate. He could be heard pounding down the stairs two at a time, still doing his utmost to interpret the pleasures awaiting Putney in the hereafter. The cornet could be heard approaching nearer and nearer becoming brassier and brassier. The leader was a note behind the rest by the time he had gotto the bottom of the stairs. Arrived in the shop he stopped suddenly at the sight of the inspector.
"Tell them to stop that infernal row," ordered the officer.
He, who had been addressed as Charlie, looked from Mr. Hearty to the inspector.
"There ain't no law that can stop me," he said with decision, "I'm on the enclosed premises. Go ahead, Ted," he commanded, turning to the drummer, "take it out of 'er," and, resuming his cornet, Charlie picked up the tune and raced up the stairs again, leaving Ted "taking it out of 'er" in a way that more than made up for the time he had lost.
The inspector bit his lip. Turning to Mr. Hearty he said, "You will be charged with causing obstruction with all this tomfoolery."
"But—but—it isn't mine," protested Mr. Hearty weakly. "I know nothing about it."
"Nonsense!" said the inspector. "Look at those animals out there."
Mr. Hearty looked, and then looked back at the inspector, who said something; but Mr. Hearty could only see the movement of his lips. The babel became almost incredible. Three more bands had arrived, making five altogether, and there was a sound in the distance that indicated the approach of others. For the first time in his life Ted was experiencing the sweets of being able legally to defy the law, and he was enjoying to the full a novel experience.
At that moment Mrs. Bindle pushed her way into the shop. She had been out to get a better view of what was taking place. She stopped and stared from Mr. Hearty to the inspector, and then back to Mr. Hearty.
"I—I don't know what it means," he stammered, feeling that something was required of him; but no one heard him.
Bindle, who had hitherto been quiet in the presence of his superior officer, now took a hand in matters.
"Look 'ere, 'Earty," he shouted during a lull in the proceedings, "advertisement's advertisement, an' very nice too, but this 'ere is obstruction. Ain't that right, sir?" he said, addressing the inspector; but the inspector did not hear him, it is doubtful if Mr. Hearty heard, for at that moment there had turned into the High Street from Wandsworth Bridge Road a double-drummed band playing something with a slight resemblance to "Gospel Bells," a melody that gives a wonderful opportunity for the trombones.
There were now one band upstairs and five in the High Street, as near to the shop as they could cluster, and a seventh approaching. All were striving to interpret Moody and Sankey as Moody and Sankey had never been interpreted before.
The inspector walked out on to the pavement, and vainly strove to signal to two of his men whose helmets could be seen among the crowd.
Mr. Hearty's eyes followed the officer, but he soon became absorbed in other things. From the Wimbledon end of the High Street he saw bobbing about in the crowd a number of brilliant green caps with yellow braid upon them. The glint of brass in their neighbourhood forewarned him that another band was approaching. From the bobbing movement of the caps, it was obvious that the men were fighting their way in the direction of his, Mr. Hearty's shop.
Glancing in the other direction, Mr. Hearty saw a second stream of dark green and red caps, likewise making for him. When the leader of the green and yellow caps, a good-natured little man carrying a cornet, burst through the crowd, it was like spring breaking in upon winter. The brilliant green tunic with its yellow braid was dazzling in the sunlight, and Mr. Hearty blinked his eyes several times.
"'Ot day, sir," said the little man genially as he took off his cap and, with the edge of his forefinger, removed the sweat from his brow, giving it a flick that sent some of the moisture on to Mr. Hearty, causing him to start back suddenly.
"Sorry, sir," said the man apologetically. "Afraid I splashed you. I suppose we go right through and up. Come along, Razor," he yelled to the last of his bandsmen, a thin, weedy youth, who was still vainly endeavouring to cut his way through the crowd.
Suddenly the little man saw the first drummer banging away vigorously.
"'Ullo, got another little lot inside! You don't 'alf know 'ow to advertise, mister," he said admiringly.
This reminded Mr. Hearty that he possessed a voice.
"There is some mistake. I have not ordered any band," he shouted in the little man's ear.
"Wot?" shouted the little man.
Mr. Hearty repeated his assurance.
"Not ordered any band. Seem to 'ave ordered all the bands in London, as far as I can see," he remarked, looking at therival concerns. "Sort of Crystal Palace affair. You ordered us, any'ow," he added.
"But I didn't," persisted Mr. Hearty. "This is all a mistake."
"Oh, ring orf!" said the leader. "People don't pay in advance for what they don't want. Come along, boys," he cried and, pushing his way along the shop, he passed through the parlour door and was heard thumping upstairs.
"You can't get through," shouted Ted to the second drummer, a mournful-looking man with black whiskers.
"Wot?" he bawled dully.
"Can't get through," yelled Ted.
"Why?" roared the whiskered man.
"Ruddy drum won't go up," shouted Ted.
"Oh!" said the second drummer and, without testing the accuracy of Ted's words, he seated himself upon a barrel of apples, his drum still in position.
There was a sound of loud altercations from above. After a minute they subsided, and the volume of tone increased, showing that Charlie had found expression in his cornet.
"Where's Striker?" came the cry.
"Strikeeeeeeeer!" yelled several voices.
"'Ullo!" howled Striker in a muffled voice.
"We're all ready. Wot the 'ell are you doin', Striker?" came the response.
"Drum won't come up," bawled Striker.
"Wot?"
"Drum won't come up, too big."
"Right-o! you can pick us up," came the leader's reply.
A moment later "Onward, Christian Soldiers," broke out in brassy rivalry to "Shall We Gather at the River."
Mrs. Hearty and Mrs. Bindle fled into the parlour.
It is obvious that whatever phenomenon eternity may have to discover to man, it will not be Christian soldiers gathering at the river. The noise was stupendous. The stream of brassy discord that descended from above was equalled only by the pounding of the two drums that rose from below.
Ted had made some reflections upon the whiskers of the second drummer, with the result that, forgetting their respective bands, they were now engaged in a personal contest, thumping and pounding against each other with both sticks. The sweat poured down their faces, and their mouths were working, each expressing opinions, which, however, the other could not hear. At that moment the dark green caps with red braid began to trickle into the shop.
Bindle, who had been a delighted spectator of the arrival of band after band, suggested to the leader of the eighth band in a roar that just penetrated to the drum of his ear, "'Adn't you better start 'ere, there ain't no room upstairs?"
The man gave a comprehensive look round, then by signs indicated to his men that they were to start then and there. They promptly broke out into "The Last Noel." Bindle ran from the shop, his fingers in his ears.
"Oh, my Gawd! they'll bring the 'ole bloomin' 'ouse down," he muttered. "I 'ope they don't play 'ymns in 'eaven—them drums!"
Mr. Hearty, who had been pushed into a corner behind an apple barrel, stood and gazed about him. There was a dazed look in his eyes, as of one who does not comprehend what is taking place. He looked as if at any moment he might become a jibbering lunatic.
A wild cheer from the crowd attracted his attention. He looked out. Pushing their way towards the shop was a number of vegetables: a carrot, a turnip, a cabbage, a tomato, a cucumber, a potato, a marrow, to name only a few. Each seemed to be on legs and was playing an instrument of some description.
Was he mad? Could that really be a melon playing the drum? Did bananas play cornets? Could cucumbers draw music from piccolos? Mr. Hearty blinked his eyes. Here indeed was a dream, a nightmare. He saw Bindle with an inspector and a constable turn the vegetables back, obviously denying them admission. He watched as one who has no personal interest in the affair. He saw the inspector enter with three constables, he saw the green and red band ejected, Ted and the whiskered man silenced, Charlie and the short genial man brought down protesting from upstairs.
He saw the inspector's busy pencil fly from side to side of his notebook, he saw Bindle grinning cheerfully as he exchanged remarks with the bandsmen, he saw what looked like a never-ending procession of bandsmen stream past him.
He saw everything, he believed nothing. Perhaps it was brain fever. He had worked very hard over his new shop. If he were to die, Smith could never carry on the three businesses. What would become of them? He further knew that his afternoon trade was ruined, that he would probably be summoned for something that he had not done, and tears came to his eyes.
In Mr. Hearty's soul was nothing of the patience and long-suffering of the martyr. Behind him, above him and in front of him he still seemed to hear the indescribable blare of brass. Outside were the cheers of the crowd and the vain endeavours of the police to grapple with the enormous problem that had been set them. What could it all mean?
In the kitchen behind the parlour sat Mrs. Hearty wheezing painfully. Opposite to her stood Mrs. Bindle, tight-lipped and grim.
"That Bindle's done this," she muttered to herself. "It'll kill Mr. Hearty."
"I've been out all day waiting in queues," remarked Mrs. Bindle complainingly, "and all I got was two candles and a quarter of a pound of marjarine."
"An' which are we goin' to 'ave for breakfast to-morrow?" enquired Bindle cheerfully.
"Yes, a lot you care!" retorted Mrs. Bindle, "coming home regular to your meals and expecting them to be ready, and then sitting down and eating. A lot you care!" she repeated.
"Wot jer want to take a lodger for," demanded Bindle, "if you can't get food enough for you an' me?"
"Doesn't his money help us pay our way?" demanded Mrs. Bindle.
"But wot's the good of 'avin' more money, Mrs. B., if you can't get enough food to go round?"
"That's right, go on!" stormed Mrs. Bindle. "A lot of sympathy I get from you, a lot you care about me walking myself off my feet, so long as your stomach's full."
Bindle scratched his head in perplexity, but forbore to retort; instead he hummed Mrs. Bindle's favourite hymn "Gospel Bells."
"Look what you done to Mr. Hearty, that Saturday," cried Mrs. Bindle.
"Me!" said Bindle, cursing himself for reminding her by humming the hymn.
"Yes, you!" was the reply. "He had to go to the police-court."
"Well, it's made 'is fortune, an' 'e got orf," replied Bindle.
"Yes, but it might have ruined him. You wouldn't have cared, and in war-time too," Mrs. Bindle added.
"Well, well! the war'll be over some day," said Bindle cheerfully.
"That's what you always say. Why don't they make peace?" demanded Mrs. Bindle, as if Bindle himself were the sole obstacle to the tranquillisation of the world. Mrs. Bindle sat down with a decisiveness that characterised all her movements.
"Sometimes I wish I was dead," she remarked. "There's nothin' but inching and pinching and slaving my fingers to the bone trying to make a shilling go further than it will, and yet they won't make peace."
"Mrs. B.," remarked Bindle, "you best keep to cookin', you're a dab at that, and leave politics to them wot understands 'em. You can't catch a mad dog by puttin' salt on 'is tail. I wonder where ole Guppy is," he continued, glancing at the kitchen clock, which pointed to half-past nine. "It ain't often 'e lets praying get in the way of 'is meals."
"I hope nothing has happened to him," remarked Mrs. Bindle a little anxiously.
"No fear o' that," replied Bindle regretfully. "Things don't 'appen to men like Gupperduck; still it's funny 'im missin' a meal," he added.
At a quarter to ten Mrs. Bindle reluctantly acquiesced in Bindle's demand for supper. She was clearly anxious, listening intently for the familiar sound of Mr. Gupperduck's key in the outer door.
"I wonder what could have happened?" she said as the clock indicated a quarter past ten and she rose to clear away.
"P'raps 'e's been took up to 'eaven like that cove wot 'Earty was talkin' about the other night," suggested Bindle.
Mrs. Bindle's sniff intimated that she considered such a remark unworthy of her attention.
"Ah! King Richard is 'isself again!" remarked Bindle, pushing his plate from him, throwing himself back in his chair, and proceeding to fill his pipe, indifferent as to what happened to the lodger.
Mrs. Bindle busied herself in putting Mr. Gupperduck's supper in the oven to keep warm.
"Funny sort of job for a man to take up," remarked Bindle conversationally, as he lighted his pipe, "preaching at people wot only laughs back."
"Oh! you think so, do you!" snapped Mrs. Bindle.
"I was listenin' to 'em one afternoon in Regent's Park," remarked Bindle. "Silly sort o' lot they seemed to me."
"You're nothing but a heathen yourself," accused Mrs. Bindle.
"As long as a cove keeps 'is religion to 'imself, I don't see it matters to nobody wot 'e thinks, any more than whether 'e wears blue or pink pants under his trousers."
"Don't be disgusing, Bindle," snapped Mrs. Bindle.
"Disgustin'! what's disgustin'?"
"Talking of what you talked of," replied Mrs. Bindle with asperity.
"Well, I'm blowed!" said Bindle. "There you 'angs 'em on the line on Mondays for everybody to see, and yet you mustn't talk about 'em; well, I'm blowed!" he repeated.
"What do they say in the park?" questioned Mrs. Bindle curiously.
"Oh! they says a lot o' things," replied Bindle. "Personally myself I think the atheists is the funniest. There was one cove there wot was very thin, and very anxious-looking. Said 'e wouldn't insult 'is intelligence by believin' the things wot preachers said, so I put a question to 'im."
"What did you say?" enquired Mrs. Bindle.
"I asks 'im if 'e was quite sure 'e 'ad any intelligence to insult, an' that made 'em laugh."
Mrs. Bindle nodded her head in approval.
Bindle regarded her in wide-eyed amazement. Never before in the whole of his experience had he known her approve word or action of his.
"Did he say anything else?" queried Mrs. Bindle.
"No; 'e soon got down, an' another cove got up. Then they started a Christian meeting next door, and there was them two lots of people shouting all sorts of things at each other. Wot Gawd must 'ave thought of it all does me. Why can't they stay at home and pray if they feel as bad as all that. A day a month at 'ome to blow orf, instead of goin' into Regent's Park, a-kicking up a row so as you can't 'ear the birds sing, makes you feel ashamed o' bein' a man, it does. One chap got up and said he was goin' to prove there wasn't no Gawd."
"And what did he say?" asked Mrs. Bindle with interest.
"All 'e could say was, that 'im and 'is friends 'ad searched everywhere through wot they called the whole physical world, an' they 'adn't found 'Im, therefore there wasn't no Gawd."
"They didn't ought to allow it," commented Mrs. Bindle indignantly.
"Then another cove got up and said 'e 'oped that 'is friend, wot 'ad just got down, 'ad proved to the whole Park that there wasn't no Gawd, and if there was any thinkin' different would they 'old up their 'ands."
"Did anybody hold up their hands?" asked Mrs. Bindle.
"Yes, up went my little 'and like a whiz-bang," announced Bindle.
Mrs. Bindle gave Bindle a look that she usually reserved for Mr. Hearty.
"'Well, sir!' says 'e, lookin' at me, 'wot is your question?'
"'Well,' says I, 'will you and your pals come round with me to-morrow morning an' try and enlist?' There was a rare lot of khaki boys round there, and didn't they raise a yell. That was the end of that meeting. Every time anyone tried to get up an' speak, them khaki boys started a-'ootin' and a-callin' out, and 'avin' of a rare ole time. There was one cove wot made us laugh fit to die. Every time one o' the atheists started talkin', 'e said in a 'igh-pitched voice, 'Oh, Cuthbert, don't!' as if it was a gal wot was being squeezed."
Mrs. Bindle had listened to Bindle with the nearest approach to approval that she had ever shown.
"There was another cove there," continued Bindle, warming to his subject. "Funny little feller 'e was too, all cap an' overcoat, talking about the Judgment Day. Awful things 'e promised us, 'e did. Made out as if Gawd was worse than an 'Un. 'E said 'e'd be standin' beside Gawd when all the people was judged, and 'e'd tell 'Im 'ow 'e'd been in Regent's Park a-warnin' people wot was goin' to 'appen, and no one wouldn't take no notice. Then we was all goin' to be sent into a sort of mixed-grill and burnt for ever. Nice comforting little cove 'e was; pleasant to live with," added Bindle drily.
"Why religion can't make you 'appy without you a-tryin' to make other people un'appy is wot does me. When I got a good cigar I don't go waving it in the face of every cove I meets, saying, 'Ah! you ain't got a cigar like this, you only got a woodbine.' Don't seem good-natured, it don't."
"We've got to save souls," remarked Mrs. Bindle with grim decision.
"But didn't a man ought to be good because he wants to be good, and not because 'e's afraid of being bad?" demanded Bindle.
Mrs. Bindle pondered over this remark for a moment; but finding it too deep for her replied, "You always was a doubter, Bindle; I'd have been a happier woman if you hadn't been."
"But," continued Bindle, "do you think Gawd wants to 'ave a man in chapel wot wants to be at the Empire, only doesn't go because 'e's afraid? I wouldn't if I was Gawd," he added, shaking his head with decision. "Look at 'Earty's 'orse on Saturday nights. Can't 'ardly drag itself to the stables, it can't, yet 'Earty's as sure of 'eaven as I am of you, Mrs. B."
Mrs. Bindle was silent, her manner was distraite, she was listening for the sound of Mr. Gupperduck's return.
"I'd give my sugar ration to know wot we're all a-goin' to do in 'eaven," remarked Bindle meditatively. "Fancy 'Earty there! Wot will 'e do? They won't let 'im sell vegetables, and they'll soon stop 'im singing."
"We shall all have our occupations," remarked Mrs. Bindle oracularly.
"Yes, but wot?" demanded Bindle. "There ain't no furniture to move an' no vegetables to sell. All I can do is to watch 'Earty, an' see 'e don't go round pinchin' angels' meat-tickets."
For once Mrs. Bindle allowed a remark to pass without the inevitable accusation of blasphemy!
"No," remarked Bindle, "if I dies an' they sends me up to 'eaven, I shall knock at the door, an' I shall say, 'Is 'Earty 'ere? 'Earty the Fulham and Putney greengrocer, you know.' If they says 'Yes,' then it's a smoker for me;" and Bindle proceeded to re-charge his pipe. "I often thought——"
Bindle was interrupted by a loud knocking at the outer door. With a swift movement Mrs. Bindle rose and passed out of the kitchen. Bindle listened. There was a sound of men's voices in the outer passage, with the short, sharper tones of Mrs. Bindle. A moment later the door opened, and two men entered supporting the limp form of Mr. Gupperduck.
"'Oly angels!" cried Bindle, starting up. "'Oly angels! someone's been a-tryin' to alter 'im." He bent forward to get a better view. "Done it pretty well, too," he muttered as he gazed at the unprepossessing features of Mr. Gupperduck, now accentuated by a black eye, a broken lip, a contusion on the right cheek-bone, and one ear covered with blood. His collar had disappeared, also his hat and spectacles, his waist-coat was torn open, and various portions were missing from his coat.
"Wot's 'e been doin'?" enquired Bindle of a weedy-looking man with long hair, a sandy pointed beard, and a cloth cap,three sizes too large for him, which rested on the tops of his ears. "Wot's 'e been up to?"
"He's been addressing a meeting," replied the man in a mournful voice.
Bindle turned once more to Mr. Gupperduck and examined him closely.
"Looks as if the meetin's been addressin' 'im, don't it?" he remarked.
"It was not a very successful meeting," remarked the other supporter of Mr. Gupperduck, a very little man with a very long beard. "It wasn't a very successful meeting," he repeated with conviction.
"Well, I never seen a meetin' make such alterations in a man in all my puff," remarked Bindle.
Mrs. Bindle had busied herself in preparing a basin of hot water with which to wash the mud and blood from the victim's pallid face. With closed eyes Mr. Gupperduck continued to breathe heavily.
Bindle with practical samaritanism went into the parlour and returned with a half-quartern bottle. Pouring some of the contents into a glass he held it to Mr. Gupperduck's lips. Without the least resistance the liquid was swallowed.
"Took that down pretty clean," said Bindle, looking up at the man with the sandy beard.
"Don't do that!" cried Mrs. Bindle, turning suddenly, her nostrils detecting the smell of alcohol.
"Do what?" enquired Bindle from where he knelt beside the damaged Mr. Gupperduck.
"Give him that," said Mrs. Bindle, "he's temperance."
"Well, 'e ain't now," remarked Bindle with calm conviction.
"Oh, you villain!" The vindictiveness of Mrs. Bindle's tone caused the three listeners to look up, and even Mr. Gupperduck's eyelids, after a preliminary flutter, raised themselves, as he gazed about him wonderingly.
"Where am I?" he moaned.
"You're all right," said Mrs. Bindle, taking Bindle's place by Mr. Gupperduck's side. "You're safe now."
Mr. Gupperduck closed his eyes again, and Mrs. Bindle proceeded to wipe his face with a piece of flannel dipped in water.
"Pore ole Guppy!" murmured Bindle. "They done it in style any'ow. I wonder wot 'e's been up to. Must 'ave been sayin' things wot they didn't like. Wot was 'e talkin' about, ole sport?"
Bindle turned to the man with the sandy beard, who was sitting on a chair leaning forward with one hand on each knee, much as if he were watching a cock-fight.
"It was a Peace meeting," replied the man mournfully.
Bindle gave vent to a prolonged whistle of understanding.
"Oh, Guppy, Guppy!" he cried. "Why couldn't you 'ave kept to the next world, without getting mixed up with this?"
"It was wounded soldiers," volunteered the man with the sandy beard.
"Wounded soldiers!" exclaimed Bindle.
"Yes," continued the man mournfully; "he appealed to them, as sufferers under this terrible armageddon, to pass a resolution condemning the continuance of the war, and—and——"
"They passed their resolution on 'is face," suggested Bindle.
The man nodded. "It was terrible," he said, "terrible; we were afraid they would kill him."
"And where was you while all this was 'appenin'?"
"Oh!" said the man, "I was fortunate enough to find a tree."
Bindle looked him up and down with elaborate intentness, then having satisfied himself as to every detail of his appearance and apparel, he remarked:
"Ain't it wonderful wot luck some coves do 'ave!"
"I regard it as the direct interposition of Providence," said the man.
"And I suppose you shinned up that tree like giddy-o?" suggested Bindle.
"Yes," said the man, "I was brought up in the country."
"Was you now?" said Bindle. "Well, it was lucky for you, wasn't it?"
"The hand of God," was the reply; "clearly the hand of God."
"Sort o' boosted you up the tree from behind, so as when they'd all gone you could come down and pick up wot was left of 'im. That it?" enquired Bindle.
"That is exactly what happened, my friend," replied the man with the sandy beard.
"An' where did all this 'appen?" asked Bindle.
"It took place in Hyde Park," replied the man. "A very rough meeting, an extremely rough meeting, and he was speaking so well, so convincingly," he added.
Bindle looked at the man curiously to see if he were really serious; but there was no vestige of a smile upon his face.
"It's wonderful wot a man can do with a crowd," remarked Bindle oracularly; "but," turning to the inert figure of Mr. Gupperduck, "it's still more wonderful wot a crowd can do with a man."
"Bindle!" Mrs. Bindle's voice rang out authoritatively.
"'Ere am I," replied Bindle obediently.
"Help us lift Mr. Gupperduck on a chair."
With elaborate care they raised the inert form of Mr. Gupperduck on to a chair. His arms fell down limply beside him. Once he opened his eyes, and looked round the room, then, sighing as if in thankfulness at being amongst friends, he closed them again.
"'The Lord hath given me rest from mine enemies,'" he quoted.
Mrs. Bindle and the two friends regarded Mr. Gupperduck admiringly.
Seeing that their friend and brother was now in safe hands, Mr. Gupperduck's two supporters prepared to withdraw. Mrs. Bindle pressed them to have something to eat; but this they refused.
"Now ain't women funny," muttered Bindle, as Mrs. Bindle left the room to show her visitors to the door. "She was jest complaining that she could only get two candles and a quarter of a pound of marjarine, and yet she wants them two coves to stay to supper, 'ungry-lookin' pair they was too. I s'pose it's wot she calls 'ospitality," he added; "seems to me damn silly."
Like a hen fussing over a damaged chick, Mrs. Bindle ministered to the requirements of Mr. Gupperduck. She fed him with a spoon, crooned over and sympathised with him in his misfortune, whilst in her heart there was a great anger against those who had raised their hands against so godly a man.
When he had eventually been half-led, half-carried upstairs by Bindle, and Bindle himself had returned to the kitchen, Mrs. Bindle expressed her unambiguous opinion of a country that permitted such an outrage. She likened Mr. Gupperduck to those in the Scriptures who had been stoned by the multitude. She indicated that in the next world there would be a terrible retribution upon those who were responsible for the assault upon Mr. Gupperduck. She attacked the Coalition Government for not providing a more effective police force.
"But," protested Bindle at length, "'e was askin' for it. Why can't 'e keep 'is opinions to 'imself, and not go a-shovin' 'em down other people's throats when they don't like the taste of 'em? If you go tryin' to shove tripe down the throat of a cove wot don't like tripe, you're sure to get one in the eye, that is if 'e'sbigger'n wot you are; if 'e's smaller 'e'll jest be sick. Yet 'ere are you a-complainin' because Guppy gets 'imself 'urt. I don't understand——"
"Because you haven't got a soul," interrupted Mrs. Bindle with conviction.
"Well," remarked Bindle philosophically, "I'd sooner 'ave a flea than a soul, there is flea-powder but there ain't no soul-powder wot I've been able to find."
And Bindle rose, yawned and made towards the door.
Mr. Hearty had never reconciled himself to the understanding that existed between his daughter Millie and Charlie Dixon. He resented Bindle's share in the romance, still more he resented the spirit of independence that it had developed in Millie. He had, however, been forced to bow to the storm. Everyone was against him, and Millie herself had left home, refusing to return until he had apologised to her for the most unseemly suggestion he had made as to her relations with Charlie Dixon.
Sergeant Charles Dixon, of the 110th Service Battalion, London Regiment, had gone to the front, and Millie, sad-eyed, but grave, looked forward to the time when he would return, a V.C.
"Well, Millikins!" Bindle would cry, "'ow's 'is Nibs?" and Millie would blush and tell of the latest news she had received from her lover.
"Uncle Joe," she would say, "I couldn't stand it but for you," and there would be that in her voice which would cause Bindle to turn his head aside and admonish himself as "an ole fool."
"It's all right, Millikins," Bindle would say, "Charlie's goin' to win the war, an' we're all goin' to be proud of 'im," and Millie would smile at her uncle with moist eyes, and give that affectionate squeeze to his arm that Bindle would not have parted with for the rubies of Ind.
"You know, Uncle Joe," she said bravely on one occasion, "we women have to give up those we love."
Bindle had not seen the plaintive humour of her remark; but had suddenly become noisily engrossed in the use of his handkerchief.
Mr. Hearty was almost cordial to Charlie Dixon on the eve of his going to France. Once this young man could be removed from Millie's path, the way would be clear for a match such as he had in mind. He did not know exactly what sort of man he desired for his daughter; but he was very definite as to the position in the world that his future son-in-law must occupy. He would have preferred someone who had made his mark. Men of more mature years, he had noticed, were frequently favourably disposed towards young girls as wives, and Mr. Hearty was determined that he would be proud of his son-in-law, that is to say, his son-in-law was to be a man of whom anyone might feel proud.
It would not behove a Christian such as Mr. Hearty to wish a fellow-being dead; but he could not disguise from himself the fact that our casualties on the Western Front were heavy, particularly during the period of offensives. Since the occasion when Millie had asserted her independence, and had declined to order her affections in accordance with Mr. Hearty's wishes, there had been something of an armed neutrality existing between father and daughter. In this she had been supported, not only by Bindle and Mrs. Hearty, but, by a strange freak of fate, to a certain extent, by Mrs. Bindle herself.
Mr. Hearty had never quite understood how it was that his sister-in-law had turned against him. She had said nothing whatever as to where her sympathies lay; but Mr. Hearty instinctively felt that she had ranged herself on the side of the enemy.
But the fates were playing for Mr. Hearty.
When the Rev. Mr. Sopley, of the Alton Road Chapel, had decided to retire on account of failing health, Lady Knob-Kerrick determined to bring up from Barton Bridge, her country residence, the Rev. Andrew MacFie. She had forgiven him his participation in the Temperance Fête fiasco, accepting his explanation that he had been drugged by the disciples of the devil, a view that would have been entirely endorsed by Mrs. Bindle, had she known that Bindle was responsible for the mixing of alcohol with the lemonade.
The Barton Bridge Temperance Fête fiasco had proved the greatest sensation that the county had ever known. The mixing of crude alcohol and distilled mead with the lemonade, wherebythe participants in the rustic fête had been intoxicated, thus causing it to develop into a wild orgy of violence, resulting in assaults upon Lady Knob-Kerrick and the police, had been a nine days' wonder. A number of arrests had been made; but when the true facts came to the knowledge of the police, the prisoners had been quietly released, and officially nothing more was heard of the affair.
It was a long time before Lady Knob-Kerrick could be persuaded to see in the Rev. Andrew MacFie, the minister of her chapel, an innocent victim of a deep-laid plot. It was he who had seized the hose that washed her out of her carriage, it was he who had led the assault on the police, it was he who had said things that had been the common talk of all the public-house bars for miles round.
After Mr. MacFie's eloquent sermon upon the Gadarene swine, Lady Knob-Kerrick had eventually come round, and a peace had been patched up between them. From that day it required more courage to whisper the words "Temperance Fête" in Barton Bridge, than to charge across "No Man's Land" in France.
And so it was that the Rev. Andrew MacFie transferred his activities from Barton Bridge to Fulham. He was grateful to Providence for this sign of beneficent approval of his labours, and relieved to know that Barton Bridge would in the future be but a memory. There he had made history, for in the bars of The Two-Faced Earl and The Blue Fox the unbeliever drinks with gusto and a wink of superior knowledge a beverage known as a "lemon-and-a-mac," a compound of lemonade and gin, which owes its origin to the part played in the historic temperance fête by the Rev. Andrew MacFie.
One evening, shortly after the departure of Charlie Dixon, Mrs. Bindle was busily engaged in laying the table for supper. Mrs. Bindle's kitchen was a model of what a kitchen should be. Everything was clean, orderly, neat. The utensils over the mantelpiece shone like miniature moons, the oil-cloth was spotless, the dresser scrubbed to a whiteness almost incredible in London, the saucepans almost as clean outside as in, the rug before the stove neatly pinned down at the corners. It was obviously the kitchen of a woman to whom cleanliness and order were fetiches. As Bindle had once remarked, "There's only one spot in my missis' kitchen, and that's when I'm there."
As she proceeded with her work she hummed her favourite hymn; it rose and fell, sometimes dying away altogether. She banged the various articles on the table as if to emphasise herthoughts. Her task completed, she went to the sink. As she was washing her hands there was a knock at the kitchen door. Taking no notice she proceeded to dry her hands. The knock was repeated.
"Oh, don't stand there playing the fool, Bindle!" she snapped. "I haven't time to——"
The door opened slowly and admitted the tall, lanky form of the Rev. Andrew MacFie.
"It's me, Mrs. Beendle," he said, as he entered the room. "The outer door was open, so I joost cam in."
"Oh! I'm sorry, sir," said Mrs. Bindle, "I thought it was Bindle."
Her whole manner underwent a change; her uncompromising attitude of disapproval giving place to one of almost servile anxiety to make a good impression. She hurriedly removed and folded her apron, slipping it into the dresser-drawer.
"Won't you come into the parlour, sir?" she said. "It's very kind of you to call."
"Na, na, Mrs. Beendle," replied Mr. MacFie. "I joost cam in to—to——" He hesitated.
"But won't you sit down, sir?" Mrs. Bindle indicated a chair by the side of the table.
Mr. MacFie drew the chair towards him, sitting bolt upright, holding his soft felt hat upon his knees.
Mrs. Bindle drew another chair from under the opposite side of the table and seated herself primly upon it. With folded hands she waited for the minister to speak.
Mr. MacFie was obviously ill at ease.
"Ye'll be comin' to the sairvice, the nicht, Mrs. Beendle?" he began.
"Oh, yes, sir," responded Mrs. Bindle, moving her head back on her shoulders, depressing her chin and drawing in her lips with a simper. "I wouldn't miss your address."
"Aye!" said Mr. MacFie, gazing into vacancy as if in search of inspiration. Finding none, he repeated "Aye!"
Mr. MacFie's expression was one of persistent gloom. No smile was ever permitted to wanton across his sandy features. After a few moments' silence he made another effort.
"I'm sair consairned, Mrs. Beendle——" He stopped, wordless.
"Yes, sir," responded Mrs. Bindle encouragingly.
"I'm sair consairned no to see the wee lassie more at the kirk."
"Who, sir, Millie?" queried Mrs. Bindle in surprise.
"Aye!" responded Mr. MacFie. "The call of mammon is like the blairst of a great trumpet, and to the unbelieving it is as sweet music. It is the call of Satan, Mrs. Beendle, the call of Satan," he repeated, as if pleased with the phrase. "I'd na like the wee lassie to—to——"
"I'll speak to Mr. Hearty, sir," said Mrs. Bindle, compressing her lips. "It's very good of you, sir, I'm sure, to——"
"Na, na," interrupted Mr. MacFie hastily, "na, na, Mrs. Beendle, ma duty. It is the blessed duty of the shepherd to be consairned for the welfare——"
He stopped suddenly. The outer door had banged, and there was the sound of steps coming along the passage. Bindle's voice was heard singing cheerily, "I'd rather Kiss the Mistress than the Maid." He opened the door and stopped singing suddenly. For a moment he stood looking at the pair with keen enjoyment. Both Mrs. Bindle and Mr. MacFie appeared self-conscious, as they gazed obliquely at the interrupter.
"'Ullo, caught you," said Bindle jocosely.
"Bindle!" There was horror and anger in Mrs. Bindle's voice. Mr. MacFie merely looked uncomfortable. He rose hastily.
"I must be gaeing, Mrs. Beendle," he said; then turning to Bindle remarked, "I joost cam to enquire if Mrs. Beendle was coming to chapel the nicht."
"Don't you fret about that, sir," said Bindle genially. "She wouldn't miss a chance to pray."
"And—and may we expect you, Mr. Beendle?" enquired Mr. MacFie by way of making conversation and preventing an embarrassing silence.
"I ain't much on religion, sir," replied Bindle hastily. "Mrs. B.'s the one for that. Lemonade and religion are things, sir, wot I can be trusted with. I don't touch neither." Then, as Mr. MacFie moved towards the door, he added, "Must you go, sir? You won't stay an' 'ave a bit o' supper?"
"Na, na!" replied Mr. MacFie hastily, "I hae the Lord's work to do, Mr. Beendle, the Lord's work to do," he repeated as he shook hands with Mrs. Bindle and then with Bindle. "The Lord's work to do," he repeated for a third time as, followed by Mrs. Bindle, he left the room.
"Funny thing that the Lord's work should make 'im look like that," remarked Bindle meditatively, as he drew a tin of salmon from his pocket.
When Mrs. Bindle returned to the kitchen it was obvious thatshe was seriously displeased. The bangs that punctuated the process of "dishing-up" were good fortissimo bangs.
Bindle continued to read his paper imperturbably. In his nostrils was the scent of a favourite stew. He lifted his head like a hound, appreciatively sniffing the air, a look of contentment overspreading his features.
Having poured out the contents of the saucepan, Mrs. Bindle went to the sink and filled the vessel with water. Carrying it across the kitchen, she banged it down on the stove. Opening the front, and picking up the poker, she gave the fire several unnecessary jabs.
"Wot did Sandy want?" enquired Bindle as he got to work upon his supper.
"Don't talk to me," snapped Mrs. Bindle. "You'd try a saint, you would, insulting the minister in that way."
"Insultin'! Me!" cried Bindle in surprise. "Why, I only cheer-o'd 'im."
"You'll never learn 'ow to behave," stormed Mrs. Bindle, losing her temper and her aitches. "Look at you now, all dressed up and leaving me alone."
Bindle was wearing his best clothes, for some reason known only to himself.
"Anyone would think you was goin' to a weddin'," continued Mrs. Bindle.
"Not again," said Bindle cheerfully. "Wot was ole Scotch-an'-Soda after?" he enquired.
"When you ask me a proper question, I'll give you a proper answer," announced Mrs. Bindle.
"Oh, Lord!" said Bindle with mock resignation. "Well, wot did the Reverend MacAndrew want?"
"He came to enquire why Millie was so often absent from chapel. I shall have to speak to Mr. Hearty," said Mrs. Bindle.
Bindle's reply was a prolonged whistle. "'E's after Millikins, is 'e?" he muttered.
That is how both Bindle and Mrs. Bindle first learned that the Rev. Andrew MacFie was interested in their pretty niece, Millie Hearty.
Mrs. Bindle mentioned the fact of Mr. MacFie's call to Mr. Hearty, and from that moment he had seen in the minister a potential son-in-law.
The angular piety of Mr. MacFie rendered him an awkward, not to say a clumsy, lover.
"I likes to see ole Mac a-'angin' round Millikins," remarked Bindle to Mrs. Bindle one evening over supper. "It's like an 'ippopotamus a-givin' the glad-eye to a canary."
"Heathen!" was Mrs. Bindle's sole comment.
Millie Hearty herself had been much troubled by Mr. MacFie's ponderous attentions. At first she had regarded them merely as the friendly interest of a pastor in a member of his flock; but soon they became too obvious for misinterpretation.
"Millikins!" said Bindle one evening, as he and Millie were walking home from the pictures, "you ain't a-goin' to forget Charlie, are you?"
"Uncle Joe!" There was reproach in Millie's voice as she withdrew her arm from Bindle's.
"All right, Millikins," said Bindle, capturing her hand and placing it through his arm, "don't get 'uffy. Ole Mac's been makin' such a dead set at you, that I wanted to know 'ow things stood."
Bindle's remarks had opened the flood-gates of Millie's confidence. She told him that she had not liked to speak of it before because nothing had been said, although there had been some very obvious hints from Mr. Hearty.
"Ihatehim, Uncle Joe. He's always—always——" She paused, blushing.
"A-givin' of you the glad-eye," suggested Bindle. "I seen 'im."
"Oh, he's horrible, Uncle Joe. I'm sure he's a wicked man."
"'Course 'e is," replied Bindle with conviction, "or 'e wouldn't be a parson."
Bindle had spoken to Mr. Hearty about the matter. "Look 'ere, 'Earty, you ain't goin' back on them two love-birds, are you?" he enquired.
Mr. Hearty had regarded his brother-in-law with what he conceived to be reproving dignity.
"I do not understand, Joseph," he remarked in hollow, woolly tones.
"Well, there's ole Mac, always a-givin' the glad-eye to Millikins," explained Bindle.
"If you wish to speak of our minister, Joseph, you must do so respectfully, and I cannot listen to such vulgar suggestions."
"Oh, come orf of it, 'Earty! you're only a greengrocer, an' greengrocers don't talk like that 'ere, whatever they may do in 'eaven. If you're a-goin' to 'ave any 'anky-panky with Millikins over that sandy-'aired son of a tub-thumper, thenyou're up against the biggest thing in your life, an' don't you forget it."
Bindle was angry.
"Of late, Joseph," Mr. Hearty replied, "you have shown too much desire to interfere in my private affairs, and I cannot permit it."
"Oh! you can't, can't you?" said Bindle. "Don't you forget, ole sport, that if it 'adn't a-been for me 'oldin' my tongue, you wouldn't 'ave 'ad no bloomin' affairs for me to mix up in."
Mr. Hearty paled and fumbled with the right lapel of his coat.
"Any'ow," said Bindle, "Millikins is goin' to marry Charlie Dixon, an' if you're goin' to try any of your dirty tricks over Ole Skin-and-Oatmeal, then you're goin' to be up against J.B. There are times," muttered Bindle, as he walked away from the Heartys' house, "when 'Earty gets my goat"; and he started whistling shrilly to cheer himself up.
Bindle was still troubled in his mind about Mr. Hearty's scheme for Millie's future and, one Sunday evening, he determined to forgo the Night Club, in order to call upon the Heartys with the object of conveying to Mr. MacFie in the course of conversation that Millie was irrevocably pledged to Charlie Dixon.
Mr. MacFie had formed the habit of supping with the Heartys after evening service, and frequently Mrs. Bindle was of the party.
Bindle's Sunday evening engagements at the Night Club had been a cause of great relief to Mrs. Bindle. For some time previously Mr. Hearty's invitations to the Bindles to take supper on Sunday evenings had been growing less and less frequent. It did not require a very great effort of the imagination to discover the cause. Bindle's racy speech and unconventional views upon religion were to Mr. Hearty anathema, and whilst they amused Mrs. Hearty, who, having trouble with her breath, did not seem to consider that religion was meant for her, they caused Mr. Hearty intense anguish. He felt safe, however, in asking Mr. MacFie to supper on Sundays because Mrs. Bindle had confided to him that Bindle was always engaged upon the Sabbath night. She did not mention the nature of the engagement.
When Bindle entered the drawing-room, Mr. Hearty, Mr. MacFie, Mr. Gupperduck and Mrs. Bindle were gathered round the harmonium. Mrs. Hearty sat in her customary place upon the sofa waiting for someone to address her that she might confide in them upon the all-absorbing subject of her breath.
Mr. Gupperduck was seated on a chair, endeavouring to discipline his accordion into not sounding E sharp continuously through each hymn. The others were awaiting with keen interest the outcome of the struggle.
"Got a pain, ain't it?" enquired Bindle, having greeted everybody, as he stood puffing volumes of smoke from one of "Sprague's Fulham Whiffs," a "smoke" he still affected when Lord Windover was not present to correct his taste in tobacco.
"Well, wot's the joke?" he went on, looking from the lugubrious countenance of Mr. MacFie to the melancholy foreboding depicted on that of Mr. Hearty.
Turning to Mrs. Hearty, Bindle pointed his cigar at her accusingly. "You been tellin' naughty stories, Martha," he said, "I can see it. Look at them coves over there"; he turned his cigar towards Mr. Gupperduck and Mr. MacFie. "Oh, Martha, Martha!" and he wagged his head solemnly at Mrs. Hearty, who was already in a state of helpless laughter, "ain't you jest the limit, and 'im a parson, too."
Millie Hearty entered the room at this moment and ran up to her uncle, greeting him affectionately.
"Oh, Uncle Joe, I'm so glad you've come," she cried. "You never come to see us now."
"Well, well, Millikins, it can't be 'elped. It's the war, you know. That cove Llewellyn John is always wantin' me round to give 'im advice. Then I 'ave to run over an' give Haig an 'int or two. Ain't the Kayser jest mad when 'e 'ears I been over, because it means another push. Why, would you believe it, sir," he turned to Mr. MacFie, "the reason they didn't make ole 'Indenburg a prince last birthday was because 'e 'adn't been able to land me.
"'Get me Joe Bindle, dead or alive,' said the Kayser to 'Indy, 'an' I'll make you a prince,' an' ain't old 'Indenburg ratty." Bindle nodded his head knowingly.
Millie laughed. "You mustn't tell such wicked fibs on Sunday, Uncle Joe," she cried. "It's very naughty of you."
Bindle pulled her down upon his knee and kissed her. "You ain't goin' agin your ole uncle, are you, Millikins?" he cried; then suddenly turning to Mr. Hearty he enquired, "Ain't we goin' to 'ave any 'ymns, 'Earty? 'Ere, I say, can't you stop Wheezy Willie doin' that, ole sport?" this to Mr. Gupperduck who was still struggling to silence the mutinous E sharp; "sets my teeth on edge, it does. I'm in rare voice to-night, bought some acid drops, I did, as I come along, an' 'ad two raw eggs in the private bar of The Yellow Ostrich."
Bindle ran up a dubious scale to prove his words.
"Oh! do be quiet, Uncle Joe," laughed Millie. "You'll frighten Mr. MacFie away."
Bindle turned and regarded the solemn visage of Mr. MacFie; his long immobile upper lip; his sandy hair, parted in the middle and brushed smoothly down upon his head.
"No, Millikins," he said with conviction, "there ain't nothink wot'll frighten a Scotchman out of England. They know wot's wot, they do. Ain't that so, sir?" he enquired of Mr. MacFie.
Mr. MacFie regarded Bindle as if he were talking in a foreign tongue.
Mr. Gupperduck laid his accordion on a chair, giving up the unequal struggle. The others, taking this as a signal that music was over for the evening, seated themselves in various parts of the room.
"I'm glad you're 'ere, sir," said Bindle to Mr. MacFie. "I wanted your advice on somethink in the Bible. Now then, Millikins, you got to sit down beside me. Can't sit on your uncle's knee when we're talkin' about the Bible. Wot'll Charlie say?" Then turning to Mr. MacFie with what he imagined to be great subtlety and tact, Bindle enquired, "You ain't met Charlie Dixon, 'ave you, sir?"
Mr. MacFie shook a mournful head in negation.
"'E's goin' to marry Millikins, ain't 'e, Millikins?"
Millie cast her eyes down and, with heightened colour, bowed her head in affirmation of Bindle's statement.
"Pretty pair they'll make too," said Bindle with conviction. "I 'ope you'll be marryin' 'em, sir."
Mr. MacFie looked uncomfortable.
"But that ain't wot I wanted to talk to you about," continued Bindle. "I 'appened to pick up the Bible to-day,"—Mrs. Bindle looked sharply at him,—"and it sort of opened at a place where there was a yarn about war, so I read it.
"It was about a cove called Urrier an' a king named David."
"Uriah the Hittite," murmured Mr. Hearty.
"Urrier 'ad got a smart bird,—that's a gal, sir," Bindle explained to Mr. MacFie,—"and David 'ad sort o' taken a likin' to 'er, so wot does David do but send Urrier to the front, so as 'e might get killed, an' then David pinches 'is gal.
"Now wot I want to know, sir," said Bindle, addressing Mr. MacFie, "is wot Gawd did? 'Cos as far as I can see 'E was sort o' fond o' David. Now if I'd been Gawd, an' David 'addone a thing like that, I'd 'a raised a pretty big blister on 'is nose."