No one spoke. Mr. Hearty glanced covertly at Mr. MacFie, who looked as if he would have given much to be elsewhere. Mrs. Bindle's lips had entirely disappeared. Mrs. Hearty gasped and heaved, whilst Minnie blushed.
"Bindle!" cried Mrs. Bindle at last; "Bindle, you forget yourself."
"Not me, Mrs. B., I come 'ere to get wot you an' 'Earty calls 'light.' Now, sir," turning to Mr. MacFie, "wot do you think Gawd did, an' wot do you think o' that blighter David?"
"Meester Beendle," said Mr. MacFie at last, "we must leave to Proveedence the things that belong to Proveedence."
"I thought you'd agree, sir; you're a sport, you are. Of course David ought to 'ave left to Urrier wot belonged to Urrier, and not pinch 'is gal. You wouldn't do a thing like that, sir, would you?" he enquired. "I wonder wot the gal thought, eh, Millikins?" he enquired, turning to his niece.
"If I had been her," said Millie, "I should have killed David."
"Millie!" gasped Mr. Hearty. "How—how dare you say such a thing."
"I should, father," replied Millie quietly.
Mr. MacFie coughed, Mr. Hearty looked about him as if for something at which to clutch, then with sudden inspiration he said, "Millie, we will have a hymn."
"'Ere, let me get out," cried Bindle in mock alarm. "I can't stand Wheezy Willie again, too much of one note. Good night, Martha. My, ain't you gettin' fat," he remarked as he stood looking down at Mrs. Hearty, whereat she went off into wheezes and heavings of laughter. "S'long, 'Earty, I 'ope the allotments won't ruin you," and Bindle took his departure.
Millie went down to the door to see him out. "Uncle Joe," she whispered, as she bade him good night, "I understood."
"Oh, you did, did you?" said Bindle. "Ain't we getting a wise little puss, Millikins," and Bindle walked home whistling "The Long, Long Trail."
Lady Knob-Kerrick's nomination of the Rev. Andrew MacFie to the vacant pastorate at the Alton Road Chapel was her way of showing that an amnesty had been arranged between them, and Mr. MacFie had accepted it with the nearest approach to pleasure that he ever permitted himself. Miss MacFie, his sister and housekeeper, had sniffed; but it was always difficult to discriminate between Miss MacFie's physical and mental sniffs. During the winter she seemed to suffer from a perpetual cold in the head. It sometimes attacked her in the spring and autumn, so that only during the months of June, July and August could one say with any degree of certainty that Miss MacFie's sniffs meant indignation and not an inflamed membrane.
In commemoration of his long ministry at the Alton Road Chapel, the Rev. Mr. Sopley was to receive an illuminated address, a purse of fifty pounds and a silver-mounted hot-water bottle. For reasons of economy the presentation was to be made on the same occasion as the conversazione inaugurating the pastorate of Mr. MacFie. This conversazione had been delayed for some months, as Miss MacFie had been forced to remain behind at Barton Bridge in order to recover from a particularly severe chill, and also to arrange for the letting of the house.
In the meantime Mr. MacFie had taken lodgings in Fulham, thus freeing Mr. Sopley, whose health for some time past had not been good. It had been arranged, however, that the retiring shepherd should be present at the celebration in order to receive the address, the purse and the silver-mounted hot-water bottle.
Lady Knob-Kerrick had consented herself to make the presentation, and a glee-party had been arranged for to entertain the guests. It had first been suggested that the services should be engaged of a man who produced rabbits out of top-hats, and omelettes from ladies' shoes; but it had been decided that such things were too secular for the occasion.
Lady Knob-Kerrick had insisted that the words of the glees should first be submitted to her, and a lengthy correspondence had taken place between her and the leader of the glee-party. The first list had been vetoed in its entirety. One item, entitled"Oh! Hush Thee My Baby," was considered by Lady Knob-Kerrick as not quite nice; it might make the young girls feel self-conscious. Another one of a slightly humorous nature referred to a man's "bleeding nose." Lady Knob-Kerrick had written to the leader of the glee-party in uncompromising terms upon the indelicacy of submitting to her so coarse a composition. After a brisk interchange of letters, a programme was eventually decided upon.
The conversazione was held in the Chapel school-room. A considerable portion of Mr. Hearty's drawing-room furniture had been requisitioned in order to give to the place an appearance of "homeiness" and comfort. Mr. Hearty's clock and lustres were upon the mantelpiece, and Mr. Hearty's pink candles were in the lustres. Chains of coloured paper, to Mr. Hearty the extreme evidences of festivity, stretched from the corners of the room to the central gas bracket on which had been placed opaque pink globes.
Nothing, however, could mitigate the hardness of the scriptural texts in oak Oxford frames that garnished the walls. "Prepare to Meet Thy God," even when in gold letters entwined with apple-blossom, seemed scarcely the greeting for those who had been invited to revel. "The Wages of Sin is Death," with violets coquetting in and out the letters, is sound theology; but not a convincing invitation to merry-making. "And So Shall Ye All Likewise Perish," with primroses that seemed to have paled through long association with so terrible a menace, threw out its uncompromising warning from immediately above the refreshment-table. On the table itself was everything that a little money could buy, from fish-paste sandwiches to home-made three-cornered tarts, with raspberry-jam baked hard peeping out at the joins, as if to advertise that there was no deception.
Millie Hearty had striven to mitigate the uncompromising gloom of the texts by placing evergreens above the frames; but with no very pronounced success.
Mr. Hearty had supplied the fruit and Mr. Black the groceries at "cost-price." That is to say, Mr. Hearty had taken off a halfpenny a pound from his tenpenny apples, and Mr. Black three farthings a bottle from his one and ninepenny lemon-squash.
On the night of the conversazione, Mr. Hearty and Mrs. Bindle arrived early in order to put finishing touches to everything. Mrs. Bindle was wearing a new dress of puce-coloured merino, and Mr. Hearty had donned a white tie in honour of the occasion.His trousers still concertinaed mournfully down his legs until they despairedly met his large and shapeless boots.
Millie Hearty was also an early arrival. In her white frock she looked strangely out of place associated with her father and aunt.
Mr. Hearty fidgeted about from place to place in a state of acute nervousness. His eyes, roving round in search of some defect in the arrangements, fixed themselves upon the gas. Fetching a chair he mounted it and lowered in turn each burner, then, replacing the chair against the wall, he stepped some distance back to see the effect. The result was that he once more mounted the chair and readjusted the flames to the same height as before.
Mrs. Bindle also moved about, but always with a set purpose, putting finishing touches to everything. Alice, the Heartys' maid, seemed to be engaged in a game of in and out, banging the door at each entry and exit. In spite of the frequency with which this was done, it caused Mr. Hearty each time to look round expectantly.
"Is Joseph coming?" he enquired of Mrs. Bindle.
"Yes," she replied, "but I've warned him." There was a grimness in her voice that carried conviction to Mr. Hearty.
"Thank you, Elizabeth, thank you. I was very upset the other night, very." He suddenly rushed away to the harmonium, where one of the candles was burning smokily.
"Mr. Gupperduck can't come," said Mrs. Bindle as she rearranged the fish-paste sandwiches. "He's got a meeting at Hoxton."
Mr. Hearty made some murmur of response as he dashed across the room to adjust three chairs that lacked symmetry.
"I wish they'd come, Alf," wheezed Mrs. Hearty, hitting the front of a bright green bodice. Sartorially Mrs. Hearty always ran to brilliancy.
"I hope Mr. MacFie will not be late," said Mr. Hearty in a tone of gloomy foreboding.
Mr. MacFie's arrival at that moment, accompanied by Miss MacFie, put an end to this anxiety. Miss MacFie was a tall, flat-chested, angular woman of about forty, with high cheek-bones and almost white eyebrows and eyelashes. She greeted Mr. Hearty and the others without emotion. Mr. MacFie had eyes for no one but Millie.
The next arrival was the Rev. Mr. Sopley, "all woe and whiskers," as Bindle had once described him. Mournfully he shook hands with all and, seating himself on the first available chair, cast his eyes up towards the ceiling, his habitual attitude.
Alice sidled up to Mrs. Bindle and, in a whisper audible to all, enquired:
"Am I to call out the names, mum?"
"Certainly, Alice," replied Mrs. Bindle. "As each guest arrives you will announce the names clearly." Then turning to Mr. Hearty she said, "I think that you and Mr. MacFie ought to receive the guests at the door."
"Certainly, Elizabeth, certainly," said Mr. Hearty. There was unaccustomed decision in his voice. He was glad of something definite to do. Striding over to Mr. MacFie, he whispered to him and practically dragged him away from Millie. The two of them took up their positions near the door, where they stood staring at each other as if wondering what was to happen next.
Mrs. Hearty from time to time beat her chest.
"It's me breath," she confided to Mr. Sopley, then subsided into wheezing.
"Ha!" Mr. Sopley changed the angle of his gaze. Whenever spoken to he invariably opened his mouth with a jerk, as if he had been suddenly brought back from another world by someone hitting him in the wind. As often as not he re-closed his mouth without further sound. It was obvious to the most casual observer that he was here on earth because Providence had decreed it, and not from any wish of his own.
Suddenly Alice threw open the outer door.
"Mr. Pain and 'is wife, mum," she announced.
Mr. MacFie and Mr. Hearty became instantly galvanised into activity.
"Not his wife," corrected Mrs. Bindle in a whisper.
"But she is 'is wife," protested Alice indignantly. "Ain't you, mum?" she enquired of Mrs. Pain.
Mrs. Pain simpered her acquiescence as she turned to Mr. MacFie and Mr. Hearty, who had raced towards her.
"You should say 'Mr. and Mrs. Pain,' Alice," said Mrs. Bindle with quiet forbearance.
"Sorry," remarked Alice, turning to go. "I ain't used to this 'ere. Why can't they come in without all this yelling out of names?" she muttered. "They ain't trains."
Mr. Pain, a small man with a bald head and a tuft of black hair in the centre of a protruding forehead, shook hands joyfully with Mr. MacFie and Mr. Hearty. He was wearing a black frock-coat and light brown tweed trousers, a white waistcoat and a royal blue tie. Mrs. Pain was a tall thin woman, garbed in a narrow brown skirt with a cream-coloured bodice, over-elaborated with lace. The sleeves of her blouse reached only just below the elbows, and the cream gloves on her hands failed to form a liaison with the blouse. Round her neck was flung a locket suspended by a massive "gold" chain. Both she and Mr. Pain were violent in their greetings, after which they proceeded over to two chairs by the wall where they seated themselves and proceeded to converse in undertones, Mr. Pain drawing on a pair of black kid gloves.
"Mr. and Mrs. Withers," bawled Alice.
Mrs. Bindle nodded approval, and Mr. and Mrs. Withers shook hands with Mr. Hearty and Mr. MacFie, much as Mr. and Mrs. Pain had done.
Mr. Withers carried a small sandy head on one side, and a frock-coat tightly buttoned over his narrow chest. His smallness was emphasised by the vastness of Mrs. Withers, whose white silk bodice, cut low at the neck, and black skirt, fitted her amorously, as if the wearer's intention were to diminish her size.
For some time Alice carried out her duties with marked success, and Mr. MacFie and Mr. Hearty were kept as busy as an American President at election time. An unfortunate episode occurred in connection with two of the most important members of Mr. MacFie's flock, Mr. Tuddenham and Mr. Muskett.
Mr. Tuddenham was a stout, self-important little man with a red face and a "don't—you—dare—to—argue—with—me—sir" air. Mr. Muskett, on the other hand, was tall and lean with lantern jaws, a sallow complexion and a white beard. Mr. Tuddenham's clothes fitted him like a glove; Mr. Muskett's hung in despairing folds about his person. Mr. Tuddenham wore a high collar, which cut viciously into his red neck; Mr. Muskett's neckwear was nonconformist in cut. Mr. Tuddenham glared at the world through fierce, bloodshot eyes; Mr. Muskett gazed weakly over the top of a pair of pince-nez that hung at one side. Mr. Muskett's voice was an overpowering boom, contrasting oddly with the thin, high-pitched notes of Mr. Tuddenham. Mr. Tuddenham was as upright as a bantam; Mr. Muskett drooped like a wilted lily. No one had ever seen Mr. Muskett without Mr. Tuddenham, or Mr. Tuddenham without Mr. Muskett.
Alice appeared to have considerable difficulty over their names, during which Mr. MacFie and Mr. Hearty stood pretending not to be aware of the presence of the new arrivals. Eventually Alice nodded reassuringly and, taking a step into the room, announced:
"Mr. Muddenham and Mr. Tuskett."
"Tuddenham, girl, Tuddenham!" shrieked Mr. Tuddenham.
"Muskett, I said, Muskett!" boomed Mr. Muskett.
For a moment Alice regarded them with some apprehension, then her face broke into a smile and, with a sideways nod of her head in the direction of the new guests and a jerk of her thumb, she turned laughing to the door, giving a backward kick of mirth as she went out.
The guests now began to arrive thick and fast.
Miss Torkington brought her tow-coloured hair and pince-nez, and a manner that seemed to shout virtue and chastity. She was all action and vivacity, and nothing could dam the flow of her words, just as none could have convinced her that in her pale-blue princess-robe with its high collar she was not the dernière crie.
Mrs. Bindle had taken up her position near the door, so that she might correct Alice, should occasion arise.
"The butcher and 'is missus," announced Alice.
"Alice, Alice!" protested Mrs. Bindle in a loud whisper. "You mustn't announce people like that. You should say Mr. and Mrs. Gash."
"I asked 'im, mum," protested Alice, "and that's wot 'e said."
Mrs. Bindle looked anxiously from Mr. Gash, in a check suit and red tie, to his wife in a royal blue short skirt, a pink blouse and white boots with tassels. They smiled good-humouredly. Mrs. Bindle sighed her relief.
Mrs. Bindle decided that it would be wise to leave Alice to her own devices. She knew something of the temper of the outraged domestic. In consequence Alice announced without rebuke Mr. Hippitt as "Mr. Pip-Pip," and Mrs. Muspratt as "Miss Musk-Rat."
Presently her voice was heard without raised in angry reproaches.
"What's your name?" she was heard to demand. "I got to call it out."
"No, you don't, Ruthie dear," was the reply.
Mr. Hearty and Mrs. Bindle exchanged glances. They recognised that voice.
"You leggo, I ain't one of them sort," said the voice of Bindle.
"You ain't goin' in till you give me your name, so there!" was Alice's retort.
The guests focused their attention upon the door. Suddenly it opened a foot and then crashed to again.
"Ah! thought you'd got through, didn't you?" they heard Alice cry triumphantly.
Suddenly the door opened again and Bindle entered with Alice striving to restrain him.
"Now, Ruthie, I'm married; if I wasn't, well, anythink might 'appen. Look! 'ere's my coat and 'at, so don't say I 'aven't trusted you. 'Ere, leggo!"
Bindle made an impressive figure in his evening clothes, patent boots, a large "diamond" stud in the centre of his shirt, a geranium in his button-hole, and a red silk handkerchief tucked in the opening of his waistcoat.
"'Ullo, 'Earty!" he cried genially. "'Ere, call 'er orf," indicating Alice with a jerk of his thumb. "Seems to 'ave taken a fancy to me—an' she ain't the first neither," he added.
Mrs. Bindle motioned to Alice to free Bindle, which she did reluctantly.
Bindle looked round the room with interest.
"This the little lot, 'Earty?" he enquired in a hoarse whisper audible to all. "Don't look a very cheer-o crowd, do they? The idea of goin' to 'eaven seems to make 'em low-spirited."
Bindle regarded Mr. MacFie intently, then turning to Mr. Muskett, who happened to be standing near him, he remarked:
"Can't you see 'im in a night-shirt with wings and an 'arp, a-flutterin' about like a little canary. Wonderful place, 'eaven, sir," said Bindle, looking up at Mr. Muskett.
"Sir!" boomed Mr. Muskett.
Bindle started back, then recovering himself and, leaning forward slightly, he said:
"Do you mind doin' that again, sir, jest to see if I can stand it without jumping."
Mr. Muskett glared at him, swung round on his heel and joined Mr. Tuddenham at the other end of the room.
"Seem to 'ave trod on 'is toes," muttered Bindle as he watched Mr. Muskett obviously explaining to Mr. Tuddenham the insult to which he had just been subjected.
Bindle looked about him with interest, the only guest who seemed thoroughly comfortable and at home. Suddenly his eye caught sight of the text above the refreshment-table, and he grinned broadly. Looking about him for someone to share the joke, he took a step towards his nearest neighbour, Miss Torkington.
"Ain't 'e a knock-out!" he remarked, nudging her with his elbow.
"I beg your pardon!" said Miss Torkington, lifting her chin and folding her hands before her.
"'Im, 'Earty," said Bindle, "ain't 'e a knock-out! Look at that! 'So shall Ye All Likewise Perish,'" he read. "Fancy sticking that up over the grub."
Miss Torkington, her hands still folded before her, with head in the air, wheeled round and walked away in what she conceived to be a dignified manner.
Bindle slowly turned and watched her.
"Quaint old bird," he muttered. "I wonder wot I said to 'urt 'er feelin's."
The glee-party of four had formed up near the harmonium. Mr. Hearty was in earnest conversation with the leader. He wished to see Lady Knob-Kerrick's arrival heralded with appropriate music. The leader of the singers was a man whose serious visage convinced Mr. Hearty that to him might safely be left the selection of "the extra" that was to welcome the patroness of the occasion. Mr. Hearty was unaware that in the leader's heart was a smouldering anger against Lady Knob-Kerrick on account of her rudeness in the recent correspondence that had taken place. Furthermore, he had already received his fee.
"Hi, 'Earty!" Bindle called to Mr. Hearty as he left the leader of the glee-party. "When's the Ole Bird comin'?"
Mr. Hearty turned. "The old bird?" he interrogated with lifted eyebrows.
"Lady Knob-Kerrick," bawled Alice, throwing open the door with a flourish.
Lady Knob-Kerrick sailed into the room, her head held high in supercilious superiority. Following her came her companion, Miss Strint, who had carried self-suppression and toadyism to the point of inspiration. Immediately behind came John, Lady Knob-Kerrick's footman, bearing before him the illuminated address, the purse containing fifty Treasury pound notes, and the silver-mounted hot-water bottle.
Bindle started clapping vigorously. Two or three other guests followed suit; but the look Lady Knob-Kerrick cast about her proved to them conclusively that Bindle had done the wrong thing.
"It is most kind of your ladyship to come." Mr. Hearty fussed about Lady Knob-Kerrick, walking deprecatingly upon his toes. She appeared entirely oblivious of his presence. He turned towards the harmonium and made frantic signals to the leader of the glee-party. Suddenly the quartette broke into song, every word ringing out clearly and distinctly:
There's the blue eye and the brown eye, the grave eye and the sad,There's the pink eye and the green eye and the eye that's rolling mad;But of all the eyes that eye me, be they merciful or bad,The eye that I would choose is what they call "The Glad."
There's the blue eye and the brown eye, the grave eye and the sad,There's the pink eye and the green eye and the eye that's rolling mad;But of all the eyes that eye me, be they merciful or bad,The eye that I would choose is what they call "The Glad."
THE GLAD EYE.
The last line was rolled out sonorously by the bass.
The company looked at one another in amazement. Lady Knob-Kerrick, scarlet with rage, glared through her lorgnettes at the singers and then at Mr. Hearty, who from where he stood petrified gazed wonderingtly at the glee-party. Mrs. Bindle, with great presence of mind, moved swiftly across the room, and caught the falsetto by the lapel of the coat just as he had opened his mouth to begin his solo verse, dealing with the knowledge acquired by a flapper from the country in the course of a fortnight's holiday in London. Mrs. Bindle made it clear to the leader that as far as the Alton Road Chapel was concerned he was indulging in an optical delusion.
"We are all deeply honoured by your Leddyship's presence this evening," said Mr. MacFie, throwing himself into the breach. "It is——"
"Get me a chair," demanded Lady Knob-Kerrick, still glaring in the direction of the glee-singers.
Bindle rushed at her with a frail-looking hemp-seated chair, which he proceeded to flick with his red silk pocket-handkerchief.
"One be enough, mum?" he enquired solicitously.
Lady Knob-Kerrick regarded him through her lorgnettes.
Mr. Sopley had been detached from his contemplation of the ceiling, and was now led up to Lady Knob-Kerrick.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, "we are indeed greatly honoured."
"'Ere, 'ere!" broke in Bindle, attracting to himself the attention of the whole assembly.
"Will your Ladyship make the presentation now?" enquired Mr. Hearty, "or——"
"Now!" was Lady Knob-Kerrick's uncompromising reply, as she seated herself. "Fetch a table, please," she added, indicating, with an inclination of her head, her footman, who stood with what Bindle called "the prizes."
Mr. Hearty and Mr. Gash trotted off to fetch a small table from the corner of the room. This was placed in front of Lady Knob-Kerrick, and on it John deposited the illuminated address, thebag containing the notes, and the silver-mounted hot-water bottle.
A hush of expectancy fell upon the assembly. Lady Knob-Kerrick rose and was greeted by respectful applause. Her manner was that of a peacock deigning to acknowledge the existence of a group of sparrows. From a dorothy-bag she drew a typewritten paper, which she proceeded to read.
"I have been asked to present to the Rev. James Sopley, as a mark of the esteem in which he is held by his flock, an illuminated address, a purse of fifty pounds, and a silver-mounted hot-water bottle"—she paused for a moment—"a trifle that shall remind him of the loving hearts he has left behind. (Murmurs of respectful appreciation.)
"Mr. Sopley has fought the good fight in Fulham for upwards of twenty-five years, and he is now about to retire to enjoy the rest that he has so well and thoroughly earned. ("'Ere, 'ere!" from Bindle.) I trust and hope that the Lord will spare him for many years to come. ("I'm sure I would if I was Gawd," whispered Bindle to Mr. Tuddenham, who only glared at him.)
"We have now among us," continued Lady Knob-Kerrick, "a new pastor, a man of sterling worth and sound religious principles. ("That's you!" said Bindle in a hoarse whisper, nudging Mr. MacFie who stood next to him.) I have," proceeded Lady Knob-Kerrick, "sat under him ("Oh, naughty! naughty!" whispered Bindle. Lady Knob-Kerrick glared at him),—sat—sat under him for a number of years at Barton Bridge, where he will always be remembered as a man devoted to" ("Temperance fêtes!" interpolated Bindle.)
The result of the interruption was electrical. Lady Knob-Kerrick dropped her lorgnettes and lost her place. Mr. MacFie's "adam's apple" moved up and down with alarming rapidity, testifying to the great emotional ordeal through which he was passing. Mr. Hearty looked at Mrs. Bindle, Mrs. Bindle looked at Bindle, everybody looked at everybody else, because everyone had heard of the Temperance Fête fiasco. Lady Knob-Kerrick resumed her seat suddenly.
Then it was that Mr. Hearty had an inspiration. With a swift movement which precipitated him on the foot of Miss Torkington (whose anguished expression caused Bindle to mutter, "Fancy 'er bein' able to do that with 'er face!"), he landed beside Mr. Sopley. He managed to detach his eyes from their contemplation of the ceiling and impress on him that he had bettermake a reply. As he walked the few steps necessary to reach the table, Bindle once more started clapping vigorously, a greeting that was taken up by several of the other guests, but in a more modified manner.
In a mournful and foreboding voice, thoroughly appropriate to an hour of national disaster, Mr. Sopley thanked Lady Knob-Kerrick for her words, and the others for their notes. He referred to the shepherd, dragged in the sheep, scooped up the righteous, cast out the sinners; in short he said all the most obvious things in the most obvious manner. He promised the Alton Roaders harps and halos, and threw the rest of Fulham into the bottomless pit. With some dexterity he linked-up sin and the taxi-cab, saw in the motor-omnibus the cause of the weakening moral-fibre of the working-classes, expressed it as his conviction that Europe was being drenched in blood because Fulham thought less of faith than of football.
He was frankly pessimistic about the future of the district, an attitude of mind that appeared to have been induced by the garments of the local maidens. Fire and flood he promised Fulham, but made no mention of Hammersmith or Putney. In a voice that throbbed with emotion he took his official leave, having convinced everybody that only his intercessionary powers with heaven had stalled off for so long the impending fate he outlined.
Taking up from the table the bag of fifty pounds, he put it in his pocket and with bowed head walked towards the nearest chair.
"'Ere, you've forgotten your bed-feller, sir!" cried Bindle, picking up the silver-mounted hot-water bottle and the framed address and carrying them over to Mr. Sopley.
Mr. MacFie prepared himself for the ordeal before him. Standing in front of Lady Knob-Kerrick as if she had been an altar, he bowed low before her.
"Your Leddyship." A pause of veneration. "Ma Freends," he continued. "Few meenisters of the Gospel have the preevilege that has been extended to me this evening. It is the will of the Almighty that I succeed a most saintly man (murmurs of approval) in the person of Mr. Sopley. It will be a deefecult poseetion for me to fill. (Mr. Sopley wagged his head from side to side.) In her breeliant oration her Leddyship has emphasised some of the attreebutes of a man whose godliness ye can all testify——"
"You shan't keep me out, you baggage. Can't I hear hisdear voice! My Andrew! Oh, Andy! Andy! and they want to keep me away from you."
The interruption came from the door, where Alice was vainly endeavouring to keep out a dishevelled-looking creature, who finally broke through and walked unsteadily towards the table.
Lady Knob-Kerrick turned and stared at the apparition through her lorgnettes.
Mr. MacFie's jaw dropped.
Mr. Sopley for the first time that evening seemed to forget heaven, and devoted himself to terrestrial things. Everybody was gazing with wide-eyed wonder at the cause of the interruption.
"Oh! my Andrew, my little Andy!" cried the woman in hoarse maudlin tones. Her hair, to which was attached a black toque with a brilliant oval of embroidery in front, hung over her left ear. Her clothes, ill-fitting and much stained, hung upon her as if they had been thrown—rather than put on. Her face, intended by Providence to be pretty, was tear-stained and dirty. Her blouse was open at the neck and her boots mud-stained and shapeless.
"What—what is the meaning of this?" demanded Lady Knob-Kerrick of Mr. MacFie, as she rose from her chair, a veritable Rhadamanthus.
The girl, who was now hanging on to Mr. MacFie's arm, turned and regarded Lady Knob-Kerrick over her shoulder.
"He's my boooy," she spluttered; then closing her eyes her head wobbled from side to side, as if her neck were unable to support it.
"Your what?" thundered Lady Knob-Kerrick.
"My—my boooy," drawled the girl, "husband. Oh! Andy, Andy!" and she clung to Mr. MacFie the more closely in spite of his frantic efforts to shake himself free.
"Mr. MacFie, what is the meaning of this?" demanded Lady Knob-Kerrick.
"I've—I've never seen her before," stammered Mr. MacFie, looking as if he had been grabbed by an octopus. "On ma oath, your Leddyship. Before ma God!"
"Andy, Andy! don't say such awful things," protested the girl. "You know you married me secret because you said Helen wouldn't let you;" and she sagged away again, half supporting herself on Mr. MacFie's arm.
"Do you know anything of this woman?" demanded Lady Knob-Kerrick of Miss MacFie.
Miss MacFie shook her head as if the question were an insult.
"Then it was a secret marriage." Lady Knob-Kerrick remembered what she had heard of Mr. MacFie's conduct at the temperance fête. "Mr. MacFie, you have—you have disgraced——"
"Your Leddyship, on ma honour, I sweear——!"
"Don't, Andy, don't!" said the girl, striving to put her hand over his mouth. "Don't! God may strike you dead. He did it once, didn't He? Oh! I've learnt the Bible," she added in a maudlin tone. "I can sing hymns, I can." She began to croon something in a wheezy voice.
Mr. MacFie made a desperate effort to free himself from her clutches, but succeeded only in bringing her to her knees.
"Look at 'im! Look at 'im!" shrieked the girl, "knocking me about, what he swore to love, honour and obey. Oh, you devil, Andy! How you used to behave, and now—and now——"
"I swear it's all a damned lee! It's ma enemy—ma enemy. Woman, I know thee not! Thou art the scarlet woman of Babylon! Get thee from me, I curse thee!" Mr. MacFie's Gaelic blood was up.
"Go it, sir!" said Bindle. "Go it!"
"Ye have come as the ravening wolf upon the sheep-fold at night to destroy the lamb." Mr. MacFie waved his disengaged arm.
"You bein' the lamb, sir, go it!" said Bindle.
"I'll hae the law on ye, woman, I'll hae the law on ye! Ye impostor! Ye harlot!! Ye daughter of Belial!!!" He flung his arm about, and his eyes rolled with almost maniacal fury. "Ma God! ma God! Why persecuteth Thou me?" he cried, lifting his eyes to the ceiling.
Then with a sudden drop to earthly things he appealed to Lady Knob-Kerrick.
"Your Leddyship, your Leddyship, do not believe this woman. She lies! She would ruin me!! I will have her arrested!!! Fetch the police!!!! I demand the police!!!!!"
Lady Knob-Kerrick turned towards the door at the entrance of which stood her footman.
"John, blow your police-whistle," she ordered, practical in all things.
John disappeared. A moment later the raucous sound of a police-whistle was heard in continuous blast.
"That's right!" shouted the woman, "that's right! Blow your police-whistle! Blow your pinkish brains out!" Then with a sudden change she turned to Mr. MacFie. "Oh, Andy, Andy!You never was the same man after you 'ad that drink in you down in the country at the temperance fête. Don't you remember how you laughed with me about that Old Bird being washed out of her carriage?"
"It's a lee! It's a lee! A damnable lee!" shrieked Mr. MacFie.
Mr. MacFie was interrupted in his protestations by a sudden rush of feet, and the hall began to fill with a wild-eyed, dishevelled crowd. Mothers carrying their babies, or pulling along little children. Everyone inviting everyone else to come in. One woman was in hysterics. Lady Knob-Kerrick stared at them in wonder.
"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded of no one in particular.
"It's a raid, mum, a raid; it's a raid," sobbed a woman, leading two little children with the hand and holding a baby in her disengaged arm.
Lady Knob-Kerrick paled. "A raid!" she faltered.
"Yes, mum, can't you 'ear the police-whistles?"
"Well, I'm damned!" broke in Bindle, slapping his leg in ecstasy; then a moment after, seeing the terror on the women's faces, he cried out:
"It's all right, there ain't no raid. Don't be frightened. It's ole Calves with that bloomin' police-whistle."
"Tell that fool to stop," cried Lady Knob-Kerrick. A special constable pushed his way through the crowd.
"What is all this about, please?" he demanded.
"There's a raid, sir," cried several voices.
"I give this woman in charge," cried Mr. MacFie, dramatically pointing at her who claimed to be his wife.
With alacrity the special pulled his note-book out of his pocket.
"The charge, sir?" he enquired.
"She says she's ma wife."
The special looked up from his note-book. "That is not an indictable offence, sir, I'm afraid."
"But she's na ma wife," protested Mr. MacFie.
Another rush of people seeking shelter swept the constable on one side, and when he once more strove to take up the thread, the woman had disappeared.
The results of John's vigour with the police-whistle were far-reaching. Omnibuses had drawn up to the kerb and had been promptly deserted by passengers and crew. The trains on the District Railway were plunged in darkness and the authorities atPutney Bridge Station and East Putney telephoned through that there was a big air-raid. Although nothing had been heard at head-quarters, it was deemed advisable to take precautions. Special constables, nurses and ambulances were called out, anti-aircraft stations warned, and tens of thousands of people sent scuttling home.
Bindle was one of the first to leave the School-room, and he made his way over to Dick Little's flat at Chelsea.
"Ah!" cried Dick Little as he opened the door, "Nancy's back. This way," he added, walking towards his bedroom.
In front of the dressing-table stood Private "Nancy" Dane, the far-famed Pierrette of the Passchendaele Pierrots. He was in the act of removing from his closely-cropped head a dark wig to which was attached a black toque with an oval of vivid-coloured embroidery.
"Well, that's that!" he remarked as he laid it on the table. "Hullo, Bindle!" he cried. "All Clear?"
"All Clear!" replied Bindle as he seated himself upon a chair and proceeded to light the big cigar that Dick Little handed him. Dick Little threw himself upon the bed.
"You done it fine," remarked Bindle approvingly, as he watched Dane slowly transform himself into a private of the line. "Pore ole Mac," he added, "'e got the wind up proper."
"Good show, what?" queried Dick Little as he lazily pulled at his pipe, tired after a long day's work in the hospital.
"Seemed a bit cruel to me," said Dane as he struggled out of a pair of hefty-looking corsets.
"Cruel!" cried Bindle indignantly, as he sat up straight in his chair. "Cruel! with 'im a-tryin' to take the gal away from one of the boys wot's fightin' at the front. Cruel! It wouldn't be cruel, Mr. Nancy, if 'e was cut up an' salted an' given to the 'Uns as a meat ration;" and with this ferocious pronouncement Bindle sank back again in his chair and puffed away at his cigar.
"Sorry!" said Dane, laboriously pulling off a stocking.
"Right-o!" said Bindle cheerfully. Then after a pause he added, "I got to thank Ole 'Amlet for that little idea, and you, sir, for findin' Mr. Nancy. Did it wonderful well, 'e did; still," remarked Bindle meditatively, "I wish they 'adn't blown that police-whistle. Them pore women an' kids was that scared, made me feel I didn't ought to 'ave done it; but then, 'ow was I to know that the Ole Bird was goin' to 'anky-panky like that with Calves. Took 'er name they did, that's somethink. Any'ow,ole Mac won't go 'angin' round Millikins again for many a long day. If 'e does I'll punch 'is bloomin' 'ead."
The next day Lady Knob-Kerrick and John were summoned for causing to be blown to the public confusion a police-whistle, and although the summonses were dismissed the magistrate said some very caustic things about the insensate folly of excitable women. He furthermore made it clear that if anybody blew a police-whistle in the south-western district because somebody else's wife had come back unexpectedly, he would without hesitation pass a sentence that would discourage any repetition of so unscrupulous and unpardonable an act.
Mr. MacFie cleared his character to some extent by a sermon on the following Sunday upon the ninth commandment, and by inserting an advertisement in the principal papers offering £20 to anyone who would give information as to the identity of the woman who on the night of the 28th had created a disturbance in the Alton Road School Room.
"An' what am I to do if there's an air-raid?" demanded Mrs. Bindle.
Bindle deliberately emptied his coffee-cup, replaced it in its saucer, sat back further in his chair as a sign of repletion, then turned to Mrs. Bindle, who had been watching him with angry eyes.
"Well, there's always Gawd an' Mr. Gupperduck, Mrs. B.," he remarked, with the air of a man suggesting an unfailing source of inspiration.
"You always was a scoffer, you with your black 'eart." Mrs. Bindle's ire was rising, and her diction in consequence losing something of its customary precision. "You know I ain't strong and—and 'ow them guns an' bombs frighten me." There was in Mrs. Bindle's voice a note of entreaty.
"A daughter o' the Lord didn't ought to be afraid of an 'Un;besides, you can go round an' 'old 'Earty's 'and. 'E's a rare ole 'ero when there's guns goin' off."
"I knew I shouldn't get any sympathy from you," complained Mrs. Bindle, rising and proceeding to bang away the breakfast things. When Mrs. Bindle was suffering from any great stress of emotion, she expressed her feelings by the noise she made. Ironing gave her the greatest opportunities. She could bang the iron on the ironing-board, back again to the stand, and finally on to the stove.
"I got to earn a livin'," remarked Bindle philosophically as he proceeded to light his pipe. "It's war-time too, an' nobody can't afford to move, so pore ole Joe 'as to take any ole job 'e can get 'old of."
"You lorst your last job a-purpose," snapped Mrs. Bindle.
Bindle looked at her sharply. Sometimes Mrs. Bindle's accuracy in things where she could not possibly possess knowledge was startling. Bindle had temporarily relinquished his situation in the Removal Department of Harridge's Stores in order to become caretaker at Fulham Square Mansions whilst his intimate, Charlie Hart, had a fortnight's holiday.
Mrs. Hart had been ill, and the doctor said that change of air and scene were essential to her recovery. She could not go alone, and if Mr. Hart went with her and a substitute were obtained, he would in all probability, as Charlie put it, "pinch my bloomin' job." Bindle he knew he could trust, and so it came about that for a fortnight Bindle was to "sleep out."
"Well, you see," Bindle explained, "I couldn't disappoint ole Charlie——"
"And what about me?" demanded Mrs. Bindle, looking round from a fierce attack upon the kitchen stove with the poker.
"Well," said Bindle slowly, "you're a disappointed woman as it is, Mrs. B., so you ain't 'urt."
Mrs. Bindle resumed her attack upon the fire with increased vigour.
"You always was a selfish beast, Bindle," she retorted. "You'll be sorry when I'm dead."
Any reference by Mrs. Bindle to the remorse that he would suffer after her death, Bindle always regarded as a sort of "take cover" signal. Mrs. Bindle was hysterical, and Bindle liked to be well out of the way before the storm broke. He had heard, but had never had an opportunity of testing the statement, that without an audience dogs will not fight and women will never have hysterics.
When, therefore, Mrs. Bindle referred to what Bindle widower would suffer on account of what Bindle benedict had neglected to do, he rose, picking up the faded blue-and-white cricket-cap he invariably wore, and walked towards the door.
"There'll be a lot o' tips, ole Charlie says," he remarked, "an' I'll buy you somethink. I'll run in every day to see you ain't gone off with 'Guppy.'"
"You're a dirty-minded beast, Bindle," raged Mrs. Bindle; but her words beat up against the back door, through which Bindle had vanished. He had become a master of strategical retreat.
Whistling shrilly, he proceeded along the Fulham Road in the direction of Fulham Square Mansions. Bindle was in a happy frame of mind. It would be strange if a fortnight as porter at Fulham Square Mansions did not produce something in the way of a diversion.
"Cheer-o, uncle!" The remark came from a brazen-faced girl waiting for a bus.
Bindle frowned as he looked her up and down, from the low-cut transparent blouse to the short skirt, reaching little below her knees.
"If Iwasyour uncle, young woman," he remarked, "I'd slap you into becomin' decent."
The girl jumped on to a bus that had just drawn up, and with a swirl of skirt and wealth of limb, waved her hand as she climbed the stairs.
"So long, old dear!" she cried.
"Got enough powder on 'er face to whitewash 'er feet," remarked a workman to Bindle as he resumed his walk.
"Women is funny things," responded Bindle. "They never seems to be wearin' so little, but wot they can't leave orf a bit more."
"You're right, mate," replied the man when he had digested the remark. "If I was the police I'd run 'em in."
"Well," said Bindle philosophically, "there is some wot likes to see all the goods in the window. S'long!" and he turned off the Fulham Road, leaving the workman to pursue his journey puzzling over Bindle's enigmatical utterance.
"'Ullo, Charlie!" greeted Bindle, as he entered the porter's lodge of Fulham Square Mansions. "'Ere I am, come to take care of all the little birds in the nest wot you're a-leavin' behind."
Charlie Hart was a big man with a heavy moustache, a brow whereon the creases of worry had a perpetual abiding-place, andan indeterminate chin. "Charlie ought to wear a beard," was Bindle's verdict.
"Glad you come, Joe. I'll 'ave time to go over things again. Train don't go till four."
During the next few hours Bindle was once more taken over the salient features of the life of a porter at a block of residential flats. Charlie Hart had no system or order in conveying his instructions, and Bindle saw that he would have to depend upon his own wits to meet such crises as arose.
Mrs. Sedge, Mrs. Hart's mother, would look after those tenants who did not possess servants.
"She's all right when she ain't after 'Royal Richard,'" explained Charlie Hart.
"An' who's Royal Richard?" enquired Bindle with interest.
"Gin!" was Charlie Hart's laconic response.
Charlie enumerated the numbers of the flats, the occupants of which were to be "done for." One thing he particularly emphasised, Number Six was temporarily vacant. The owner was away; but it was let furnished from the following Monday to a Miss Cissie Boye, who was one of those to be "done for." Bindle was particularly cautioned to see that there were no "carryings on," whereat he winked reassuringly.
Mrs. Sedge was a stolid matron, whose outlook on life had reached the dregs of pessimism.
"Oh! don't ask me," was the phrase with which she warded off any attempt at conversation. Hers was a soul dedicated to Royal Richard and silence.
"Cheery little thing," was Bindle's summing up of the gloomy Mrs. Sedge.
Bindle had not been in charge an hour before Number Seven began to get troublesome. He was a choleric ex-Indian civil servant.
"Where's that damned fellow Hart?" he roared, thrusting his head into the porter's lodge.
"'E's gone to the damned seaside," replied Bindle imperturbably, as he proceeded to light his pipe with elaborate calm. "Taken 'is damned wife with 'im," he added.
Number Seven gasped.
"And who the devil are you?" he demanded.
"Well," replied Bindle with a grin, "on the 'Alls I'm Little Tich; but 'ere I calls myself Joe Bindle, known as ''Oly Joe.'"
For a moment Number Seven, his customary redness of face transformed to purple, stood regarding Bindle fiercely.
"Then be damned to you!" he burst out, and turning on his heel, dashed upstairs.
"I ain't lived with Mrs. B. nineteen years without learnin' 'ow to 'andle explosives," remarked Bindle as he settled down to read an evening newspaper he had discovered in the letter box.
Bindle soon discovered that the life of a porter at residential flats is strangely lacking in repose. Everybody seemed either to want something sent up, or came to complain that their instructions had not been carried out.
The day passed with amazing rapidity. At eight o'clock Bindle stepped round to The Ancient Earl for a glass of beer. When he returned at nine-thirty he found his room in a state of siege.
"Oh, here he is!" said someone. Bindle smiled happily.
"Where the devil have you been?" demanded Number Seven angrily.
Bindle looked at him steadily. Having apparently established Number Seven's identity to his entire satisfaction, he spoke.
"Now look 'ere, sir, this is the second time to-day I've 'ad to speak to you about your language. This ain't a peace-meetin'. You speakin' like that before ladies too. I'm surprised at you, I am really. Now 'op it an' learn some nice words, an' then come back an' beg prettily, an' p'raps I'll give you a bit o' cake."
"You damned insolent fellow!" thundered Number Seven, "I'll report you, I'll——"
"Look 'ere," remarked Bindle tranquilly, "if you ain't gone by the time I've finished lightin' this pipe,"—he struck a match deliberately,—"I'll 'oof it myself, an' then who'll fetch up all the coals in the mornin'?"
This master-stroke of strategy turned public opinion dead against Number Seven, who retired amidst a murmur of disapproving voices.
"It's 'ard if I can't go out to see a dyin' wife an' child, without 'im a-comin' usin' 'ot words like that," grumbled Bindle, as he proceeded to investigate the cases of the other tenants and their minions.
Number One was expecting a parcel. Had it arrived?
No, it had not, but Bindle would not rest until it did.
Number Twelve, a tall, melancholy-visaged man, had lost Fluffles. Where did Bindle think she was?
"P'raps she's taken up with another cove, sir," suggested Bindle sympathetically. "You never knows where you are with women."
The maid from Number Fifteen giggled.
Number Twelve explained in a weary tone that Fluffles was a Pekinese spaniel.
"A dog, you say, sir," cried Bindle, "why didn't you say so before? I might 'ave advertised for—well, well, I'll keep a look out."
"Wot's that?" he enquired of the maid from Number Eight. "No coal? Can't fetch coal up after six o'clock. That's the rules," he added with decision.
"But we must have some, we can't go to bed without coal," snapped the girl, an undersized, shrewish little creature.
"Well, Queenie," responded Bindle imperturbably, "you'll 'ave to take some firewood to bed with you, if you wants company; coal you don't get to-night. Wot about a log?"
"My name's not 'Queenie,'" snapped the girl.
"Ain't it now," remarked Bindle; "shows your father and mother 'adn't an eye for the right thing, don't it?"
"I tell you we must have coal," persisted the girl.
"Now look 'ere, Queenie, my dear, a gal as wants to take coal to bed with 'er ain't—well, she ain't respectable. Now orf you goes like a good gal."
"It's in case of raids, you saucy 'ound!" screeched "Queenie." "I'll get even with you yet, you red-nosed little bounder! I'll pay you!"
"Funny where they learns it all," remarked Bindle to Number Eleven, a quiet little old lady who wanted a postage stamp.
The little lady smiled.
"She won't be wantin' coal in the next world if she goes on like that, will she, mum?" said Bindle as he handed her the stamp.
"Her mistress has a weak heart," ventured Number Eleven, "and during the raids she shivers so——"
"Now ain't that jest like a woman, beggin' your pardon, mum. Why didn't Queenie say that instead of showin' 'ow bad she's been brought up? Right-o! I'll take her up some coal."
Ten minutes later Bindle surprised "Queenie" by appearing at the door of Number Eight with a pailful of coal. She stared at him in surprise. Bindle grinned.
"'Ere you are, Queenie," he said cheerfully. "Now you'll be able to go to sleep with a bit in each 'and, an' maybe there'll be a bit over to put in your mouth."
"Look 'ere, don't you go callin' me 'Queenie'; that ain't my name, so there," and the girl banged the door in his face.
"She'll grow up jest like Mrs. B.," murmured Bindle, as he slowly descended the stairs, "an' p'raps she can't even cook. I wonder if she's religious. Sort o' zoo this 'ere little 'ole. Shouldn't be surprised if things was to 'appen before Ole Charlie gets 'ome again!" and Bindle returned to his lodge, where, removing his boots and throwing off his coat, he lay down on the couch that served as a bed for the porter at Fulham Square Mansions.
During the next two days Bindle discovered that his duties were endless. Everybody seemed to want something, or have some complaint to make. He was expected to be always at his post, night and day, and if he were not, he was threatened with a possible complaint to the Secretary of the Company to which the flats belonged.
Bindle's fertile brain, however, was not long in devising a means of relieving the monotony without compromising "pore Ole Charlie." He sent home for his special constable's uniform, although he had obtained a fortnight's leave on account of his work. Henceforth, whenever he required relaxation, he donned his official garb, which he found a sure defence against all complaints.
"Well, Queenie," he remarked one evening to the maid at Number Eight, "I'm orf to catch the robbers wot might carry you away."
"I can see you catchin' a man," snorted the girl scornfully.
"Sorry I can't return the compliment, little love-bird," retorted Bindle. "S'long!"
"Queenie" had found her match.
"You—er—have a furnished—er—flat to let."
Bindle looked up from the paper he was reading.
A timid, mouse-like little man with side-whiskers and a deprecating manner stood on the threshold.
"Come in, sir," said Bindle heartily; "but I'm afraid it's let."
"But the board's up," replied the applicant.
Bindle rose, walked to the outer door, and there saw the notice-board announcing that a furnished-flat was to let.
"Funny me not noticin' that," he murmured to himself, as he returned to the porter's lodge.
"Was you wantin' it for long, sir?" he enquired.
"A month, I think," was the reply; "but three weeks——"
"I'm sorry, sir," began Bindle, then he smacked his leg with such suddenness that the stranger started back in alarm, his soft felt hat falling from his head and hanging behind him attached to a hat-guard.
"Now isn't that jest like me!" cried Bindle, his face wreathed in smiles.
The stranger eyed Bindle nervously, as he fumbled to retrieve his lost head-gear, looking like a dog endeavouring to ascertain if he still possessed a tail.
"I was thinkin' of the other one," said Bindle. "Yes; there's Number Six to let from next Monday."
"What is the rent?" enquired the caller.
Bindle, who had no idea of the rent of furnished flats, decided to temporise. "I'll go and ask, sir," he said. "Wot was you exactly wantin', an' about wot figure?"
"Well, a bedroom, bath-room, sitting-room, kitchen and attendance, would do," was the reply. "I do not want to pay more than three and a half guineas a week."
"Now ain't that funny!" cried Bindle, and without waiting to explain what was funny, he picked up the key of Number Six from his desk. "Now you jest come with me, sir, an' I'll show you the very place you're wantin'."
Number Six consisted of two bedrooms, a sitting-room, bath-room and kitchen. Charlie Hart had taken Bindle over it, explaining that Miss Cissie Boye, who was entering into occupation on the following Monday, would use only the smaller bedroom with the single bed, therefore the double-bedded room was to remain locked.
The applicant, who introduced himself as Mr. Jabez Stiffson, expressed himself as quite satisfied with all he saw, and agreed to enter into possession on the following Monday afternoon, at a rental of three and a half guineas a week. He appeared mildly surprised at Bindle waiving the question of references and a deposit; but agreed that the smaller bedroom should be kept locked, as containing the owner's personal possessions. Mrs. Stiffson, he explained, was staying with friends in the country, their own house being let; but she would join him on the Tuesday morning.
In the privacy of his own apartment, Bindle rubbed his hands with glee. "If this ain't goin' to be a little story for the Night Club," he murmured, "well, put me down as a Cuthbert."
He persuaded Mrs. Sedge to get both rooms ready, "in case of accidents," as he expressed it. Bindle foresaw that there mightbe some difficulty in the matter of catering for Mr. Jabez Stiffson; but he left that to the inspiration of the moment.
He looked forward to Monday as a schoolboy looks forward to the summer holidays. He forgot to rebuke "Queenie" when she became impertinent, he allowed Number Seven to swear with impunity, and he even forgot to don his special's uniform and go "on duty"; in short, he forgot everything save the all-absorbing topic of Miss Cissie Boye and Mr. Jabez Stiffson.
On Monday, Mrs. Sedge was persuaded to take a half day off. She announced her intention of putting some flowers on her husband's grave in Kilburn Cemetery.
"Well," remarked Bindle, who knew that Mrs. Sedge's "Kilburn Cemetery" was the public-bar of The Ancient Earl, "you won't want no bus fares."
"You go hon, with a nose like that," retorted Mrs. Sedge, in no way displeased.
"Well, don't be late in the morning," grinned Bindle.
At six-thirty, Mr. Jabez Stiffson arrived with a bewildering collection of impedimenta, ranging from a canary in a cage to a thermos flask.
Bindle put all he could in the double-bedded room, the rest he managed to store in the kitchen. A slight difficulty arose over the canary, Mr. Stiffson suggested the dining-room.
"Wouldn't 'e sort o' feel lonely without seein' you when 'e opened 'is little eyes?" questioned Bindle solicitously. "A cove I knew once 'ad a canary which 'ad a fit through bein' lonely, and they 'ad to throw water over 'im to bring 'im to, an' then wot d'you think, sir?"
Mr. Stiffson shook his head in mournful foreboding.
"'E come to a sparrow, 'e did really, sir."
That settled the canary, who slept with Mr. Stiffson.
It was nearly eight before Mr. Stiffson was settled, and he announced his intention of going out to dine. At ten he was ready for bed, having implored Bindle to see that he was up by eight as Mrs. Stiffson would inevitably arrive at ten.
"I'm a very heavy sleeper," he announced, to Bindle's great relief. "And my watch has stopped," he added; "some dirt must have got into the works. If Mrs. Stiffson were to arrive before I was up——" He did not venture to state what would be the probable consequence; but his manner implied that Mrs. Stiffson was a being of whom he stood in great awe.
Just as Bindle was leaving him for the night, Mr. Stiffson called him back.
"Porter, I'm worried about Oscar." Bindle noticed that Mr. Stiffson's hands were moving nervously.
"Are you really, sir?" enquired Bindle, wondering who Oscar might be.
"The bird, you know," continued Mr. Stiffson, answering Bindle's unuttered question. "You—you don't think it will be unhygienic for him to sleep with me?"
"Sure of it, sir," replied Bindle, entirely at a loss as to Mr. Stiffson's meaning.
Mr. Stiffson sighed his relief and bade Bindle good night, with a final exhortation as to waking him at eight. "You know," he added, "I always sleep through air-raids."
Mr. Stiffson's bugbear in life was lest he should over-sleep. He seldom failed to wake of his own accord; but, constitutionally lacking in self-reliance, he felt that at any moment he might commit the unpardonable sin of over-sleeping.
Bindle returned to his room to await the arrival of Miss Cissie Boye.
It was nearly midnight when his alert ear caught the sound of a taxi drawing up outside. As he opened the outer door, Miss Cissie Boye appeared at the top of the stone-steps.
Bindle caught a glimpse of a dainty little creature in a long travelling coat with fur at the collar, cuffs and round the bottom, a small travelling hat and a thick veil.
"Oh, can you help with my luggage?" she cried.
"Right-o, miss! You go in there and sit by the fire. We'll 'ave things right in a jiffy;" and Bindle proceeded to tackle Miss Boye's luggage, which consisted of a large dress-basket, a suit-case and a bundle of rugs and umbrellas. When these had been placed in the hall, and the taxi-man paid, Bindle went into his lodge.
Miss Boye was sitting before the fire, her coat thrown open and her veil thrown back. Between her dainty fingers she held a cigarette.
"So that's that!" she cried. "I'm so tired, Mr. Porter."
Bindle regarded her with admiration. Honey-coloured, fluffy hair, blue eyes, dark eyebrows and lashes, pretty, petite features, and a manner that suggested half baby, half woman-of-the-world,—Bindle found her wholly alluring.
"I'm afraid we can't get that little picnic 'amper of yours upstairs to-night, miss," he remarked.
Miss Boye laughed. "Isn't it huge?" she cried. "It needn't go up till the morning. I've all I want in the suit-case."
"You must 'ave a rare lot o' duds, miss," remarked Bindle.
"Duds?" interrogated Miss Boye.
"Clothes, miss," explained Bindle.
Miss Boye laughed lightly. Miss Boye laughed at everything.
"Now I must go to bed. I've got a 'call' to-morrow at eleven."
As they went upstairs, Bindle learnt quite a lot about Miss Boye, among other things that she was appearing in the revue at the Regent Theatre known as "Kiss Me Quick," that she never ate suppers, that she took a warm bath every morning, and liked coffee, bacon and eggs and strawberry jam for breakfast.
"You'll be very quiet, miss, in the flat, won't you?" he whispered.
"Sure," replied Miss Boye.
"They're such a funny lot 'ere," he explained. "If a fly wakes up too early, or a bird 'as a nightmare, they comes down an' complains next mornin'."
Miss Boye laughed.
"'Ush! miss, please," whispered Bindle as he switched on the electric light in the hall of Number Six.
Bindle showed the new tenant the sitting-room, bathroom, kitchen, and finally her own bedroom.
"You will be quiet, miss, won't you?" Bindle interrogated anxiously, "or you may wake Oscar?"
"Who's Oscar?" queried Miss Boye.
"You'll see 'im in the mornin', miss," replied Bindle with a grin. "Good night, miss."
"Good night, Mr. Porter," smiled Miss Boye, and she closed the door.
"Now I wonder if anythink will 'appen before Ole Whiskers gets up in the mornin'," mused Bindle as he descended the stairs to his room.