The next morning Bindle let Mrs. Sedge in at her usual time, seven o'clock.
"Now mind, mother," he said, "four eggs and plenty o' bacon an' coffee, Number Six 'as got a appetite; 'ad no supper, pore gal."
Mrs. Sedge grunted. Kilburn Cemetery had a depressing effect upon her.
"I'll take it up myself," remarked Bindle casually.
Mrs. Sedge eyed him deliberately.
"She's pretty, then," she said. "Ain't you men jest all alike!" She proceeded to shake her head in hopeless despair.
Bindle stood watching her as she descended to the Harts' kitchen.
"She's got an 'ead-piece on 'er, 'as ole Sedgy," he muttered. "Fancy 'er a-tumblin' to it like that, an' 'er still 'alf full o' Royal Richard."
Having prepared and eaten his own breakfast, Bindle sat down and waited. At five minutes past nine he rose.
"It's time Oscar an' Ole Whiskers was up an' doin'," he murmured as he stood in front of the dingy looking-glass over the fireplace. "Joe Bindle, there's a-goin' to be rare doin's in Number Six to-day, and it may mean that you'll lose your job, you ole reprobate."
At the head of the stairs of the second floor Bindle stopped as if he had been shot.
"'Old me, 'Orace!" he muttered. "If it ain't 'er!"
Running towards him was Miss Boye in a white silk wrapper, a white lace matinée cap, her stockingless feet thrust into dainty slippers.
Bindle eyed her appreciatively.
"Oh, Mr. Porter!" she cried breathlessly, "there's a man in my bath."
"A wot, miss?" enquired Bindle in astonishment.
"A man, I heard him splashing and I peeped in,—I only just peeped, you know, Mr. Porter,—and there was a funny little man in spectacles with whiskers. Isn't it lovely!" she cried, clapping her hands gleefully. "Where could he have come from?"
"Well, personally myself, I shouldn't call 'im lovely," muttered Bindle. "I s'pose it's only a matter o' taste."
"But where did he come from?" persisted Cissie Boye excitedly.
"'E must 'ave been left be'ind by the other tenant," said Bindle, grinning widely. "I must see into this. Now you'd better get back, miss. You mustn't go 'opping about like this, or I'll lose my job."
"Why! Don't I look nice?" asked Miss Boye archly, looking down at herself.
"That's jest it, miss," said Bindle. "If Number Seven or Number Eighteen was to see you like that, well, anythink might'appen. Now we'll find out about this man wot you think 'as got into your bath."
Followed by Miss Boye, Bindle entered the outer door of Number Six. As he did so Mr. Stiffson emerged from the bathroom in a faded pink bath-robe and yellow felt slippers, with a towel over his shoulder and a sponge in his hand. He gave one startled glance past Bindle at Cissie Boye and, with a strange noise in his throat, turned and fled back to the bathroom, bolting the door behind him.
"Isn't he a scream!" gurgled Miss Boye. "Oh, what would Bobbie say?"
Like a decree of fate Bindle marched up to the bathroom door and knocked imperiously.
"What is it?" inquired Mr. Stiffson in a trembling voice.
"It's me," responded Bindle sternly. "Open the door, sir,ifyou please. I can't 'ave you a-frightening this young lady."
"Tell her to go away, and then I'll come out," was the response.
Miss Boye giggled.
"You'd better come out, sir." There was decision in Bindle's voice.
"I'll go into my room," she whispered, "and then I'll come out again, see?"
Bindle did see, and nodded his head vigorously. Miss Boye disappeared.
"She ain't 'ere now, sir," he said, "so you'd better come out."
The bathroom door was cautiously opened, and Mr. Stiffson looked out with terror-dilated eyes.
"Is she really——?"
"Of course she is," said Bindle reassuringly. "Fancy you bein' afraid of a pretty little bit o' fluff like that."
"But—but—she was in her——"
"Of course she was, she was goin' to 'ave a rinse in there," Bindle indicated the bathroom with his thumb, "when you frightened 'er. Dirty trick a-frightening of a pretty gal like that."
With affected indifference Bindle strolled over to the bathroom, looked in and then stood before the door.
"Look! there she is again!" almost shrieked Mr. Stiffson, dashing for Bindle and endeavouring to get past him into the bathroom.
"There, there, sir," said Bindle soothingly, "you're a very lucky cove, only you don't seem to know it."
"But—but—Mrs. Stiffson——"
There was terror in Mr. Stiffson's voice. On his forehead beads of perspiration glistened.
"What the wife don't see the 'usband don't 'ave to explain," remarked Bindle oracularly.
"But she's in my flat," persisted Mr. Stiffson.
"Oh! you naughty old thing!" cried Cissie Boye. "It's you who are in my flat."
"But I came in last night," quavered Mr. Stiffson.
"So did I—didn't I, Mr. Porter?" She turned to Bindle for corroboration.
"Take my dyin' oath on it, miss," said Bindle.
"But——" began Mr. Stiffson, then stopped, at loss how to proceed.
"Look 'ere," said Bindle pleasantly, "there's been a little mistake, sort of a misunderstandin', an' things 'ave got a bit mixed. You can say it's me wot's done it if you like. Now you'd better both get dressed an' come an' 'ave breakfast." Then turning to Mr. Stiffson he said, "Don't you think o' meetin' your missis on an empty stomach. I'm married myself, an' Mrs. B.'s as 'ot as ginger when there's another bit o' skirt about."
Cissie Boye slowly approached Mr. Stiffson. "You're surely not afraid of little me, Mr. Man?" she enquired, looking deliciously impudent.
That was exactly what Mr. Stiffson was afraid of, and he edged nearer to Bindle.
"But Mrs. Stiffson——" he stammered, regarding Cissie Boye like one hypnotised.
"Oh! you naughty old thing!" admonished Miss Boye, enjoying Mr. Stiffson's embarrassment. "You come into my flat, then talk about your wife," and she laughed happily.
"Now look 'ere, sir," said Bindle, "there's been a little mistake, an' this young lady is willin' to forgive an' forget, an' you ain't a-goin' to 'old out, are you? Now you jest run in an' get rid o' them petticoats, come out lookin' like a man, an' then wot-o! for a nice little breakfast which'll all be over before your missis turns up at ten o'clock, see! You can trust me, married myself I am," he added as if to explain his breadth of view in such matters.
"But I can't——" began Mr. Stiffson.
"Oh, yes you can, sir, an' wot's more you'll like it." Bindle gently propelled the protesting Mr. Stiffson past Cissie Boye towards his room.
"Don't forget now, in a quarter of an hour, I'll be up with the coffee an' bacon an' eggs. You're a rare lucky cove, sir, only you don't know it."
"I'm so hungry," wailed Cissie Boye.
"Of course you are, miss," said Bindle sympathetically. "I'll get a move on."
"Oh! isn't he delicious," gurgled Cissie Boye. "Isn't he a perfect scream; but how did he get here, Mr. Porter?"
"Well, miss, the only wonder to me is that 'alf Fulham ain't 'ere to see you a-lookin' like that. Now you jest get a rinse in your room an'——"
"A rinse, what's that?" enquired Cissie.
"You does it with soap an' water, miss, an' you might add a bit or two of lace, jest in case the neighbours was to come in. Now I must be orf. Old Sedgy ain't at 'er best after them 'alf days with Royal Richard. Don't let 'im nip orf, miss, will you?" Bindle added anxiously. "'E's that modest an' retirin' like, that e' might try."
At that moment Mr. Stiffson put his head out of his door. "Porter!" he stammered, "Oscar has not had his breakfast; it's on the kitchen mantelpiece." He shut the door hurriedly.
"Oscar's got to wait," muttered Bindle as he hurried downstairs.
Ten minutes later he had the gas-stove lighted in the sitting-room, and coffee, eggs and bacon, bread and butter, strawberry jam and marmalade ready on the table.
Miss Boye emerged from her room, a vision of loveliness in a pale-blue teagown, open at the throat, with a flurry of white lace cascading down the front. There was a good deal of Cissie Boye visible in spite of the lace. She still wore her matinée cap with the blue ribbons, and Bindle frankly envied Mr. Stiffson.
"Now, sir," he cried, banging at the laggard's door, "the coffee and the lady's waitin', an' I want to feed Oscar."
Mr. Stiffson came out timidly. He evidently realised the importance of the occasion. He wore a white satin tie reposing beneath a low collar of nonconformity, a black frock-coat with a waistcoat that had been bought at a moment of indecision as to whether it should be a morning or evening affair, light trousers, and spats.
"My, ain't we dressy!" cried Bindle, looking appreciatively at Mr. Stiffson's trousers. "You got 'er beaten with them bags, sir, or my name ain't Joe Bindle."
Mr. Stiffson coughed nervously behind his hand.
"Now," continued Bindle, "you got a good hour, then we must see wot's to be done. I'll keep the Ole Bird away."
"The Old Bird?" questioned Mr. Stiffson in a thin voice as he opened the door; "but Oscar is only——"
"I mean your missis, sir," explained Bindle. "You leave 'er to me."
"Come on, Mr. Man," cried Cissie Boye, "don't be afraid, I never eat men when there's eggs and bacon."
Mr. Stiffson motioned Bindle to accompany him into the sitting-room.
"I got to see to Oscar," said Bindle reassuringly.
"Now sit down," ordered Cissie Boye. Mr. Stiffson seated himself on the edge of the chair opposite to her. She busied herself with the coffee, bacon and eggs. Mr. Stiffson watched her with the air of a man who is prepared to bolt at any moment. He cast anxious eyes towards the clock. It pointed to a quarter to nine. Bindle had taken the precaution of putting it back an hour.
Suddenly Oscar burst into full song. Mr. Stiffson sighed his relief. Oscar had had his breakfast.
"Now, Mr. Man, eat," commanded Cissie Boye, "and," handing him a cup of coffee, "drink."
"An' be merry, sir," added Bindle, who entered at the moment. "You're 'avin' the time of your life, an' don't you forget it."
Mr. Stiffson looked as if the passage of centuries would never permit him to forget.
"An' now I'll leave you little love-birds," said Bindle with the cheerful assurance of a cupid, "an' go an' keep watch."
"But——" protested Mr. Stiffson, half rising from his chair.
"Oh! do sit down, old thing!" cried Cissie; "you're spoiling my breakfast."
Mr. Stiffson subsided. Destiny had clearly taken a hand in the affair.
"Now you jest enjoy your little selves," apostrophized Bindle, "an' then we'll try an' find out 'ow all this 'ere 'appened. It does me, blowed if it don't."
"I'm not aware that I speak indistinctly." The voice was uncompromising, the deportment aggressive. "I said 'Mr. Jabez Stiffson.'"
"You did, mum," agreed Bindle tactfully; "I 'eard you myself quite plainly."
"Then where is he? I'm Mrs. Stiffson."
Mrs. Stiffson was a tall woman of generous proportions. Her hair was grey, her features virtuously hard, her manner overwhelming. Her movements gave no suggestion of limbs, she seemed to wheel along with a slight swaying of the body from side to side.
"Well?" she interrogated.
"'E's sort of engaged, mum," temporised Bindle, "'avin' breakfast. I'll tell 'im you're 'ere. I'll break it gently to 'im. You know, mum, joy sometimes kills, an' 'e don't look strong."
Without a word Mrs. Stiffson wheeled round and, ignoring the lift, marched for the stairs. As he followed, Bindle remembered with satisfaction that he had omitted to close the outer door of Number Six.
Straight up the stairs, like "never-ending Time," marched Mrs. Stiffson. She did not hurry, she did not pause, she climbed evenly, mechanically, a model wife seeking her mate.
Any doubts that Bindle may have had as to Mrs. Stiffson's ability to find the husband she sought were set at rest by the shrill pipings of Oscar. Even a trained detective could not have overlooked so obvious a clue.
Along the corridor, straight for Number Six moved Mrs. Stiffson, Bindle in close attendance, fearful lest he should lose the dramatic intensity of the arrival of "the wronged wife."
Unconscious that Nemesis was marching upon him, Mr. Stiffson, stimulated by the coffee, bacon and eggs, and the gay insouciance of Cissie Boye, was finding the situation losing much of its terror for him.
No man for long could remain indifferent to the charming personality of Cissie Boye. Her bright chatter and good looks, her innocence, strangely blended with worldly wisdom, her daring garb; all combined to divert Mr. Stiffson's mind from the thoughts of his wife, apart from which the clock pointed to five minutes past nine, and Mrs. Stiffson was as punctual as fate.
Had he possessed the intuition of a mongoose, Mr. Stiffson would have known that there was a snake in his grass.
Instinct guiding her steps, Mrs. Stiffson entered the flat. Instead of turning to the right, in the direction of the bedroom in which Oscar was overdoing the thanksgiving business for bird-seed and water, she wheeled to the left and threw open the sitting-room door.
From under Mrs. Stiffson's right arm Bindle saw the tableau. Mr. Stiffson, who was facing the door, was in the act of raisinghis coffee-cup to smiling lips. Cissie Boye, sitting at right angles on his left, was leaning back in her chair clapping her hands.
"Oh, you naughty old thing!" she was crying.
At the sight of his wife, Mr. Stiffson's jaw dropped and the coffee-cup slipped from his nerveless hands. It struck the edge of the table and emptied its contents down the opening of his low-cut waistcoat.
At the sight of the abject terror on Mr. Stiffson's face, Cissie Boye ceased to clap her hands and, turning her head, met Mrs. Stiffson's uncompromising stare and Bindle's appreciative grin.
"Jabez!" It was like the uninflected accents of doom.
Mr. Stiffson shivered; that was the only indication he gave of having heard. With unblinking eyes he continued to gaze at his wife as if fascinated, the empty coffee-cup resting on his knees.
"Jabez!" repeated Mrs. Stiffson. "I thought I told you to wear your tweed mixture to-day."
Mrs. Stiffson had a fine sense of the dramatic! The unexpectedness of the remark caused Mr. Stiffson to blink his eyes like a puzzled owl, without however removing them from his wife, or changing their expression.
Cissie Boye laughed, Bindle grinned.
"Won't you sit down?" It was Cissie Boye who spoke.
"Silence, hussy!" There was no anger in Mrs. Stiffson's voice; it was just a command and an expression of opinion.
Cissie Boye rose, the light of battle in her eyes. Bindle pushed past Mrs. Stiffson and stood between the two women.
"Look 'ere, mum," he said, "we likes manners in this 'ere flat, an' we're a-goin' to 'ave 'em, see! Sorry if I 'urt your feelin's. This ain't a woman's club."
"Hold your tongue, fool!" the deep voice thundered.
"Oh, no, you don't!" said Bindle cheerfully, looking up at his mountainous antagonist. "You can't frighten me, I ain't married to you. Now you jest be civil."
"Listen!" cried Cissie Boye with flashing eyes. "Don't you go giving me the bird like that, or——" She paused at a loss with what to threaten her guest.
"It's all right, miss," said Bindle, "You jest leave 'er to me; I got one o' my own at 'ome. She's going to speak to me, she is."
Mrs. Stiffson's efforts of self-control were proving unequal to the occasion, her breathing became laboured and her voice husky.
"What is my husband doing in this person's flat?" demanded Mrs. Stiffson, apparently of no one in particular. There was something like emotion in her voice.
"Well, mum," responded Bindle, "'e was eatin' bacon an' eggs an' drinking coffee."
"How dare you appear before my husband like that!" Mrs. Stiffson turned fiercely upon Cissie Boye. "You brazen creature!" anger was now taking possession of her.
"Here, easy on, old thing!" said Cissie Boye, seeing Mrs. Stiffson's rising temper, and entirely regaining her own good humour.
"I repeat," said Mrs. Stiffson, "what is my husband doing in your company?"
"Ask him what he's doing in my flat," countered Cissie Boye triumphantly.
"Look 'ere, mum," broke in Bindle in a soothing voice, "it's no use a-playin' 'Amlet in a rage. You jest sit down and talk it over friendly like, an' p'raps I can get a drop of Royal Richard from old Sedgy. It's sort of been a shock to you, mum, I can see. Well, things do look bad; anyhow, Royal Richard'll bring you round in two ticks."
Mrs. Stiffson turned upon Bindle a look that was meant to annihilate.
Bindle glanced across at Mr. Stiffson, who was mechanically rubbing the middle of his person with a napkin, his eyes still fixed upon his wife.
"Because your 'usband gets into the wrong duds," continued Bindle, "ain't no reason why you should get into an 'owling temper, is it?"
There was a knock at the door and, without waiting for a reply, Mrs. Sedge entered, wearing a canvas apron and a crape bonnet on one side and emitting an almost overpowering aroma of Royal Richard. In her hands she carried a large bowl of porridge. Marching across to the table, she dumped it down in front of Mr. Stiffson.
"Ain't that jest like a man, forgettin' 'alf o' wot 'e ought to remember!" she remarked and, without waiting for a reply, she stumped out of the room, banging the door behind her.
Bindle sniffed the air like a hound.
"That's Royal Richard wot you can smell, mum," he explained.
Cissie Boye laughed.
Ignoring the interruption, Mrs. Stiffson returned to the attack.
"I demand an explanation!" Her voice shook with suppressed fury.
"Listen!" cried Cissie Boye, "if your boy will come and sleep in my flat——"
"Sleep in your flat!" cried Mrs. Stiffson in something between a roar and a scream. "Sleep in your flat!" She turned upon her husband. "Jabez, did you hear that? Oh! you villain, you liar, you monster!"
"But—but, my dear," protested Mr. Stiffson, becoming articulate, "Oscar was here all the time."
Cissie Boye giggled.
"So that is why you have put on your best clothes, you deceiver, you viper, you scum!"
"Steady on, mum!" broke out Bindle. "'E ain't big enough to be all them things; besides, if you starts a-megaphonin' like that, you'll 'ave all the other bunnies a-runnin' in to see wot's 'appened, an' if you was to 'ear Number Seven's language, an' see wot Queenie calls 'er face, Mr. S. might be a widower before 'e knew it."
"Where did you meet this person?" demanded Mrs. Stiffson of her husband, who, now that the coffee was cooling, began to feel chilly, and was busily engaged in trying to extract the moisture from his garments.
"Where did you meet her?" repeated his wife.
"In—in the bath-room," responded Mr. Stiffson weakly.
Mrs. Stiffson gasped and stood speechless with amazement.
"I heard a splashing," broke in Cissie Boye, "and I peeped in,—I only just peeped in, really and really."
"An' then we 'ad a little friendly chat in the 'all," explained Bindle, "an' after breakfast we was goin' to talk things over, an' see 'ow we could manage so that you didn't know."
"Your bath-room!" roared Mrs. Stiffson at length, the true horror of the situation at last seeming to dawn upon her. "My husband in your bath-room! Jabez!" she turned on Mr. Stiffson once more like a raging fury. "You heard! were you in this creature's bath-room?"
Mr. Stiffson paused in the process of endeavouring to extract coffee from his exterior.
"Er—er——" he began.
"Answer me!" shouted Mrs. Stiffson. "Were you or were you not in this person's bath-room?"
"Yes—er—but——" began Mr. Stiffson.
Mrs. Stiffson cast a frenzied glance round the room. Actionhad become necessary, violence imperative. Her roving eye lighted on the bowl full of half-cold porridge that Mrs. Sedge had just brought in. She seized it and, with a swift inverting movement, crashed it down upon her husband's head.
With the scream of a wounded animal, Mr. Stiffson half rose, then sank back again in his chair, his hands clutching convulsively at the basin fixed firmly upon his head by the suction of its contents. From beneath the rim the porridge gathered in large pendulous drops, and slowly lowered themselves upon various portions of Mr. Stiffson's person, leaving a thin filmy thread behind, as if reluctant to cut off all communication with the basin.
Bindle and Cissie Boye went to the victim's assistance, and Bindle removed the basin. It parted from Mr. Stiffson's head with a juicy sob of reluctance. Whilst his rescuers were occupied in their samaritan efforts, Mrs. Stiffson was engaged in describing her husband's character.
Beginning with a request for someone to end his poisonous existence, she proceeded to explain his place, or rather lack of place, in the universe. She traced the coarseness of his associates to the vileness of his ancestors. She enquired why he had not been to the front (Mr. Stiffson was over fifty years of age), why he was not in the volunteers. Then slightly elevating her head she demanded of Heaven why he was permitted to live. She traced all degradation, including that of the lower animals, to the example of such men as her husband. He was the breaker-up of homes, in some way or other connected with the increased death-rate and infant mortality, the indirect cause of the Income Tax and directly responsible for the war; she even hinted that he was to some extent answerable for the defection of Russia from the Allied cause.
Whilst she was haranguing, Bindle and Cissie Boye, with the aid of desert spoons, were endeavouring to remove the porridge from Mr. Stiffson's head. It had collected behind his spectacles, forming a succulent pad before each eye.
Bindle listened to Mrs. Stiffson's tirade with frank admiration; language always appealed to him.
"Ain't she a corker!" he whispered to Cissie Boye.
"Cork's out now, any old how," was the whispered reply.
Then Mrs. Stiffson did a very feminine thing. She gave vent to three short, sharp snaps of staccatoed laughter, and suddenly collapsed upon the sofa in screaming hysterics.
Cissie Boye made a movement towards her. Bindle laid an arresting hand upon her arm.
"You jest leave 'er be, miss," he said. "I know all about them little games. She'll come to all right."
"Where the hell is that damn porter?" the voice of Number Seven burst in upon them from the outer corridor.
"'Ere I am, sir," sang out Bindle.
"Then why the corruption aren't you in your room?" bawled Number Seven.
Bindle slipped quickly out into the corridor to find Number Seven bristling with rage.
"Because Ole Damn an' 'Op it, I can't be in two places at once," he said.
Whilst Bindle was engaged with Number Seven, Mrs. Stiffson had once more galvanised herself to action. Still screaming and laughing by turn, she wheeled out of the flat with incredible rapidity and made towards the lift.
"Hi! stop 'er, stop 'er!" shouted Bindle, bolting after Mrs. Stiffson, followed by Number Seven.
"Police, police, murder, murder!" screamed Mrs. Stiffson. She reached the lift and, with an agility that would have been creditable in a young goat, slipped in and shut the gates with a clang. Just as Bindle arrived the lift began slowly to descend. In a fury of impatience, Mrs. Stiffson began banging at the buttons, with the result that the lift stopped halfway between the two floors.
Bindle and Number Seven shouted down instructions; but without avail. The lift had stuck fast. Mrs. Stiffson shrieked for help, shrieked for the police, and shrieked for vengeance.
"Damned old tiger-cat!" cried Number Seven. "Leave her where she is."
Bindle turned upon him a face radiating smiles.
"Them's the best words I've 'eard from you yet, sir"; and he walked upstairs to reassure the occupants of Number Six that fate and the lift had joined the Entente against Mrs. Stiffson.
It was four hours before Mrs. Stiffson was free; but Mr. Stiffson, his luggage, his thermos flask and Oscar had fled. Cissie Boye was at rehearsal and Bindle had donned his uniform. It was a chastened Mrs. Stiffson who wheeled out of the lift and enquired for her husband, and it was a stern and official Bindle who told her that Mr. Stiffson had gone, and warned her that any further attempt at disturbing the cloistral peace of Fulham Square Mansions would end in a prosecution for disorderly conduct.
And Mrs. Stiffson departed in search of her husband.
"Ah!" cried Bindle as he pushed open one of the swing doors of the public bar of The Yellow Ostrich. "I thought I should find my little sunflower 'ere," and he grasped the hand that Ginger did not extend to him. Demonstration was not Ginger's strong point.
The members of the informal club that used to meet each Friday night at The Scarlet Horse had become very uncertain in their attendance, and the consequent diminution in the consumption of liquor had caused the landlord to withdraw the concession of a private-room.
Bindle had accepted the situation philosophically; but Ruddy Bill had shown temper. In the public bar he had told the landlord what he thought of him, finishing up a really inspired piece of decorated rhetoric with "Yus, it's The Scarlet 'Orse all right; but there's a ruddy donkey behind the bar," and with that he had marched out.
From that date Bindle's leisure moments had been mostly spent in the bar of The Yellow Ostrich. It was here that Ginger, when free from his military duties, would seek Bindle and the two or three congenial spirits that gathered round him. Wilkes would cough, Huggles grin, and Ginger spit vindictive disapproval of everyone and everything, whilst "Ole Joe told the tale."
"There are times," remarked Bindle, when he had taken a long pull at his tankard, "when I feel I could almost thank Gawd for not bein' religious." He paused to light his pipe.
Ginger murmured something that might have been taken either as an interrogation or a protest.
"I jest been 'avin' a stroll on Putney 'Eath," continued Bindle, settling himself down comfortably in the corner of a bench. "I likes to give the gals a treat now an' then, and who d'you think I saw there?" He paused impressively, Ginger shook his head, Huggles grinned and Wilkes coughed, Wilkes was always coughing.
"Clever lot o' coves you are," said Bindle as he regarded the three. "Grand talkers, ain't you. Well, well! to get on with the story.
"There was a big crowd, makin' an 'ell of a row, they was, an' there in the middle was a cove talkin' an' wavin' 'is arms like flappers. So up I goes, thinkin' 'e was sellin' somethink to prove that you 'aven't got a liver, an' who should it turn out to be but my lodger, Ole Guppy."
"Wot was 'e doin'?" gasped Wilkes between two paroxysms.
"Well," continued Bindle, "at that particular moment I got up, 'e was talkin' about wot a fine lot o' chaps them 'Uns is, an' wot an awful lot of Aunt Maudies we was. Sort o' 'urt 'is feelin's, it did to know 'e was an Englishman when 'e might 'ave been an 'Un. 'E was jest a-sayin' somethink about Mr. Llewellyn John, when 'e' disappears sudden-like, and then there was a rare ole scrap.
"When the police got 'im out, Lord, 'e was a sight! Never thought ten minutes could change a cove so, and that, Ginger, all comes about through being a Christian and talkin' about peace to people wot don't want peace."
"We all want peace." Ginger stuck out his chin aggressively.
"Ginger!" there was reproach in Bindle's voice, "an' you a soldier too, I'm surprised at you!"
"I want this ruddy war to end," growled Ginger. "I don't 'old wiv war," he added as an after-thought.
"Now wot does it matter to you, Ging, whether you're a-carrin' a pack or a piano on your back?"
"Why don't they make peace?" burst out Ginger irrelevantly.
"Oh, Ginger, Ginger! when shall I teach you that the only way to stop a fight is to sit on the other cove's chest: an' we ain't sittin' on Germany's chest yet. Got it?"
"But they're willing to make peace," growled Ginger. "I don't 'old wiv 'angin' back."
"Now you jest listen to me. Why didn't you make peace last week with Pincher Nobbs instead o' fightin' 'im?"
"'E's a ruddy tyke, 'e is," snarled Ginger.
"Well," remarked Bindle, "you can call the Germans ruddy tykes. Pleasant way you got o' puttin' things, 'aven't you, Ging? No; ole son, this 'ere war ain't a-goin' to end till you got the V.C., that's wot we're 'oldin' out for."
"They could make peace if they liked," persisted Ginger.
"You won't get Llewellyn John to give in, Ging," said Bindle confidently. "'E's 'ot stuff, 'e is."
"Yus!" growled Ginger savagely. "All 'e's got to do is to stay at 'ome an' read about wot us chaps are doin' out there."
"Now ain't you a regular ole yellow-'eaded 'Uggins," remarked Bindle with conviction, as he gazed fixedly at Ginger, whose eyes shifted about restlessly. "Why, 'e's always at work, 'e is. Don't even 'ave 'is dinner-hour, 'e don't."
"Wot!" Ginger's incredulity gave expression to his features. "No dinner-hour?"
"No; nor breakfast-time neither," continued Bindle. "There's always a lot o' coves 'angin' round a-wantin' to talk about the war an' wot to do next. When 'e's shavin' Haig'll ring 'im up, 'im a-standin' with the lather on, makin' 'is chin 'itch."
Ginger banged down his pewter on the counter and ordered another.
"Then sometimes, when 'e's gettin' up in the mornin', George Five'll nip round for a jaw, and o' course kings can go anywhere, an' you mustn't keep 'em waitin'. So up 'e goes, an' there's L.J. a-talkin' to 'imself as 'e tries to get into 'is collar, an' George Five a-'elpin' to find 'is collar-stud when 'e drops it an' it rolls under the chest o' drawers."
Ginger continued to gaze at Bindle with surprise stamped on his freckled face.
"You got a kid's job to 'is, Ging," continued Bindle, warming to his subject. "If Llewellyn John 'ops round the corner for a drink an' to 'ave a look at the papers, they're after 'im in two ticks. Why 'e's 'ad to give up 'is 'ot bath on Saturday nights because 'e was always catchin' cold through nippin' out into the 'all to answer the telephone, 'im in only a smile an' 'is whiskers."
Ginger spat, indecision marking the act.
"Works like a blackleg, 'e does, an' all 'e gets is blackguardin'. No," added Bindle solemnly, "don't you never change jobs with 'im, Ging, it 'ud kill you, it would really."
"I don't 'old wiv war," grumbled Ginger, falling back upon his main line of defence. "Look at the price of beer!" He gazed moodily into the depths of his empty pewter.
"Funny cove you are, Ging," said Bindle pleasantly.
Ginger spat viciously, missing the spittoon by inches.
"There ain't no pleasin' you," continued Bindle, digging into the bowl of his pipe with a match stick. "You ain't willin' to die for your country, an' you don't seem to want to live for the twins."
"Wot's the use o' twins?" demanded Ginger savagely. "Now if they'd been goats——"
"Goats!" queried Bindle.
"Sell the milk," was Ginger's laconic explanation.
"They might 'ave been billy-goats," suggested Bindle.
Ginger swore.
"Well, well!" remarked Bindle, as he rose, "you ain't never goin' to be 'appy in this world, Ging, an' as to the next—who knows! Now I must be orf to tell Mrs. B. wot they been a-doin' to 'er lodger. S'long!"
And he went out whistling "I'd Never Kissed a Soldier Till the War."
"Where's Mr. Gupperduck?"
There was anxious alarm in Mrs. Bindle's interrogation.
"Well," responded Bindle, as he nodded to Mr. Hearty and waved his hand to Mrs. Hearty, "I can't rightly say. 'E may be 'appy with an 'arp in 'eaven, or 'e may be a-groanin' in an 'ospital with a poultice where 'is face ought to be. Where's Millikins?" he demanded, looking round.
"She's with her Aunt Rose," wheezed Mrs. Hearty.
"What has happened, Joseph?" faltered Mr. Hearty.
"Well, it ain't altogether easy to say," responded Bindle with aggravating deliberation. "It ought to 'ave been a peace-meetin', accordin' to plan; but some'ow or other things sort o' got mixed. I ain't seen a scrap like it since that little bust-up in the country when the lemonade went wrong."
Bindle paused and proceeded to refill his pipe, determined to keep Mr. Hearty and Mrs. Bindle on tenter-hooks.
"Where is he now?" demanded Mrs. Bindle.
"Can't say!" Bindle sucked at his pipe, holding a lighted match well down over the bowl. "I see 'im bein' taken orf on a stretcher, an' wot 'e was wearin' wouldn't 'ave made a bathin' suit for an 'Ottentot."
"Did they kill 'im, Joe?" wheezed Mrs. Hearty.
"You can't kill coves like Guppy, Martha," was Bindle's response. "'E's got more lives than a rate-collector."
"What happened, Joseph?" said Mr. Hearty. "I had meant to go to that meeting myself." Mr. Hearty made the statement as if Providence had interposed with the deliberate object of saving his life.
"Lucky for you, 'Earty, that you didn't," remarked Bindle significantly. "You ain't no good at scrappin'. Well, I'll tell you wot 'appened. Guppy seems to 'ave said a little too much about the 'Uns, an' wot fine fellers they was, an' it sort o' give them people wot was listenin' the pip, so they goes for Guppy."
"The cowards!" Mrs. Bindle snapped out the words venomously.
"You got to remember, Lizzie," said Bindle with unwonted seriousness, "that a lot o' those people 'ad lost them wot they was fond of through this 'ere war, an' they wasn't keen to 'ear that the 'Un is a sort o' picture-postcard, with a dove a-sittin' on 'is 'elmet."
"What did you do?" demanded Mrs. Bindle aggressively.
"Well, I jest looked on," said Bindle calmly. "I've warned Guppy more'n once that 'e'd lose 'is tail-feathers if 'e wasn't careful; but 'e was that self-willed, 'e was. You can't throw 'Un-wash over crowds in this 'ere country without runnin' risks." Bindle spoke with conviction.
"But it's a free country, Joseph," protested Mr. Hearty rather weakly.
"Oh! 'Earty, 'Earty!" said Bindle, wagging his head despondently. "When will you learn that no one ain't free to say to a cove things wot make 'im wild, leastwise without bein' ready to put 'is 'ands up."
"But weren't any of his friends there?" enquired Mrs. Bindle.
"I see two of 'em," said Bindle with a reminiscent grin. "They caught Ole Cap-an'-Whiskers jest as 'e was shinnin' up a tree—rare cove for trees 'e seems. 'Auled 'im down they did. Then 'e swore 'e'd never seen ole Guppy in all 'is puff, cried about it, 'e did."
"Peter!" muttered Mrs. Bindle.
"That 'is name?" enquired Bindle. "Any'ow it didn't 'elp 'im, for they pulled 'is whiskers out and dipped 'im in the pond, an' when last I see 'im 'e was wearin' jest a big bruise, a soft collar an' such bits of 'is trousers as the boys didn't seem to want. Made me blush it did."
"Serve him right!" cried Mrs. Bindle.
Bindle looked at her curiously. "Thought you was sort o' pals with 'im," he remarked.
"He was a traitor, a Peter betraying his master." Bindle looked puzzled, Mr. Hearty nodded his head in approval.
"Was Mr. Wayskin there?" asked Mrs. Bindle.
"The little chap with the glasses an' a beard too big for 'im, wot goes about with Ole Cap-an'-Whiskers?"
Mrs. Bindle nodded.
"Well, 'e got orf, trousers an' all," said Bindle with a grin. "Nippy little cove 'e was," he added.
"Oh, the brutes!" exclaimed Mrs. Bindle. "The cowards!"
"Well," remarked Bindle, "it all come about through 'im tryin' to give 'em treacle when they wanted curry."
"Perhaps he's gone home!" Mrs. Bindle half rose as the thought struck her.
"Who, Guppy?" interrogated Bindle.
"Yes, Mr. Gupperduck," said Mrs. Bindle eagerly.
"Guppy ain't never comin' back to my place," Bindle announced with decision.
"Where's he to sleep then?" demanded Mrs. Bindle.
"Well," remarked Bindle judicially, "by wot I last see of 'im, 'e ain't goin' to sleep much anywhere for some time"; and he again launched into a harrowing description of Mr. Gupperduck's plight when the police rescued him from the crowd.
"I'll nurse him!" announced Mrs. Bindle with the air of a Martha.
"You won't do no such thing, Mrs. B."
Even Mrs. Hearty looked at Bindle, arrested by the unwonted determination in his voice. "You jest remember this, Mrs. B.," continued Bindle, "if ever I catches Mr. Josiah Gupperduck, or any other cove wot loves Germans as if they was 'ymns or beer, round my place, things'll 'appen. Wot they done to 'im on the 'Eath won't be nothink to wot I'll do to 'im in Fenton Street."
"You're a brute, Bindle!" was Mrs. Bindle's comment.
"That may be; but you jest get 'is duds packed up,includin'Wheezy Willie, an' give 'em to 'im when 'e calls. I ain't goin' to 'ave no German spies round my back-yard. I ain't got no money to put in tanks," Bindle added, "but I still got a fist to knock down a cove wot talks about peace." Bindle rose and yawned. "Now I'm orf. Comin', Mrs. B.?" he enquired.
"No, I'm not. I want to talk to Mr. Hearty," said Mrs. Bindle angrily.
"Well, s'long, all!" and Bindle went out, leaving Mrs. Bindle and Mr. Hearty to mourn over the fallen Hector.
A minute later the door half opened and Bindle thrust his head round the corner. "Don't forget, Mrs. B.," he said with a grin, "if I see Guppy in Fenton Street, I'll camelflage 'im, I will;" and with that he was gone.
"I suppose," he remarked meditatively as he walked across Putney Bridge, "wot 'appened to-night is wot Guppy 'ud call 'the peace wot passes all understandin'.'"
"'Ullo, Scratcher!" cried Bindle as the swing doors of The Yellow Ostrich were pushed open, giving entrance to a small lantern-jawed man, with fishy eyes and a chin obviously intended for a face three sizes larger. "Fancy meetin' you! Wot 'ave you been doin'?"
Bindle was engaged in fetching the Sunday dinner-beer according to the time-honoured custom.
Scratcher looked moodily at the barman, ordered a glass of beer and turned to Bindle.
"I changed my job," he remarked mysteriously.
"Wot jer doin'?" enquired Bindle, intimating to the barman by a nod that his pewter was to be refilled.
"Waiter," responded Scratcher.
"Waiter!" cried Bindle, regarding him with astonishment.
"Yus; at Napolini's in Regent Street;" and Scratcher replaced his glass upon the counter and, with a dexterous upward blow, scattered to the winds the froth that bedewed his upper lip.
"Well, I'm blowed!" said Bindle, finding solace in his refilled tankard. "But don't you 'ave to be a foreigner to be a waiter? Don't you 'ave to speak through your nose or somethink?"
"Noooo!" In Scratcher's voice was the contempt of superior knowledge. "Them furriners 'ave all gone to the war, or most of 'em," he added, "an' so we get a look-in."
"Wot d'you do?" enquired Bindle.
"Oh! we jest take orders, an' serves the grub, an' makes out the bills, an' gets tips. I made four pound last week, all but twelve shillings," he added.
"Well, I'm blowed!" said Bindle.
"Then," proceeded Scratcher, warming to his subject, "they often leaves somethin' in the bottles. Last night Ole Grandpa got so squiffy, 'e cried about 'is mother, 'e did."
"An' didn't it cost 'im anything?" enquired Ginger, who had been an interested listener.
"Not a copper," said Scratcher impressively, "not a brass farden."
"I wish this ruddy war was over," growled Ginger. "Four pound a week, and a free drunk. Blast the war! I say, I don't 'old wiv killin'."
"Then," continued Scratcher, "you can always get a bellyful. There's——"
"'Old 'ard, Scratcher," interrupted Bindle. "Wot place is it you're talkin' about?"
"Napolini's," replied Scratcher, looking at Bindle reproachfully.
"Go on, ole sport; it's all right," said Bindle resignedly. "I thought you might 'ave got mixed up with 'eaven."
"When you takes a stoo," continued Scratcher, "you can always pick out a bit o' meat with your fingers—if it ain't too 'ot," he added, as if not wishing to exaggerate. "An' when it's whitebait, you can pinch some when no one's lookin'. As for potatoes, you can 'ave all you can eat, and soup,—well, it's there."
Scratcher's tone implied that Napolini's was literally running with soup and potatoes.
"Don't go on, Scratcher," said Bindle mournfully; "see wot you're a-doin' to pore Ole Ging."
"Then there's macaroni," continued Scratcher relentlessly, "them bein' I-talians. Long strings o' white stuff, there ain't much taste; but it fills up." Scratcher paused, then added reflectively, "You got to be careful wi' macaroni, or it'll get down your collar; it's that slippery."
"I suppose ole Nap ain't wantin' anyone to 'elp mop up all them things?" enquired Bindle wistfully.
Scratcher looked at Bindle interrogatingly.
"D'you think you could find your ole pal a job at Nap's?" enquired Bindle.
"You come down to-morrow mornin' about eleven," said Scratcher with the air of one conferring a great favour. "Three of our chaps was sacked a-Saturday for fightin'."
"Well, I must be movin'," said Bindle, as he picked up the blue and white jug with the crimson butterfly. "You'll see me round at Nap's at eleven to-morrow, Scratcher, as empty as a drum;" and with a "s'long," Bindle passed out of The Yellow Ostrich.
"Nice time you've kept me waiting!" snapped Mrs. Bindle, as Bindle entered the kitchen.
"Sorry!" was Bindle's reply as he hung up his hat behind the kitchen-door.
"Another time I shan't wait," remarked Mrs. Bindle, as she banged a vegetable dish on the table.
Bindle became busily engaged upon roast shoulder of mutton, greens and potatoes.
After some time he remarked, "I been after a job."
"You lorst your job again, then?" cried Mrs. Bindle in accusing tones. "Somethin' told me you had."
"Well, I ain't," retorted Bindle; "but I 'eard o' somethink better, so on Monday I'm orf after a job wot'll be better'n 'Earty's 'eaven."
Bindle declined further to satisfy Mrs. Bindle's curiosity.
"You wait an' see, Mrs. B., you jest wait an' see."
On the following morning Bindle was duly enrolled as a waiter at Napolini's. He soon discovered that, whatever the privileges and perquisites of the fully-experienced waiter, the part of the novice was one of thorns rather than of roses. He was attached as assistant to a diminutive Italian, with a fierce upward-brushed moustache. Bindle had not been three minutes under his direction before he precipitated a crisis that almost ended in open warfare.
"Wot's your name, ole son?" he enquired. "Mine's Bindle—Joseph Bindle."
"Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino," replied the Italian with astonishing rapidity.
"Is it really?" remarked Bindle, examining his chief with interest, as he proceeded deftly to lay a table. "Sounds like a machine-gun, don't it?" Then after a pause he remarked quite innocently, "Look 'ere, ole sport, I'll call you Kayser."
In a flash Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino turned upon Bindle, his moustache bristling like the spines of a wild-boar, and from his lips poured a passionate stream of Southern invective.
Unable to understand a word of the burning phrases of reproach that eddied and flowed about him, Bindle merely stared. There was a patter of feet from all parts of the long dining-room, and soon he was the centre of an angry crowd of excited gesticulating waiters, with Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino screaming his fury in the centre.
"Hi!" called Bindle to Scratcher, who appeared through the service-door, just as matters seemed about to break into open violence. "'Ere! Scratcher, wot's up? Call 'im orf."
"Wot did you call 'im, Joe?" enquired Scratcher, pushing his way through the crowd.
"I asked 'is name, an' then 'e went off like the 'mad minute,' so I said I'd call 'im 'Kayser,' because of 'is whiskers."
At the repetition of the obnoxious word, Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino shook his fist in Bindle's face, and screamed more hysterically than ever. He was white to the lips, at the corners of his mouth two little points of white foam had collected, and his eyes blinked with the rapidity of a cinematograph film.
With the aid of three other waiters, Scratcher succeeded in restoring peace. Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino's fortissimo reproaches were reduced to piano murmurs by the explanation that Bindle meant no harm, added to which Bindle apologised.
"Look 'ere," he said, genuinely regretful at the effect of his remark, "'ow was I to know that you was that sensitive, you lookin' so fierce too."
The arrival of one of the superintendents put an end to the dispute; but it was obvious that Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino nourished in his heart a deep resentment against Bindle for his unintentioned insult.
"Fancy 'im takin' on like that," muttered Bindle, as he strove to adjust a white tablecloth so that it hung in equal folds on all sides of the table. "Funny things foreigners, as 'uffy as birds, they are." Turning to Scratcher, who was passing at the moment, he enquired, "Wot the 'ell am I a-goin' to call 'im?"
"Call who?" enquired Scratcher, his mouth full of something.
Bindle looked about warily. "Ole Kayser," he whispered. "'E's that sensitive. Explodes if you looks at 'im, 'e does."
Scratcher worked hard to reduce the contents of his mouth to conversational proportions.
"I can't never remember 'is name," continued Bindle. "Went off like a rattle it did."
"Don't know 'is name myself," said Scratcher after a gigantic swallow. "'E's new."
"Wouldn't 'elp you much, ole son, if you did know it," said Bindle with conviction. "Seemed to me like a patent gargle. Never 'eard anythink like it."
"'Ere!" said Bindle to Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino, who was darting past on his way to another table. The Italian paused, hatred smouldering in his dark eyes.
"I can't remember that name o' yours, ole sport," said Bindle. "Sorry, but I ain't a gramophone. Wot 'ave I got to call you?"
"Call me sair," replied Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino with dignity.
"Call you wot?" cried Bindle indignantly. "Call you wot?"
"Call me sair," repeated the Italian.
"Me call a foreigner 'sir!'" cried Bindle. "Now ain't you the funniest ole 'Uggins."
Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino cast upon Bindle a look of consuming hatred.
"Look 'ere," remarked Bindle cheerfully, "if you goes about a-lookin' like that, you'll spoil the good impression them whiskers make."
Murder flashed in the eyes of the Italian, as he ground out a paralysing oath in his own tongue.
"There's a-goin' to be trouble between me an' ole 'Okey-Pokey. Pleasant sort o' cove to 'ave about the 'ouse."
Customers began to drift in, and soon Bindle was kept busy fetching and carrying for Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino, who by every means in his power strove to give expression to the hatred of Bindle that was burning in his soul.
At the end of the first day,—it was in reality the early hours of the next morning,—as Bindle with Scratcher walked from Napolini's to the Tube, he remarked, "Well, I ain't 'ungry, though I could drink a deal more; still I says nothink about that; but as for tips, well, ole 'Okey-Pokey's pocketed every bloomin' penny. When I asked him to divvy up fair, 'e started that machine-gun in 'is tummy, rolled 'is eyes, an' seemed to be tryin' to tell me wot a great likin' 'e'd taken to me. One o' these days somethink's goin' to 'appen to 'im," added Bindle prophetically. "'E ain't no sport, any'ow."
"Wot's 'e done?" enquired Scratcher.
"I offered to fight 'im for the tips, an' all 'e did was to turn on 'is rattle;" and Bindle winked at the girl-conductor, who clanged the train-gates behind him.
For nearly a week Bindle continued to work thirteen hours a day, satisfying the hunger of others and quenching alien thirsts. Thanks to judicious hints from Scratcher, at the same time he found means of ministering to his own requirements. He tasted new and strange foods; but of all his discoveries in the realm of dietetics, curried prawns held pride of place. More than one customer looked anxiously into the dark brown liquid, curious as to what had become of the blunt-pointed crescents; but, disliking the fuss attending complaint, he ascribed the reduction in their number to the activities of the Food Controller.
When, as occasionally happened in the absence of his chief, Bindle came into direct contact with a customer and received an order, he invariably found himself utterly at a loss.
"Bouillabaisse de Marseilles, pommes sautées," called out one customer. Bindle, who was hurrying past, came to a dead stop and regarded him with interest.
"D'you mind sayin' that again, sir," he remarked.
"Bouillabaisse de Marseilles, pommes sautées," repeated the customer.
"Well, I'm blowed!" was Bindle's comment.
The customer stared, but before he had time to reply Bindle was unceremoniously pushed aside by Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino, who, pad in hand, bent over the customer with servile intentness.
"Wot did 'e mean? Was 'e tellin' me 'is name?" enquired Bindle of a lath-like youth, with frizzy hair and a face incapable of expressing anything beyond a meaningless grin. It was Scratcher, however, who told the puzzled Bindle that the customer had been ordering lunch and not divulging his identity.
"Bullybase de Marsales pumsortay is things to eat, Joe," he explained; "you got to learn the mane-yu."
"Well, I'm blowed!" was Bindle's sole comment. "Fancy people eatin' things with names like that." He followed Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino towards the "service" regions in response to an imperious motion of his dark, well-greased head.
When Bindle returned to the dining-room, after listening to the unintelligible rebukes of his immediate superior, he found himself beckoned to the side of the customer whose wants he had found himself unable to comprehend.
"New to this job?" he enquired.
"You've 'it it, sir," was Bindle's reply. "Newasnew. I'm in the furniture-movin' line myself; but Scratcher told me this 'ere was a soft job, an' so I took it on. 'E didn't happen to mention 'Okey-Pokey 'owever."
"Hokey-Pokey!" interrogated the guest.
"That chap with 'is whiskers growin' up 'is nose," explained Bindle. "All prickles 'e is. Can't say anythink without 'urtin' 'is feelin's. Never come across such a cove."
Later, when the customer left, it was to Bindle and not to Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino that he gave his tip. This precipitated a crisis. Once out of the dining-room the Italian demanded of Bindle the money.
"You shall 'ave 'alf, ole son," said Bindle magnanimously."if you forks out 'alf of wot you've 'ad given you, see?" Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino did not see. His eyes snapped, his moustache bristled, his sallow features took on a shade of grey and, discarding English, he launched into a torrent of words in his own tongue.
Bindle stood regarding his antagonist much as he would a juggler, or quick-change artist. His good-humoured calm seemed to goad Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino to madness. With a sudden movement he seized a bottle from another waiter and, brandishing it above his head, rushed at Bindle.
Bindle stepped swiftly aside; but in doing so managed to place his right foot across Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino's path. The Italian lurched forward, bringing down the bottle with paralysing force upon the shoulder of another waiter, who, heavily laden, was making towards the dining-room.
The assaulted waiter screamed, Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino rolled on the floor, and the assaulted waiter's burden fell with a crash on top of him. The man who had been struck hopped about the room holding his shoulder, his shirt-front dyed a deep red with the wine that had flowed over it.
"Never see such a mess in all my puff," said Bindle in describing the scene afterwards. "Pore ole 'Okey-Pokey comes down on 'is back and a lot o' tomato soup falls on 'is 'ead. Then a dish o' whitebait gets on top of that, so 'e 'as soup and fish any'ow. Funny thing to see them little fishes sticking out o' the red soup. 'E got an 'erring down 'is collar, and a dish of macaroni in 'is ear, an' all 'is clothes was covered with different things. An 'ole bloomin' mane-yu, 'e was. 'Oly Angels! but 'e was a sight."
For a moment Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino lay inert, then he slowly sat up and looked about him, mechanically picking whitebait out of his hair, and removing a crème caramel from the inside of his waistcoat.
Suddenly his eyes lighted on Bindle.
In an instant he was on his feet and, with head down and arms waving like flails, he rushed at his enemy.
At that moment the door leading into the dining-room was opened and, attracted by the hubbub, Mr. James Smith, who before the war had been known as Herr Siegesmann, the chief superintendent, entered. He was a heavy man of ponderous proportions, with Dundreary whiskers and a pompous manner. His entrance brought him directly into the line of Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino's attack. Before he could takein the situation, the Italian's head, covered with tomato soup and bristling with whitebait, caught him full in the centre of his person, and he went down with a sobbing grunt, the Italian on top of him.
The shock released a considerable portion of the food adhering to Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino on to the chief superintendent. Whitebait forsook the ebon locks of the waiter and dived into the magnificent Dundrearys of Herr Smith, and on his shirt-front was the impression of Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino's features in tomato soup.
Without a moment's hesitation Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino was on his feet once more; but Bindle, feeling that the time had arrived for action, was equally quick. Taking him from behind by the collar he worked his right arm up as high as it would go behind his back. The Italian screamed with the pain; but Bindle held fast.
"You ain't safe to be trusted about, ole sport," he remarked, "an' I got to 'old you, until Ole Whiskers decides wot's goin' to be done. You'll get six months for wastin' food like this. Why, you looks like a bloomin' restaurant. Look at 'im!" Bindle gazed down at the prostrate superintendent. "Knocked 'is wind out, you 'ave. Struck 'im bang in the solar-plexus, blowed if you didn't!"
With rolling eyes and foaming mouth Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino screamed his maledictions. A group of waiters was bending over Herr Smith. One was administering brandy, another was plucking whitebait out of his whiskers, a third was trying to wipe the tomato soup from his shirt-front, an operation which transformed a red archipelago into a flaming continent.
When eventually the superintendent sat up, he looked like a whiskered robin redbreast. He gazed from one to the other of the waiters engaged upon his renovation. Then his eye fell upon Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino. He uttered the one significant British word.
"Berlice!"
When Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino left Napolini's that evening, it was in the charge of two policemen, with two more following to be prepared for eventualities. Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino was what is known professionally as "violent." Not satisfied with the food that was plastered upon his person, he endeavoured by means of his teeth to detach a portion of the right thigh of Police-constable Higgins, and with his feet to raise bruises where he could on the persons of his captors.
"Pore ole 'Okey-Pokey!" remarked Bindle, as he returned to the dining-room, where he had now been allotted two tables, for which he was to be entirely responsible. "Pore ole 'Okey-Pokey. I'm afraid I got 'is goat; but didn't 'e make a mess of Ole Whiskers!"
Herr Smith had gone home. When a man is sixty years of age and, furthermore, when he has been a superintendent of a restaurant for upwards of twenty-five years, he cannot with impunity be rammed in the solar-plexus by a hard-headed and vigorous Italian.
While Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino in a cell at Vine Street Police Station was forecasting the downfall of the Allies by the secession of Italy from the Entente, Bindle was striving to satisfy the demands of the two sets of customers that sat at his tables. He made mistakes, errors of commission and omission; but his obviously genuine desire to satisfy everybody inclined people to be indulgent.
The man who was waiting for pancakes received with a smile half-a-dozen oysters; whilst another customer was bewildered at finding himself expected to commence his meal with pancakes and jam. When such errors were pointed out, Bindle would scratch his head in perplexity, then, as light dawned upon him, he would break out into a grin, make a dive for the pancakes and quickly exchange them for the oysters.
The names of the various dishes he found almost beyond him and, to overcome the difficulty, he asked the customers to point out on the menu what they required. Then again he found himself expected to carry a multiplicity of plates and dishes.
At first he endeavoured to emulate his confrères. On one occasion he set out from the dining-room with three dishes containing respectively "caille en casserole," a Welsh rarebit, and a steak and fried potatoes. The steak and fried potatoes were for a lady of ample proportions with an almost alarmingly low-cut blouse. In placing the steak and metal dish of potatoes before her, Bindle's eye for a second left the other two plates, which began to tilt.
The proprietor of the large-bosomed lady was, with the aid of a fish-knife, able to hold in place the Welsh rarebit; but he was too late in his endeavour to reach the under-plate on which reposed the "caille en casserole," which suddenly made a dive for the apex of the V of the lady's blouse.
As she felt the hot, moist bird touch her, she gave a shriek and started back. Bindle also started, and the lady's possessor losthis grip on the Welsh rarebit, which slid off the plate on to his lap.
Greatly concerned, Bindle placed the empty Welsh rarebit plate quickly on the table and, seizing a fork, stabbed the errant and romantic quail, replacing it upon its plate. He then went to the assistance of the gentleman who had received the Welsh rarebit face downwards on his lap.
With great care Bindle returned it to the plate, with the exception of such portions as clung affectionately to the customer's person.
To confound confusion the superintendent dashed up full of apologies for the customers and threatening looks for the cause of the mishap. Bindle turned to the lady, who was hysterically dabbing her chest with a napkin.
"I 'ope you ain't 'urt, mum," he said with genuine solicitude; "I didn't see where 'e was goin', slippery little devil!" and Bindle regarded the bird reproachfully. Then remembering that another was waiting for it, he crossed over to the table at which sat the customer who had ordered "caille en casserole" and placed the plate before him.
The man looked up in surprise.
"You'd better take that away," he said. "That bird's a bit too enterprising for me."
"A bit too wot, sir?" interrogated Bindle, lifting the plate to his nose. "I don't smell it, sir," he added seriously.
"I ordered 'caille en casserole,'" responded the man. "You bring me 'caille en cocotte.'"
"D'you mind saying that in English, sir?" asked Bindle, wholly at sea.
At that moment he was pushed aside by the owner of the lady of generous proportions. Thrusting his face forward until it almost touched that of the "caille" guest, he launched out into a volley of reproaches.
"Mon Dieu!" he shouted, "you have insulted that lady. You are a scoundrel, a wretch, a traducer of fair women;" and he went on in French to describe the customer's ancestry and possible progeny.
Throughout the dining-room the guests rose to see what was happening. Many came to the scene of the mishap. By almost superhuman efforts and an apology from the customer who had ordered "caille en casserole," peace was restored and, at a motion from the superintendent, Bindle carried the offending bird to the kitchen to exchange it for another, a simple process that was achieved by having it re-heated and returned on a clean plate.
"This 'ere all comes about through these coves wantin' foreign food," muttered Bindle to himself. "If they'd all 'ave a cut from the joint and two veges, it 'ud be jest as simple as drinkin' beer. An' ain't they touchy too," he continued. "Can't say a word to 'em, but what they flies up and wants to scratch each other's eyes out."
Tranquillity restored, Bindle continued his ministrations. For half an hour everything went quietly until two customers ordered ginger beer, one electing to drink it neat, and the other in conjunction with a double gin. Bindle managed to confuse the two glasses. The customer who had been forced to break his pledge was greatly distressed, and much official tact on the part of a superintendent was required to soothe his injured feelings.