"Seems to me," muttered Bindle, "that I gets all the crocks. If there's anythink funny about, it comes and sits down at one o' my tables. Right-o, sir, comin'!" he called to an impatient customer, who, accompanied by a girl clothed principally in white boots, rouge and peroxide, had seated himself at the table just vacated by a couple from the suburbs.
The man ordered a generous meal, including a bottle of champagne. Bindle attentively wrote down a phonetic version of the customer's requirements. The wine offered no difficulty, it was numbered.
Bindle had observed that wine was frequently carried to customers in a white metal receptacle, sometimes containing hot water, at others powdered ice. No one had told him of the different treatment accorded to red and white wines. Desirous of giving as little trouble as possible to his fellows, he determined on this occasion to act on his own initiative. Obtaining a wine-cooler, he had it filled with hot water and, placing the bottle of champagne in it, hurried back to the customer.
Placing the wine-cooler on a service-table, he left it for a few minutes, whilst he laid covers for the new arrivals.
The lady thirstily demanded the wine. Bindle lifted it from its receptacle, wound a napkin round it as he had seen others do and, nippers in hand, carried it to the table.
He cut the wires. Suddenly about half a dozen different things seemed to happen at the same moment. The cork leapt joyously from the neck of the bottle and, careering across the room, caught the edge of the monocle of a diner and planted it in the soup of another at the next table, just as he was bending down to take a spoonful. The liquid sprayed his face. He looked up surprised, not having seen the cause. He who had lost themonocle began searching about in a short-sighted manner for his lost property.
The cork, continuing on its way, took full in the right eye a customer of gigantic proportions. He dropped his knife and fork and roared with pain. Bindle watched the course of the cork in amazement, holding the bottle as a fireman does the nozzle of a hose. From the neck squirted a stream of white foam, catching the lady of the white boots, rouge and peroxide full in the face. She screamed.
"You damn fool!" yelled the man to Bindle.
In his amazement Bindle turned suddenly to see from what quarter this rebuke had come, and the wine caught the man just beneath the chin. Never had champagne behaved so in the whole history of Napolini's. A superintendent rushed up and, with marvellous presence of mind, seized a napkin and stopped the stream. Then he snatched the bottle from Bindle's hands, at the same time calling down curses upon his head for his stupidity.
The lady in white boots, rouge and peroxide was gasping and dabbing her face with a napkin, which was now a study in pink and white. Her escort was feeling the limpness of his collar and endeavouring to detach his shirt from his chest. The gentleman who had lost his monocle was explaining to the owner of the soup what had happened, and asking permission to fish for the missing crystal that was lying somewhere in the depths of the stranger's mulligatawny.
Bindle was gazing from one to the other in astonishment. "Fancy champagne be'avin' like that," he muttered. "Might 'ave been a stone-ginger in 'ot weather."
At that moment the superintendent discovered the wine-cooler full of hot water. One passionate question he levelled at Bindle, who nodded cheerfully in reply. Yes, it was he who had put the champagne bottle in hot water.
This sealed Bindle's fate as a waiter. Determined not to allow him out of his sight again, the superintendent haled him off to the manager's room, there to be formally discharged.
"Ah! this is the man," said the manager to an inspector of police with whom he was engaged in conversation as Bindle and the superintendent entered.
The inspector took a note-book from his pocket.
"What is your name and address?" he asked of Bindle.
Bindle gave the necessary details, adding, "I'm a special, Fulham District. Wot's up?"
"You will be wanted at Marlborough Street Police Court to-morrow at ten with regard to"—he referred to his note-book—"a charge against Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino," said the inspector.
"Wot's 'e goin' to be charged with, assault an' battery?" enquired Bindle curiously.
"Under the Defence of the Realm Act," replied the inspector. "Documents were found on him."
Bindle whistled. "Well, I'm blowed! A spy! I never did trust them sort o' whiskers," he muttered as he left the manager's room.
Five minutes later he left Napolini's for ever, whistling at the stretch of his powers "So the Lodger Pawned His Second Pair of Boots."
"Oh, Uncle Joe! Charlie's back, and he's going to take us out to-night, and I'm so happy."
Bindle regarded the flushed and radiant face of Millie Hearty, who had just rushed up to him and now stood holding on to his arm with both hands.
"I thought I should catch you as you were going home," she cried. "Uncle Joe, I—I think I want to cry."
"Well," remarked Bindle, "if you'll give your pore ole uncle a chance to get a word in edgeways, 'e'd like to ask why you wants to cry."
"Because I'm so happy," cried Millie, dancing along beside him, her hands still clasping his arm.
"I see," replied Bindle drily; "still, it's a funny sort o' reason for wantin' to cry, Millikins;" and he squeezed against his side the arm she had now slipped through his.
"You will come, Uncle Joe, won't you?" There was eager entreaty in her voice. "We shall be at Putney Bridge at seven."
"I'm afraid I can't to-night, Millikins," replied Bindle. "I got a job on."
"Oh, Uncle Joe!" The disappointment in Millie's voice was too obvious to need the confirmation of the sudden downward droop of the corners of her pretty mouth. "Youmustcome;" and Bindle saw a hint of tears in the moisture that gathered in her eyes.
He coughed and blew his nose vigorously before replying.
"You young love-birds won't miss me," he remarked rather lamely.
"But we shan't go unless you do," said Millie with an air of decision that was sweet to Bindle's ears, "and I've been so looking forward to it. Oh, Uncle Joe! can't you really manage it just to pleasemeeee?"
Bindle looked into the pleading face turned eagerly towards him, at the parted lips ready to smile, or to pout their disappointment and, in a flash, he realised the blank in his own life.
"P'raps 'is Nibs might like to 'ave you all to 'imself for once," he suggested tentatively. "There ain't much chance with a gal for another cove when your Uncle Joe's about."
Millie laughed. "Why, it was Charlie who sent me to ask you, and to say if you couldn't come to-night we would put it off. Oh! do come, Uncle Joe. Charlie's going to take us to dinner at the Universal Café, and they've got a band, and, oh! it will be lovely just having you two."
"Well!" began Bindle, but discovering a slight huskiness in his voice he coughed again loudly. "Seem to 'ave caught cold," he muttered, then added, "Of course I might be able to put that job orf."
"But don't you want to come, Uncle Joe?" asked Millie, anxiety in her voice.
"Want to come!" repeated Bindle. "Of course I want to come; but, well, I wanted to be sure you wasn't jest askin' me because you thought it 'ud please your ole uncle," he concluded somewhat lamely.
"Oh, Uncle Joe!" cried Millie, "how could you think anything so dreadful. Why, wasn't it you who gave me Charlie?"
Bindle looked curiously at her. He was always discovering in his niece naïve little touches that betokened the dawn of womanhood.
"Ain't we becomin' a woman, Millikins!" he cried, whereat Millie blushed.
"Thank you so much for promising to come," she cried. "Seven o'clock at Putney Bridge Station. Don't be late, and don't forget," she cried and, with a nod and a smile, she was gone.
Bindle watched her neat little figure as she tripped away. At the corner she turned and waved her hand to him, then disappeared.
"Now I don't remember promisin' nothink," he muttered. "Ain't that jest Millikins all over, a-twistin' 'er pore ole uncleround 'er little finger. Fancy 'Earty 'avin' a gal like that." He turned in the direction of Fenton Street. "It's like an old 'en 'avin' a canary. Funny place 'eaven," he remarked, shaking his head dolefully. "They may make marriages there, but they make bloomers as well."
At five minutes to seven Bindle was at Putney Bridge Station.
"Makes me feel like five pound a week," he murmured, looking down at his well-cut blue suit, terminating in patent boots, the result of his historical visit to Lord Windover's tailor. "A pair o' yellow gloves and an 'ard 'at 'ud make a dook out of a drain-man. Ullo, general!" he cried as Sergeant Charles Dixon entered the station with a more than ever radiant Millie clinging to his arm.
"'Ere, steady now, young feller," cautioned Bindle as he hesitatingly extended his hand. "No pinchin'!"
Charlie Dixon laughed. The heartiness of his grip was notorious among his friends.
"I'm far too glad to see you to want to hurt you, Uncle Joe," he said.
"Uncle Joe!" exclaimed Bindle in surprise, "Uncle Joe!"
"I told him to, Uncle Joe," explained Millie. "You see," she added with a wise air of possession, "you belong to us both now."
"Wot-o!" remarked Bindle. "Goin'-goin' gone, an' cheap at 'alf the price. 'Ere, no you don't!" By a dexterous dive he anticipated Charlie Dixon's move towards the ticket-window. A moment later he returned with three white tickets.
"Oh, Uncle Joe!" cried Millie in awe, "you've booked first-class."
"We're a first-class party to-night, ain't we, Charlie?" was Bindle's only comment.
As the two lovers walked up the stairs leading to the up-platform, Bindle found it difficult to recognise in Sergeant Charles Dixon the youth Millie had introduced to him two years previously at the cinema.
"Wonder wot 'Earty thinks of 'im now?" muttered Bindle. "Filled out, 'e 'as. Wonderful wot the army can do for a feller," he continued, regretfully thinking of the "various veins" that had debarred him from the life of a soldier.
"Well, Millikins!" he cried, as they stood waiting for the train, "an' wot d'you think of 'is Nibs?"
"I think he's lovely, Uncle Joe!" said Millie, blushing and nestling closer to her lover.
"Not much chance for your ole uncle now, eh?" There was a note of simulated regret in Bindle's voice.
"Oh, Uncle Joe!" she cried, releasing Charlie Dixon's arm to clasp with both hands that of Bindle. "Oh, Uncle Joe!" There was entreaty in her look and distress in her voice. "You don't think that, do you,reeeeeally!"
Bindle's reassurances were interrupted by the arrival of the train. Millie became very silent, as if awed by the unaccustomed splendour of travelling in a first-class compartment with a first-class ticket. She had with her the two heroes of her Valhalla and, woman-like, she was content to worship in silence. As Bindle and Charlie Dixon discussed the war, she glanced from one to the other, then with a slight contraction of her eyes, she sighed her happiness.
To Millie Hearty the world that evening had become transformed into a place of roses and of honey. If life held a thorn, she was not conscious of it. For her there was no yesterday, and there would be no to-morrow.
"My! ain't we a little mouse!" cried Bindle as they passed down the moving-stairway at Earl's Court.
"Oh, Uncle Joe, I'm so happy!" she cried, giving his arm that affectionate squeeze with both her hands that never failed to thrill him. "Please go on talking to Charlie; I love to hear you—and think."
"Now I wonder wot she's thinkin' about?" Bindle muttered. "Right-o, Millikins!" he said aloud. "You got two young men to-night, an' you needn't be afraid of 'em scrappin'."
As they entered the Universal Café, with its brilliant lights and gaily chattering groups of diners Millie caught her breath. To her it seemed a Nirvana. Brought up in the narrow circle of Mr. Hearty's theological limitations, she saw in the long dining-room a gilded-palace of sin against which Mr. Hearty pronounced his anathemas. As they stood waiting for a vacant table, she gazed about her eagerly. How wonderful it would be to eat whilst a band was playing—and playing such music! It made her want to dance.
Many glances of admiration were cast at the young girl who, with flushed cheeks and parted lips, was drinking in a scene which, to them, was as familiar as their own finger-nails.
When at last a table was obtained, due to the zeal of a susceptible young superintendent, and she heard Charlie Dixon order the three-and-sixpenny dinner for all, she seemed to have reached the pinnacle of wonder; but when Charlie Dixondemanded the wine-list and ordered a bottle of "Number 68," the pinnacle broke into a thousand scintillating flashes of light.
She was ignorant of the fact that Charlie was as blissfully unaware as she of what "Number 68" was, and that he was praying fervently that it would prove to be something drinkable. Some wines were abominably sour.
"I've ordered the dinner; I suppose that'll do," he remarked with a man-of-the-world air.
Millie smiled her acquiescence. Bindle, not to be outdone in savoir-faire, picked up the menu and regarded it with wrinkled brow.
"Well, Charlie," he remarked at length, "it's beyond me. I s'pose it's all right; but it might be the German for cat an' dog for all I know. I 'opes," he added anxiously, "there ain't none o' them long white sticks with green tops, wot's always tryin' to kiss their tails. Them things does me."
"Asparagus," cried Millie, proud of her knowledge, "I love it."
"I ain't nothink against it," said Bindle, recalling his experience at Oxford, "if they didn't expect you to suck it like a sugar stick. You wants a mouth as big as a dustbin, if you're a-goin' to catch the end."
When the wine arrived Charlie Dixon breathed a sigh of relief, as he recognised in its foam and amber an old friend with which he had become acquainted in France.
"Oh! what is it?" cried Millie, clasping her hands in excitement.
"Champagne!" said Charlie Dixon.
"Oh, Charlie!" cried Millie, gazing at her lover in proud wonder. "Isn't it—isn't it most awfully expensive?"
Charlie Dixon laughed. Bindle looked at him quizzically.
"Ain't 'e a knockout?" he cried. "Might be a dook a-orderin' champagne as if it was lemonade, or a 'aporth an' a pen'orth."
"But ought I to drink it, Uncle Joe?" questioned Millie doubtfully, looking at the bubbles rising through the amber liquid.
"If you wants to be temperance you didn't ought to——"
"I don't, Uncle Joe," interrupted Millie eagerly; "but father——"
"That ain't nothink to do with it," replied Bindle. "You're grown up now, Millikins, an' you got to decide things for yourself."
And Millie Hearty drank champagne for the first time.
When coffee arrived, Charlie Dixon, who had been singularly quiet during the meal, exploded his mine. It came about asthe result of Bindle's enquiry as to how long his leave would last.
"Ten days," he replied, "and—and I want——" He paused hesitatingly.
"Out with it, young feller," demanded Bindle. "Wot is it that you wants?"
"I want Millie to marry me before I go back." The words came out with a rush.
Millie looked at Charlie Dixon, wide-eyed with astonishment; then, as she realised what it really was he asked, the blood flamed to her cheeks and she cast down her eyes.
"Oh! but I couldn't, Charlie. Father wouldn't let me, and—and——"
Bindle looked at Charlie Dixon.
"Millie, you will, won't you, dear?" said Charlie Dixon. "I've got to go back in ten days, and—and——"
"Oh, Charlie, I—I——" began Millie, then her voice broke.
"Look 'ere, you kids," broke in Bindle. "It ain't no good you two settin' a-stutterin' there like a couple of machine-guns; you know right enough that you both want to get married, that you was made for each other, that you been lying awake o' nights wonderin' when you'd 'ave the pluck to tell each other so, and 'ere you are——" He broke off. "Now look 'ere, Millikins, do you want to marry Charlie Dixon?"
Millie's wide-open eyes contracted into a smile.
"Yes, Uncle Joe, please," she answered demurely.
"Now, Charlie, do you want to marry Millikins?" demanded Bindle.
"Rather," responded Charlie Dixon with alacrity.
"Then wot d'you want to make all this bloomin' fuss about?" demanded Bindle.
"But—but it's so little time," protested Millie, blushing.
"So much the better," said Bindle practically. "You can't change your minds. You see, Millikins, if you wait too long, Charlie may meet someone 'e likes better, or you may see a cove wot takes your fancy more."
The lovers exchanged glances and meaning smiles.
"Oh, yes! I understand all about that," said Bindle knowingly. "You're very clever, ain't you, you two kids? You know everythink there is to be known about weddin's, an' lovin' and all the rest of it. Now look 'ere, Millikins, are you goin' to send this 'ere boy back to France un'appy?"
"Oh, Uncle Joe!" quavered Millie.
"Well, you say you want to marry 'im, and 'e wants to marry you. If you don't marry 'im before 'e goes back to the front, 'e'll be un'appy, won't you, Charlie?"
"It will be rotten," said Charlie Dixon with conviction.
"There you are, Millikins. 'Ow's 'e goin' to beat the Kayser if 'e's miserable? Now it's up against you to beat the Kayser by marryin' Charlie Dixon. Are you goin' to do it, or are you not?"
They both laughed. Bindle was irresistible to them.
"It's a question of patriotism. If you can't buy War Bonds, marry Charlie Dixon, and do the ole Kayser in."
"But father, Uncle Joe?" protested Millie. "What will he say?"
"'Earty," responded Bindle with conviction, "will say about all the most unpleasant and uncomfortable things wot any man can think of; but you leave 'im to me."
There was a grim note in his voice, which caused Charlie Dixon to look at him curiously.
"I ain't been your daddy's brother-in-law for nineteen years without knowing 'ow to manage 'im, Millikins," Bindle continued. "Now you be a good gal and go 'ome and ask 'im if you can marry Charlie Dixon at once."
"Oh! but I can't, Uncle Joe," Millie protested; "I simply can't. Father can be——" She broke off.
"Very well then," remarked Bindle resignedly, "the Germans'll beat us."
Millie smiled in spite of herself.
"I'll—I'll try, Uncle Joe," she conceded.
"Now look 'ere, Millikins, you goes 'ome to-night and you says to that 'appy-'earted ole dad o' yours 'Father, I'm goin' to marry Charlie Dixon next Toosday,' or whatever day you fix. 'E'll say you ain't goin' to do no such thing." Millie nodded her head in agreement. "Well," continued Bindle, "wot you'll say is, 'I won't marry no one else, an' I'm goin' to marry Charlie Dixon.' Then you jest nips round to Fenton Street an' leaves the rest to me. If you two kids ain't married on the day wot you fix on, then I'll eat my 'at,—yes, the one I'm wearin' an' the concertina-'at I got at 'ome; eat 'em both I will!"
Millie and Charlie Dixon looked at Bindle admiringly.
"You are wonderful, Uncle Joe!" she said. Then turning to Charlie Dixon she asked, "What should we have done, Charlie, if we hadn't had Uncle Joe?"
Charlie Dixon shook his head. The question was beyond him.
"We shall never be able to thank you, Uncle Joe," said Millie.
"You'll thank me by bein' jest as 'appy as you know 'ow; and if ever you wants to scrap, you'll kiss and make it up. Ain't that right, Charlie?"
Charlie Dixon nodded his head violently. He was too busily occupied gazing into Millie's eyes to pay much attention to the question asked him.
"Oh, you are a darling, Uncle Joe!" said Millie. Then with a sigh she added, "I wish I could give every girl an Uncle Joe."
"Well, now we must be orf, 'ere's the band a-goin' 'ome, and they'll be puttin' the lights out soon," said Bindle, as Charlie Dixon called for his bill.
As they said good night at Earl's Court Station, Charlie Dixon going on to Hammersmith, Millie whispered to him, "It's been such a wonderful evening, Charlie dear;" then rather dreamily she added, "The most wonderful evening I've ever known. Good-bye, darling; I'll write to-morrow."
"And you will, Millie?" enquired Charlie Dixon eagerly.
She turned away towards the incoming Putney train, then looking over her shoulder nodded her head shyly, and ran forward to join Bindle, who was standing at the entrance of a first-class carriage.
As she entered the carriage Bindle stepped back to Charlie Dixon.
"You jest make all your plans, young feller," he said. "Let me know the day an' she'll be there."
Charlie Dixon gripped Bindle's hand. Bindle winced and drew up one leg in obvious pain at the heartiness of the young lover's grasp.
"There are times, young feller, when I wish I was your enemy," he said as he gazed ruefully at his knuckles. "Your friendship 'urts like 'ell."
"Gawd started makin' a man, an' then, sort o' losin' interest, 'E made 'Earty. That's wot I think o' your brother-in-law, Mrs. B."
Mrs. Bindle paused in the operation of lifting an iron from the stove and holding its face to her cheek to judge as to itsdegree of heat. There was a note of contemptuous disgust in Bindle's voice that was new to her.
"You always was jealous of him," she remarked, rubbing a piece of soap on the face of the iron and polishing it vigorously upon a small square of well-worn carpet kept for that purpose. "'E's got on and you haven't, and there's an end of it;" and she brought down the iron fiercely upon a pillow-case.
"Wot d'you think 'e's done now?" demanded Bindle, as he went to the sink and filled a basin for his evening "rinse." Plunging his face into the water, with much puffing and blowing he began to lather it with soapy hands. He had apparently entirely forgotten his question.
"Well, what is it?" enquired Mrs. Bindle at length, too curious longer to remain quiet.
Bindle turned from the sink, soap-suds forming a rim round his face and filling his tightly-shut eyes. He groped with hands extended towards the door behind which hung the roller-towel. Having polished his face to his entire satisfaction, he walked towards the door leading into the passage.
"Well, what's he done now?" demanded Mrs. Bindle again with asperity.
"'E says Millikins ain't goin' to marry Charlie Dixon." There was anger in Bindle's voice.
"You're a nice one," commented Mrs. Bindle, "Always sneerin' at marriage, an' now you're blaming Mr. Hearty because he won't——"
"Well, I'm blowed!" Bindle wheeled round, his good-humour re-asserting itself, "I 'adn't thought o' that."
Having cleared away her ironing, Mrs. Bindle threw the white tablecloth over the table with an angry flourish.
"Now ain't that funny!" continued Bindle, as if highly amused at Mrs. Bindle's discovery. "Now ain't that funny!" he repeated.
"Seems to amuse you," she retorted acidly.
"It does, Mrs. B.; you've jest 'it it. One o' the funniest things I ever come across. 'Ere's me a-tellin' everybody about this chamber of 'orrors wot we call marriage, an' blest if I ain't a-tryin' to shove poor ole Charlie Dixon in an' shut the door on 'im." Bindle grinned expansively.
"Supper'll be ready in five minutes," said Mrs. Bindle with indrawn lips.
"Right-o!" cried Bindle as he made for the door. "I'm goin' to get into my uniform before I 'ops around to see 'Earty. It's wonderful wot a bit o' blue cloth and a peak cap'll do with acove like 'Earty, specially when I 'appens to be inside. Yes! Mrs. B.," he repeated as he opened the door, "you're right; it does amuse me," and he closed the door softly behind him. Mrs. Bindle expressed her thoughts upon the long-suffering table-appointments.
When Bindle returned in his uniform, supper was ready. For some time the meal proceeded in silence.
"Funny thing," he remarked at length, "I can swallow most things from stewed-steak to 'alf-cooked 'ymns, but 'Earty jest sticks in my gizzard."
"You're jealous, that's what you are," remarked Mrs. Bindle with conviction.
"A man wot could be jealous of 'Earty." said Bindle, "ain't safe to be let out, only on a chain. Why don't 'e try an' bring a little 'appiness down 'ere instead o' sayin' it's all in 'eaven, with you an' 'im a-sittin' on the lid. Makes life like an 'addock wot's been rejooced in price, it does."
"What are you goin' to say to Mr. Hearty?" enquired Mrs. Bindle suspiciously.
"Well," remarked Bindle, "that depends rather on wot 'Earty's goin' to say to me."
"You've no right to interfere in his affairs."
"You're quite right, Mrs. B.," remarked Bindle, "that's wot makes it so pleasant. I 'aven't no right to punch 'Earty's 'ead; but one of these days I know I shall do it. Never see an 'ead in all my life wot looked so invitin' as 'Earty's. Seems to be crying-out to be punched, it does."
"You didn't ought to go round upsetting him," said Mrs. Bindle aggressively. "He's got enough troubles."
"'E's goin' to 'ave another to-night, Mrs. B.; an' if 'e ain't careful, 'e'll probably 'ave another to-morrow night."
Mrs. Bindle banged the lid on a dish.
"You ain't against them kids a-gettin' married, are you?" Bindle demanded. "You used to be sort of fond of Millikins."
"No! I'm not against it; but I'm not goin' to interfere in Mr. Hearty's affairs," said Mrs. Bindle virtuously.
"Well, Iam," said Bindle grimly, as he rose and reached for his cap. A moment later he left the room, whistling cheerily.
At the Heartys' house Millie opened the door.
"Oh, Uncle Joe!" she cried, "I wondered whether you would come."
"Course I'd come, Millikins," said Bindle. "Now you jest run and tell your father that I want to 'ave a little talk with 'imin the drawing-room, then you'll turn on the light an' be'ave as if I was a real lemonade-swell."
Millie smiled tremulously and led the way upstairs. Ushering Bindle into the drawing-room, she switched on the light and went out, gently closing the door behind her.
Five minutes later Mr. Hearty entered. From the movement of his fingers, it was obvious that he was ill at ease.
"'Ullo, 'Earty!" said Bindle genially.
"Good evening, Joseph," responded Mr. Hearty.
"Trade good?" enquired Bindle conversationally.
"Quite good, thank you, Joseph," was the response.
"Goin' to open any more shops?" was the next question.
Mr. Hearty shook his head.
Bindle sucked contentedly at his pipe.
"Won't you sit down, 'Earty?" he asked solicitously.
Mr. Hearty sat down mechanically, then, a moment later, rose to his feet.
"Now, 'Earty," said Bindle, "you and me are goin' to 'ave a little talk about Millikins."
Mr. Hearty stiffened visibly.
"I—I don't understand," he said.
"You jest wait a minute, 'Earty, an' you'll understand a rare lot. Now are you, or are you not, goin' to let them kids get married?"
"Most emphatically not," said Mr. Hearty with decision. "Millie is too young; she's not twenty yet."
"Now ain't you jest tiresome, 'Earty. 'Ere 'ave I been arrangin' for the weddin' for next Toosday, and you go and say it ain't comin' orf; you should 'ave told me this before."
"But Millie only asked me this morning," protested Mr. Hearty, whose literalness always placed him at a disadvantage with Bindle.
"Did she really?" remarked Bindle. "Dear me! an' she knew she was goin' to get married last night. Never could understand women," he remarked, shaking his head hopelessly.
Mr. Hearty was at a loss. He had been prepared for unpleasantness; but this geniality on the part of his brother-in-law he found disarming.
"I have been forced to tell you before, Joseph," he said with some asperity, "that I cannot permit you to interfere in my private affairs."
"Quite right, 'Earty," agreed Bindle genially, "quite right,you said it in them very words." Bindle's imperturbability caused Mr. Hearty to look at him anxiously.
"Then why do you come here to-night and—and——?" He broke off nervously.
"I was always like that, 'Earty. Never seemed able to take no for an answer. Now wot are you goin' to give 'em for a weddin'-breakfast?" he enquired. "An' 'ave we got to bring our own meat-tickets?"
"I have just told you, Joseph," remarked Mr. Hearty angrily, "that they are not going to be married."
"Now ain't that a pity," remarked Bindle, as, having re-filled his pipe, he proceeded to light it. "Now ain't that a pity. I been and fixed it all up with Charlie Dixon, and now 'ere are you a-upsettin' of my plans. I don't like my plans upset, 'Earty; I don't really."
Mr. Hearty looked at Bindle in amazement. This was to him a new Bindle. He had been prepared for anything but this attitude, which seemed to take everything for granted.
"I shouldn't make it a big weddin', 'Earty. There ain't time for that, and jest a nice pleasant little weddin'-breakfast. A cake, of course; you must 'ave a cake. No woman don't feel she's married without a cake. She'd sooner 'ave a cake than an 'usband."
"I tell you, Joseph, that I shall not allow Millie to marry this young man on Tuesday. I am very busy and I must——"
"I shouldn't go, 'Earty, if I was you. I shouldn't really; I should jest stop 'ere and listen to wot I 'ave to say."
"I have been very patient with you for some years past, Joseph," began Mr. Hearty, "and I must confess——"
"You 'ave, 'Earty," interrupted Bindle quietly, looking at him over a flaming match, "you 'ave. If you wasn't wanted in the greengrocery line, you'd 'ave been on a monument, you're that patient. 'As it ever struck you, 'Earty,"—there was a sterner note in Bindle's voice,—"'as it ever struck you that sometimes coves is patient because they're afraid to knock the other cove down?"
"I refuse to discuss such matters, Joseph," said Mr. Hearty with dignity.
"Well, well, 'Earty! p'raps you're right," responded Bindle. "Least said, soonest mended. So them kids ain't goin' to get married on Toosday, you say," he continued calmly.
"I thought I had made that clear." Mr. Hearty's hands shook with nervousness.
"You 'ave, 'Earty, you 'ave," said Bindle mournfully.
"What right have you to—to interfere in—in such matters?" demanded Mr. Hearty, deliberately endeavouring to work himself up into a state of indignation. "Millie shall marry when I please, and her husband shall be of my choosing."
Bindle looked at Mr. Hearty in surprise. He had never known him so determined.
"You think because you're Martha's brother-in-law,"—Mr. Hearty was meticulously accurate in describing the exact relationship existing between them,—"that gives you a right to—to order me about," he concluded rather lamely.
"Look 'ere, 'Earty!" said Bindle calmly, "if you goes on like that, you'll be ill."
"I have been meaning to speak to you for some time past," continued Mr. Hearty, gaining courage. "Once and for all you must cease to interfere in my affairs, if we are to—to continue—er——"
"Brothers in the Lord," suggested Bindle.
"There is another thing, Joseph," proceeded Mr. Hearty. "I—I have more than a suspicion that you know something about those—that—the——" Mr. Hearty paused.
"Spit it out, 'Earty," said Bindle encouragingly. "There ain't no ladies present."
"If—if there are any more disturbances in—in my neighbourhood," continued Mr. Hearty, "I shall put the matter in the hands of the police. I—I have taken legal advice." As he uttered the last sentence Mr. Hearty looked at Bindle as if expecting him to quail under the implied threat.
"'Ave you really!" was Bindle's sole comment.
"I have a clue!" There was woolly triumph in Mr. Hearty's voice.
"You don't say so!" said Bindle with unruffled calm. "You better see the panel doctor, an' 'ave it taken out."
Mr. Hearty was disappointed at the effect of what he had hoped would prove a bombshell.
"Now, Joseph, I must be going," said Mr. Hearty, "I am very busy." Mr. Hearty looked about him as if seeking something with which to be busy.
"So Millikins ain't goin' to be allowed to marry Charlie Dixon?" said Bindle with gloomy resignation as he rose.
"Certainly not," said Mr. Hearty. "My mind is made up."
"Nothink wouldn't make you change it, I suppose?" enquired Bindle.
"Nothing, Joseph." There was no trace of indecision in Mr. Hearty's voice now.
"Pore little Millikins!" said Bindle sadly as he moved towards the door, "I done my best. Pore little Millikins!" he repeated as he reached for the door-handle.
Mr. Hearty's spirits rose. He wondered why he had not asserted himself before. He had been very weak, lamentably weak. Still he now knew how to act should further difficulties arise through Bindle's unpardonable interference in his affairs.
Bindle opened the door, then closed it again, as if he had just remembered something. "You was sayin' that you been to your lawyer, 'Earty," he said.
"I have consulted my solicitor." Mr. Hearty looked swiftly at Bindle, at a loss to understand the reason for the question.
"Useful sometimes knowin' a lawyer," remarked Bindle, looking intently into the bowl of his pipe. Suddenly he looked up into Mr. Hearty's face. "You'll be wantin' 'im soon, 'Earty."
"What do you mean?" There was ill-disguised alarm in Mr. Hearty's voice.
"I see an ole pal o' yours yesterday, 'Earty," said Bindle as he opened the door again. "Ratty she was with you. She's goin' to make trouble, I'm afraid. Well, s'long 'Earty! I must be orf;" and Bindle went out into the passage.
"Joseph," called out Mr. Hearty, "I want to speak to you."
Bindle re-entered. Mr. Hearty walked round him and shut the door stealthily.
"What do you mean, Joseph?" There was fear in Mr. Hearty's voice and eyes.
Bindle walked up to him and whispered something in his ear.
"I—I——" Mr. Hearty stuttered and paled. "My God!"
"You see, 'Earty, she told me all about it at the time," said Bindle calmly.
"It's a lie, a damned lie!" shouted Mr. Hearty.
"'Ush, 'Earty, 'ush!" said Bindle gently. "Such language from you! Oh, naughty! 'Earty, naughty!"
"It's a lie, I tell you." Mr. Hearty's voice was almost tearful. "It's a wicked endeavour to ruin me."
"All you got to do, 'Earty," said Bindle, "is to go to ole Six-an'-Eightpence an' 'ave 'er up."
"It's a lie, I tell you," said Mr. Hearty weakly as he sank down upon the couch.
"So you jest said," remarked Bindle calmly. "I thought I better let you know she was goin' up to tell the Ole Bird on the'Ill. Women is funny things, 'Earty, when you gets their goat. She asked me if I'd mind 'er goin'. Says she wouldn't do anythink I didn't want 'er to, because I was the only one wot stood by 'er. Made a rare fuss, she did, though it wasn't much I done. Well, 'Earty, you're busy, an' I must be orf." Bindle made a movement towards the door.
"Joseph, you must stop her!" Mr. Hearty sprang up, his eyes dilated with fear.
"Me!" exclaimed Bindle in surprise. "It ain't nothink to do with me. You jest been tellin' me I'm always a-buttin' in where I ain't wanted, and now——"
"But—but you must, Joseph," pleaded Mr. Hearty. "If this was to get about, it would ruin me."
"Now ain't you funny, 'Earty," said Bindle. "'Ere are you a-wantin' me to do wot you said 'urt your feelin's."
"If you do this, Joseph, I'll—I'll——"
Bindle looked at Mr. Hearty steadily. "I'll try," he said, "an' now I must be 'oppin'. Toosday I think was the date. I suppose you'll be 'avin' it at the chapel? I'd like to 'ave a word with Millikins before I go. I'll come into the parlour with you, 'Earty."
"You will see——" began Mr. Hearty.
"Right-o!" replied Bindle cheerfully. "You leave it to me."
Mr. Hearty turned meekly and walked downstairs to the parlour, where Mrs. Hearty and Millie were seated.
"It's all right, Millikins, your father says 'e don't object. I persuaded 'im that you're old enough to know your own mind."
Millie jumped up and ran to Bindle.
"Oh, Uncle Joe, you darling!" she cried.
"Yes, ain't I? that's wot all the ladies tell me, Millikins. Makes your Aunt Lizzie so cross, it does."
"'Ullo, Martha!" he cried. "'Ope you got a pretty dress for next Toosday. A weddin', wot'o! Now I must be orf. There's a rare lot o' burglars in Fulham, an' when they 'ears I'm out, Lord! they runs 'ome like bunnies to their 'utches. Good night, 'Earty; cheer-o, Martha! Give us a kiss, Millikins;" and Bindle went out, shown to the door by Millie.
"Oh, Uncle Joe, you're absolutely wonderful! I think you could do anything in the world," she said.
"I wonder," muttered Bindle, as he walked off, "if they'll charge me up with that little fairy tale I told 'Earty."
"Some'ow or other, Ginger, I feel I'm goin' to 'ave quite an 'appy day."
Bindle proceeded to light his pipe with the care of a man to whom tobacco means both mother and wife.
"I don't 'old wiv playin' the fool like you do, Joe," grumbled Ginger. "It only gets you the sack."
Bindle and Ginger were seated comfortably on the tail-board of a pantechnicon bearing the famous name of Harridge's Stores. Ginger had a few days' leave, which he was spending in voluntarily helping his mates with their work.
As they rumbled through Putney High Street, Bindle from time to time winked at a girl, or exchanged some remark with a male passer-by.
For the wounded soldiers taking their morning constitutional he had always a pleasant word.
"'Ullo, matey, 'ow goes it?" he would cry.
"Cheerio!" would come back the reply.
"Look at 'em, Ging, without legs an' arms," Bindle cried, "an' laughin' like 'ell. There ain't much wrong with a country wot can breed that sort o' cove."
From the top of the pantechnicon could be heard Wilkes's persistent cough, whilst Huggles was in charge of the "ribbons."
As they reached the foot of Putney Hill, Bindle slipped off the tail-board, calling to Ginger to do likewise and to Wilkes to come down, "to save the 'orses."
"I don't 'old wiv' walkin' to save 'orses," grumbled Ginger. "I'm tired o' bein' on my feet."
"You ain't so tired o' bein' on your feet," remarked Bindle, "as Gawd is of 'earin' o' the things wot you don't 'old with, Ging. Now, orf you come, ole sport!"
Ginger slowly slid off the tail of the van, and Wilkes clambered down from the roof, and two weary horses were conscious of nearly a quarter of a ton less weight to haul up a tiring hill. Bindle was too popular with his mates for them to refuse him so simple a request as walking up a hill.
On Bindle's head was the inevitable cricket cap of alternate triangles of blue and white, which exposure to all sorts of weatherhad rendered into two shades of grey. He wore his green baize apron, his nose was as cheery and ruddy and his smile as persistent as ever. At the corners of his mouth were those twitches that he seemed unable to control. To Bindle, existence meant opportunity. As he saw it, each new day might be a day of great happenings, of some supreme joke. To him a joke was the anæsthetic which enabled him to undergo the operation of life.
Blessed with a wife to whom religion was the be-all and end-all of existence, he had once remarked to her, after an eloquent exhortation on her part to come on the side of the Lord, "Wot should I do in 'eaven, Lizzie? I never 'eard of an angel wot was able to see a joke, and they'd jest 'oof me out. 'Eaven's a funny place, an' I can't be funny in their way. I got to go on as I was made."
"If you was to smile more, Ginger," remarked Bindle presently, "you'd find that life wouldn't 'urt so much. If you can grin you can bear anythink, even Mrs. B., an' she takes a bit o' bearin'."
As the three men trudged up Putney Hill beside the sweating horses, Bindle beamed, Ginger grumbled, and Wilkes coughed. Wilkes was always coughing. Wilkes found expression in his cough. He could cough laughter, scorn, or anger. As he was always coughing, life would otherwise have been intolerable. He was a man of few words, and, as Bindle phrased it, "When Wilkie ain't coughin', 'e's thinkin'; an' as it 'urts 'im to think, 'e coughs."
Ginger was sincere in his endeavour to discover objects he didn't "'old wiv"; marriage, temperance drinks, Mr. Asquith, twins and women were some of the things that Ginger found it impossible to reconcile with the beneficent decrees of Providence.
After a particularly lengthy bout of coughing on the part of Wilkes, Bindle remarked to Ginger, "Wilkie's cough is about the only thing I never 'eard you say you don't 'old wiv, Ginger."
"'E can't 'elp it," was Ginger's reply.
"No more can't women 'elp twins," Bindle responded.
"I don't 'old wiv twins," was Ginger's gloomy reply. He disliked being reminded of the awful moment when he had been informed that he was twice a father in the first year of his marriage.
"It's a good job Gawd don't ask you for advice, Ginger, or 'E'd be up a tree in about two ticks."
Ginger grumbled some sort of reply.
"It's a funny world, Ging," continued Bindle meditatively. "There's you wot ain't 'appy in your 'ome life, an' there's pore ole Wilkie a-coughin' up 'is accounts all day long." After a few moments devoted to puffing contentedly at his pipe, Bindle continued, "Did you ever 'ear, Ginger, 'ow pore ole Wilkie's cough got 'im into trouble?"
Ginger shook his head mechanically.
"Well," said Bindle, "'e was walkin' out with a gal, an' one evenin' 'e coughed rather 'arder than usual, an' she took it to mean that 'e wanted 'er to marry 'im, an' now there's eighteen little Wilkies. Ain't that true, Wilkie?"
Wilkes stopped coughing to gasp "Twelve."
"Well, well, 'alf a dozen more or less don't much matter, Wilkie, old sport. You lined up to your duty, any'ow."
"Look out for The Poplars, 'Uggles," Bindle called out. "Don't go passin' of it, an' comin' all the way back."
There was a grumble from the front of the van. Two minutes later Huggles swung the horses into the entrance of The Poplars, the London house of Lady Knob-Kerrick, and the pantechnicon rumbled its way up the drive.
Bindle pulled vigorously at both the visitors' and the servants' bells.
"You never knows wot you're expected to be in this world," he remarked. "We ain't servants and we ain't exactly visitors, therefore we pulls both bells, which shows that we're somethink between the two."
Ginger grumbled about not "'oldin'" with something or other, and Huggles clambered stiffly down from the driver's seat.
Presently the door was flung open and a powdered footman, "all plush and calves" as Bindle phrased it, looked superciliously down at the group of men standing before him.
"Mornin', Eustace," said Bindle civilly, "we've come."
John regarded Bindle with a blank expression, but made no response.
"Now then, Calves, 'op it!" said Bindle. "We ain't the War Office, we're in an 'urry. We've brought the bedsteads and the beddin' for the soldiers."
"You've made a mistake, my man," was the footman's response. "We've not ordered any beds for soldiers."
"Now look 'ere, don't be uffy, ole sport," said Bindle cheerily, "or who knows but wot you may get yourself damaged. Like one o' them funny-coloured birds in the Zoo, ain't 'e, Ging?" Then he turned once more to the footman. "My friend 'Uggles'ere"—Bindle jerked his thumb in the direction of Huggles—"won the middle-weight championship before 'is nose ran away with 'im, an' as for me—well, I'm wot they calls 'the White 'Ope.'"
Bindle made a pugilistic movement forward. John started back suddenly. Producing a paper from his pocket, Bindle read, "'Lady Knob-Kerrick, The Poplars, Putney 'Ill, sixteen bedsteads, beddin', etc.' Is this Lady Knob-Kerrick's, ole son?"
"This is her ladyship's residence," replied John.
"Very well," continued Bindle with finality. "We brought 'er sixteen beds, beddin', etcetera,—there's an 'ell of a lot of etcetera, so you'd better look slippy an' go an' find out all about it if you wants to get orf to see your gal to-night."
The footman looked irresolute.
"Wait here a moment," he said, "and I'll ask Mr. Wilton." He half closed the door, which Bindle pushed open and entered, followed by Wilkes, Ginger and Huggles.
A minute later, the butler, Mr. Wilton, approached.
"What is the meaning of this?" he enquired.
"The meanin' of this, Your Royal 'Ighness, is that we've brought sixteen bedsteads, beddin', etcetera,—there's an 'ell of a lot of etcetera, as I told Calves,—for to turn the Ole Bird's drawin'-room into billets for soldiers, as per instructions accordin' to this 'ere;" and he held out the delivery-note to Mr. Wilton.
"There must be some mistake," replied the butler pompously, taking the document.
"There ain't no bloomin' mistake on our part. All you got to do is to let Calves show us where the drawin'-room is an' we'll do the rest. 'Ere's the delivery-note, an' when it's in the delivery-note it's so. That's 'Arridges' way. Ain't the Ole Bird told you nothink about it?" he enquired.
Mr. Wilton took the paper and subjected it to a careful scrutiny. He read all the particulars on the delivery-note, then turning it over, read the conditions under which Harridge's did business. After a careful inspection of Bindle, he returned to a study of the paper in his hand.
"John, ask Mrs. Marlings to step here," he ordered the footman. John disappeared swiftly.
"Oh, I forgot," said Bindle. "Got a note for you, I 'ave;" and he drew a letter from his breast-pocket addressed "Mr. Wilton, c/o Lady Knob-Kerrick, The Poplars, Putney Hill, S.W."
With great deliberation Mr. Wilton opened the envelope and unfolded the quarto sheet of notepaper on which was written "By the instructions of Lady Knob-Kerrick, we are sending herewith goods as per delivery-note. It is her Ladyship's wish that these be installed by our men in her drawing-room, which it is her intention to turn into a dormitory for billeting soldiers. Our men will do all the necessary work."
As Mr. Wilton finished reading the note, Mrs. Marlings sailed into the room. She was a woman of generous build, marvellously encased in black silk, with a heavy gold chain round her neck from which hung a cameo locket.
Mr. Wilton handed her the letter in silence. She ferreted about her person for her glasses, which after some trouble she found. Placing them upon her nose she read the communication slowly and deliberately. Having done so she handed it back to Mr. Wilton.
"Her ladyship hasn't said anythink to me about the matter," she said in an aggrieved tone.
"Nor me either," said Mr. Wilton.
Mrs. Marlings sniffed, as if there was nothing in her mistress not having taken Mr. Wilton into her confidence.
"'Ere, come along, boys!" cried Bindle. "They don't seem to want these 'ere goods. We'd better take 'em back. Keep us 'ere all day at this rate."
This remark seemed to galvanise Mr. Wilton into action.
"You had better do as you have been instructed," he said. This he felt was a master-stroke by which he avoided all responsibility. He could truthfully say that he had not given orders for the bedsteads and bedding to be brought into the house.
From that moment Mr. Wilton's attitude towards the whole business was one of detached superiority, which seemed to say, "Here is a matter about which I have not been consulted. I shall merely await the inevitable catastrophe, which I foresee, and as becomes a man, endeavour to render such assistance as I can in gathering up the pieces."
With great dignity he led the way to the drawing-room on the first floor, followed by Bindle, Ginger and John. Mrs. Marlings disappeared again into the shadows from which she had emerged. Once in the drawing-room, Ginger began to disembarrass himself of his coat, and with incomparable gloom proceeded to roll it up and place it upon the mantelpiece beside the ormolu clock. Mr. Wilton stepped forward quickly.
"Not there, my man," he said.
Ginger looked around with an expression on his face that caused Mr. Wilton instinctively to recoil. It was in reality to Ginger's countenance what to another man would have been a reluctant and fugitive smile. Mr. Wilton, however, interpreted it as a glance of resentment and menace. Seeing his mistake, Bindle stepped immediately into the breach.
"'E's a bit difficult, is Ginger," he said in a loud whisper. "It sort o' 'urts 'im to be called 'my man.' That sensitiveness of 'is 'as made more than one widow. 'E means well, though, does Ginger, 'e jest wants 'andlin' like a wife. P'raps you ain't married yourself, sir."
Mr. Wilton drew himself up, hoping to crush Bindle by the weight of his dignity; but Bindle had turned aside and was proceeding to attend to his duties. Removing his coat he rolled up his shirt-sleeves and walked to the window.
"Better take the stuff in from the top of the van," he remarked. "It'll save Ole Calves from cleanin' the stairs. 'Ere," he called down to Huggles, "back the van up against the window."
Mr. Wilton left the room, indicating to John that he was to stay. Bindle and Ginger then proceeded to pile up the drawing-room furniture in the extreme corner. They wheeled the grand pianoforte across the room, drew from under it the carpet, which was rolled up and placed beneath. Chairs were piled-up on top, Bindle taking great care to place matting beneath in order to save the polish.
At the sound of the van being backed against the house, Bindle went to the window.
"'Ere, wot the 'ell are you doin'?" he cried, looking out. "'Old 'er up, 'old 'er up, you ole 'Uggins! D'you want to go through the bloomin' window? Look wot you done to that tree. That'll do! Steady on, steeeeeeeeady! You didn't ought to 'ave charge o' two goats, 'Uggles, let alone 'orses. 'Ere, come on up!"
Bindle returned to the work of making room for the bedsteads. Suddenly he paused in front of John.
"Yes," he remarked critically, "you look pretty; but I'd love you better if you was a bit more useful. Wot about a drink? I like a slice of lemon in mine; but Ginger'll 'ave a split soda."
Suddenly Huggles' voice was heard from without.
"Hi, Joe!" he cried.
"'Ullo!" responded Bindle, going to the window.
"Where's the ladder?" came Huggles' question.
"Where d'you s'pose it is, 'Uggles? Why, in Wilkie's waistcoat pocket o' course;" and Bindle left it at that.
Just as Huggles' head appeared above the window, Mr. Wilton re-entered.
"I have telephoned to Harridges," he said. "Her ladyship's instructions are quite clear, there seems to be no mistake."
"There ain't no mistake, ole sport," said Bindle confidently. "It's all down in the delivery-note. The Ole Bird 'as sort o' taken a fancy to soldiers, an' wants to 'ave a supply on the premises."
Huggles had climbed in through the window and was being followed by Wilkes. Suddenly Bindle went up to Mr. Wilton and, in a confidential voice said, jerking his thumb in the direction of John:
"If you wants to see somethink wot'll make you 'appy, you jest make Calves whistle or 'um, 'Ginger, You're Barmy,' then you see wot'll 'appen. You'll die o' laughin', you will really."
For a moment Mr. Wilton looked uncomprehendingly from Bindle to Ginger; then, appreciating the familiarity with which he had been addressed by a common workman, he turned and, with great dignity, walked from the room on the balls of his feet. Ginger watched him with gloomy malevolence.
"I don't 'old with ruddy waiters, like 'im," he remarked.
"All right, Ging, never you mind about Dicky Bird, you get on with your work."
Bindle picked up Wilkes's hat—a battered fawn bowler with a mourning band—and placed it upon the head of the late Sir Benjamin Biggs, Lady Knob-Kerrick's father, whose bust stood on an elaborate pedestal near the window.
"'E's on the bust now all right!" grinned Bindle as he regarded his handiwork.
In the space of twenty minutes the room was bare, but for an enormous pile of furniture in one corner. Soon sections of small japanned-bedsteads and bundles of bedding appeared mysteriously at the window, and were hauled in by Bindle and Ginger. After the bedsteads and bedding, there appeared four baths; these were immediately followed by four tin wash-handstands and basins, a long table, two looking-glasses, half a dozen towel-horses, and various other articles necessary to a well-ordered dormitory.
Throughout the proceedings Wilkes's cough could be heard as a sort of accompaniment from without.
"There's one thing, Ging," remarked Bindle, "there ain't much chance o' mislayin' pore ole Wilkie. That cough of 'is is as good as a bell round 'is neck."
At twelve o'clock, work was knocked off. Wilkes entered through the window carrying a frying-pan, and Huggles with a parcel wrapped in newspaper. Ginger and Bindle both went down the ladder, the first-named returning a minute later with a parcel, also wrapped in newspaper.
From his parcel Huggles produced a small piece of steak, which he proceeded to fry at the fire. Ginger in turn unfolded from its manifold wrappings a red-herring. Sticking this on the end of his knife he held it before the bars. Soon the room was flooded with a smell of burning red-herring and frying steak.
When Bindle entered a minute later he sniffed at the air in astonishment.
"Wot the 'ell are you up to?" he cried. "'Ere, Ginger, chuck that thing on the fire. As for you, 'Uggles, you ought to be ashamed o' yourself. Ain't you never been in a drawin'-room before? I'm surprised at 'im an' you, 'Uggles, that I am. Ginger, chuck that thing on the fire," he commanded.
Huggles muttered something about it being his dinner hour.
"I don't 'old wiv wastin' food," began Ginger.
"I don't care wot you 'old with, Ging, you got to chuck that sojer on the fire."
"It's only an 'erring," began Ginger.
"Yes; but it's got the stink of a whale," cried Bindle.
Reluctantly Ginger removed the sizzling morsel from the end of his knife and threw it on the fire, just as Mrs. Marlings entered. She gave a little cry as the pungent smell of Huggles' and Ginger's dinners smote her nostrils.
"Oh!" she cried, starting back, "whathever 'as 'appened? What a dreadful smell! Where can it——"
"It's Ginger forgot 'isself, mum," explained Bindle, with a withering glance in the direction of his subordinate. "'E thought 'e was in an 'Un dug-out. You see, mum, Ginger ain't 'appy in 'is 'ome life."
"But—but—look, it's hon the fire," cried Mrs. Marlings, pointing to Ginger's dinner, at which he was gazing with an expression that was a tragedy of regret.
When excited Mrs. Marlings had some difficulty with her aspirates. "Oh! Mr. Wilton," she cried to the butler, who entered at that moment, and stood regarding the scene as Achilles mighthave viewed the reverses of the Greeks. "Oh! Mr. Wilton! take hit away, please, hit will poison us."
With his head held well in the air Mr. Wilton beckoned to John, who walked to the fireplace. With a majestic motion of his hand Mr. Wilton indicated to the footman that Ginger's offending dinner was to be removed. Gravely John took up the tongs, deliberately gripping the herring amidships, and turned towards the door, holding it aloft as if it were some sacred symbol.
Ginger's eyes were glued to the blackened shape.
"It ain't every red 'errin' wot 'as a funeral like that," remarked Bindle to Ginger.
Mr. Wilton threw open the door. Suddenly John started back and retreated, the herring still held before him, all smell and blue smoke.
"'Old me, 'Orace!" murmured Bindle, who was in a direct line with the door, "if it ain't the Ole Bird!"
Lady Knob-Kerrick entered, followed by Miss Strint, her companion and echo. Casting one annihilating look at the speechless John, she gazed with amazement at the disorder about her. Miss Strint gave vent to a spasmodic giggle, which Lady Knob-Kerrick did not even notice. Her gaze roved round the room as if she had found herself in unexpected surroundings. Finally her eyes fixed themselves on Mr. Wilton.
"Wilton, what is that John is holding?" Lady Knob-Kerrick prided herself on her self-control.
All eyes were immediately turned upon John, who shivered slightly.
"It is what they call a herring, a red-herring, my lady," responded Wilton. "Poor people eat them, I believe."
"And what is it doing in my drawing-room?" demanded Lady Knob-Kerrick with ominous calm.
"It was smellin', mum," broke in Bindle, "an' we was gettin' Calves to take it out. It's all through Ginger, 'e likes tasty food; but 'e ain't 'appy——"
"Hold your tongue!" said Lady Knob-Kerrick, turning to Bindle and withering him through her lorgnettes.
She turned once more to her major-domo.
"Wilton," she demanded, "what is the meaning of this outrage?"
"It's the billets, my lady."
"The what?"
"The billets, my lady."
"I haven't ordered any billets. What are billets?"
Suddenly her eye caught sight of the bust of the late Sir Benjamin Biggs.
"Who did that?" Rage had triumphed over self-control.
All eyes turned to the marble lineaments of the late Sir Benjamin's features. Never had that worthy knight presented so disreputable an appearance as he did with Huggles' hat stuck upon his head at a rakish angle.
"It must have been one of the workmen, my lady." Mr. Wilton tiptoed over to the bust and removed the offending headgear, placing it on a bundle of bedding.
"One of the workmen!" stormed Lady Knob-Kerrick. "Is everybody mad? What is being done with my drawing-room?"
Bindle stepped forward.
"We come from 'Arridges, mum, with the beds an' things for the soldiers."
"For the what?" demanded her ladyship.
"For the soldiers' billets, mum," explained Bindle. "You're goin' to billet sixteen soldiers 'ere."
"Billet sixteen soldiers!" almost screamed her ladyship, red in the face.
With great deliberation Bindle pulled out the delivery-note from behind his green baize apron, and read solemnly: "'Lady Knob-Kerrick, The Poplars, Putney 'Ill.' That's you, mum, ain't it?"
Lady Knob-Kerrick continued to stare at him stonily.
"'Sixteen bedsteads, bedding, four baths, four washin' stands, etcetera.' There's a rare lot of etceteras, mum. 'Fit up bedsteads in drawin'-room for billetin' soldiers, carefully storin' at one end of room existin' furniture.' There ain't no mistake," said Bindle solemnly. "It's all on this 'ere paper, which was 'anded to me by the foreman this mornin'. There ain't no mistake, mum, really."
"But I tell you there is a mistake," cried Lady Knob-Kerrick angrily. "I have no intention of billeting soldiersin my drawing-room."
"Well, mum," said Bindle, shaking his head as if it were useless to fight against destiny, "it's all down 'ere on this 'ere paper, and if you're Lady Knob-Kerrick"—he referred to the paper again—"of The Poplars, Putney 'Ill, then you want these soldiers, sure as eggs. P'raps you forgotten," he added with illumination.
"Forgotten what?" demanded Lady Knob-Kerrick.
"Forgotten that you want sixteen soldiers, mum."
"Halt!"
A sharp snapping sound from without. Everybody turned to the window. The situation had become intensely dramatic. Bindle walked over, and looked out. Then turning to Lady Knob-Kerrick he said triumphantly:
"'Ere's the sixteen soldiers, mum, so there ain't no mistake."
"The what?" demanded Lady Knob-Kerrick looking about her helplessly.
"The sixteen soldiers with all their kit," said Bindle. "I counted 'em," he added, as if to remove any glimmer of doubt that might still exist in Lady Knob-Kerrick's mind.
"Is everybody mad?" Lady Knob-Kerrick fixed her eyes upon Wilton. Wilton looked towards the door, which opened to admit John, who had seized the occasion of the diversion to slip out with Ginger's dinner.
"The soldiers, my lady," he announced.
There was a tremendous tramping on the stairs, and a moment afterwards fifteen soldiers in the charge of a sergeant streamed in, each bearing his kit-bag, rifle, etc.
The men gazed about them curiously.
The sergeant looked bewildered at so many people being grouped to receive them. After a hasty glance round he saluted Lady Knob-Kerrick, then he removed his cap, the men one by one sheepishly following suit.
"I hope we haven't come too soon, your ladyship?"
Lady Knob-Kerrick continued to stare at him through her lorgnettes. Wilton stepped forward.
"There has been a mistake. Her Ladyship cannot billet soldiers."
The sergeant looked puzzled. He drew a paper from his pocket, and read the address aloud: "'Lady Knob-Kerrick, The Poplars, Putney Hill, will billet sixteen soldiers in her drawing-room, she will also cater for them.'"