By eight o'clock on the morning of the Fête a pantechnicon was lumbering its ungainly way along the Portsmouth Road. Bindle sat meditatively on the tail-board, smoking and obviously bored.
With the wholesome contempt of an incorrigible cockney he contemplated the landscape.
"'Edges, trees, an' fields, an' a mile to walk for a drink. Not me," he muttered, relighting his pipe with solemn gravity.
As the pantechnicon rumbled its ponderous way through hamlet and village, Bindle lightly tossed a few pleasantries to the rustics who stood aside to gaze at what, to them, constituted an incident in the day's monotony of motor-cars and dust.
The morning advanced, and Bindle grew more direct in his criticisms on, and contempt for, the bucolic life. At last out of sheer loneliness he climbed up beside the driver.
"'Owd jer like to live 'ere, ole son?" he enquired pleasantly, as they approached a tiny hamlet where a woman, a child, and some ducks and chickens seemed to be the only living inhabitants.
"All right with a bit o' land," responded the driver, looking about him appreciatively.
Bindle gazed at his colleague curiously, then, feeling that they had nothing in common regarding the countryside, continued:
"Funny thing you an' me comin' to a temperance fête." Then regarding the driver's face critically, he proceeded: "'Ope you've got yer vanity-case wi' yer. You'll want to powder that nose o' yours 'fore the ladies come. Course it's indigestion, only they mightn't believe it."
The driver grunted.
"Fancy," continued Bindle, "'avin' to 'aul about chairs and make up tables a day like this, an' on lemonade too. Can't yer see it, mate, in glass bottles wi' lemons stuck in the tops and no froth?"
The driver grumbled in his throat.
The start had been an early one and he was dry, despite several ineffectual attempts to allay his thirst at wayside inns.
It was nearly eleven o'clock before a sprinkling of houses warned them that they were approaching Barton Bridge. Soon the pantechnicon was awaking echoes in the drowsy old High Street. Half-way along what is practically the only thoroughfare stands the Pack Horse, outside which the driver instinctively pulled up, and he and Bindle clambered down and entered, ostensibly to enquire the way to the Fête ground.
Behind the bar stood Mr. Cutts, wearing the inevitable red knitted cap without which no one had ever seen him during business hours. He was engaged in conversation with Dick Little, the doctor's son, and by common consent the black sheep of Barton Bridge. The subject of their talk was temperance. He showed no particular inclination to come forward, and Bindle was extremely thirsty.
After regarding the red cap for a moment Bindle approached the landlord.
"No offence, your 'Oliness! Sorry to be a noosance, but can yer tell me where the Temperance Fête is to be 'eld? Me and my mate is delegates come all the way from London. No; your 'Oliness is wrong, it's indigestion. That nose of 'is always takes a lot of explainin'."
Mr. Cutts flushed a deep purple at the reference to his cap. He wore it to hide his baldness, and was extremely sensitive. Dick Little laughed outright. It was he who answered Bindle.
"Half a mile up, and down the avenue of poplars."
"D' yer 'ear, mate?" Bindle turned to the driver. "D' yer know a poplar when yer see it? Same for me." The last remark referred to the driver's order for a pint of ale. After finishing his draught the driver went out to see to the watering of his horses, whilst Mr. Cutts, having cast at Bindle a look which he conceived to be of withering scorn, retired to his parlour.
"Seem to 'ave 'urt Old Bung's feelin's," Bindle remarked genially to Dick Little.
"You said you were going to the Temperance Fête?"
"Yes; we're carryin' along the buns, sangwidges, cakes, an' lemonade, likewise tents and things."
"Like a drink?" enquired Little.
"Well!" grinned Bindle judicially, as he surveyed his empty glass, "it would lay the dust a bit; provided," he added with mock gravity, "it ain't a split soda. Never could digest split sodas. Where's 'is 'Oliness?" he enquired, looking round.
"Never mind him," responded Little, taking a flask from his pocket. "Wash the glass out."
Bindle did so, and threw the water in a delicate line upon the floor. Little emptied the greater part of the contents of the flask into the glass held before him. With a happy look in his eyes Bindle took a short drink, tasted the liquid critically, looked at Little, then with a puzzled expression emptied the glass at the second attempt.
"Wot jer call it, sir? It's new to me," he remarked, as he replaced his glass upon the counter.
"It hasn't got a name yet. I make it myself. It's not bad, eh?"
"It beats all I've ever tasted, sir. It ain't for suckin'-babes, though. Pretty strong."
"Yes; you said you had lemonade for the Temperance Fête in there, didn't you?" enquired Little.
"Well, not exactly, sir. It's got to be watered down, see? Ther'll be about fifty gallons, 'sides bottled stuff."
"Are you open to earn a sovereign?" asked Little.
"Well, sir, it's funny you should arst that. Jest 'fore I came away from 'ome this morning my missus told me the Income Tax paper 'ad come in. That ole Lloyd George is fairly messin' up my estates. Yes, I don't mind if I do."
At this moment the driver put his head in at the door and muttered something about getting on.
"'Arf a mo', ole son," responded Bindle; then turning to Little added with a grin, "I makes it a rule never to keep me 'orses waitin', mister; the coachman gets so cross."
When Mr. Cutts returned to the bar he saw Dick Little in deep conversation with Bindle, which surprised him. He saw Bindle's face irradiating joy and heard him remark:
"'Old me, somebody, 'old me, I say! You jest leave it to me, sir."
Presently they both went out. A moment later the pantechnicon rumbled off, leaving Mr. Cutts still wondering.
The pantechnicon lumbered on towards the meadow adjoining Kerrick Castle, which had been placed at the disposal of the committee of the Temperance Society by its owner. On the tail-board sat Bindle, a metamorphosed Bindle. All the morning's gloom had vanished from his features, giving place to a joy not entirely due to the partial quenching of a persistent thirst.
Dick Little walked slowly home to an early lunch. He had many old scores to settle with Barton Bridge, and he realised that there was an excellent chance of a balance being struck that afternoon.
His one anxiety was lest his father should be involved. Between Dr. Little and his two sons, Dick and Tom, there was little in common save a great bond of affection. Dr. Little was serious-minded, inclined to be fussy, but of a generous nature and a genial disposition that gained for him the regard of all his patients. His son Dick was a rollicking dandy, an inveterate practical joker, and the leader of every mischievous escapade at St. Timothy's Hospital, known as "Tim's," where he enjoyed an all-round popularity.
By half-past one o'clock everything was ready for the Temperance Fête. The large marquee had been erected, the chairs and tables had been dotted about the meadow. Rustic stalls, gay with greenery and bunting, invited the visitor to refresh himself. In the centre of a roped-off space stood a gaily beribboned maypole.
A "cokernut shy," a Punch-and-Judy Show, and the old English game of Aunt Sally were some of the diversions provided. There was also to be Morris dancing, the dancers having been trained by Miss Slocum, the vicar's daughter, aided, for reasons of policy rather than individual prowess, by Miss McFie, the sister of the Congregational minister. The girl attendants in their gaily coloured dresses and sun-bonnets, and the men in smock-frocks and large straw hats, added picturesqueness to the scene.
Bindle's activity had been prodigious. With the ease of a man who is thoroughly conversant with his subject, he had taken charge of the drink department. The lemonade had been distributed to the various stalls, and the right amount of water added, according to the directions upon each cask. Every drop of water had been fetched under the supervision of Bindle himself.
On arriving at the Fête ground Bindle had gone direct to a corner of the meadow and brought forth half a dozen stone jars, each capable of holding about two gallons. The contents of these he had carefully poured into the casks containing the nucleus of the lemonade. These same jars had been subsequently used for fetching water with which to weaken the lemonade.
Finally they had been stowed away in the far end of the pantechnicon.
Bindle stood out in strong relief from the other workers, both on account of his costume and personality. He wore the green baize apron of his class. On his head was the inevitable cricket cap. His face had taken on the same hue as his nose, and the smile that irradiated his features transcended in its joyous abandon the smiles of all the others. For everyone he had a merry word. In the short space of two hours he had achieved an astonishing popularity.
By three o'clock the Fête was in full swing. Every stable in Barton Bridge was full, and the High Street presented a curious appearance, with its rows of horseless carriages, carts, and traps. The coach-houses and available sheds had all been utilised to give shelter to the scores of horses. The members of the committee, wearing big dark-blue rosettes, smiled largely their satisfaction. They knew that reporters were present fromThe Blue Ribbon NewsandThe Pure Water World.
Bindle had entered into the spirit of the revelry in a way that attracted to him the attention of many members of the organising committee.
"An extremely droll fellow, quite a valuable addition to our attendants," the vicar remarked to the Rev. Andrew McFie, the young Congregational pastor, as they stood surveying the scene.
"An admeerable man, Meester Slocum," the cautious Scot had replied. "I have no wish to be uncharitable, but I meestrust his nose."
Entirely unconscious that he was a subject of conversation between the two shepherds of Barton Bridge, Bindle was standing behind a refreshment stall that he had appropriated to himself, surrounded by an amused crowd of revellers.
He was discoursing upon the virtues of lemonade upon a hot day. "Give 'er a drink, sir," he called to one sheepish-looking rustic, who stood grasping in his the hand of a lumpy, red-faced girl. "Give 'er a drink, sir, do, or she'll faint. 'Er tongue's almost 'anging out as it is. Be a sport. No, miss, it's no use your looking at me; my wife won't let me."
As they took their first sip of the much-praised lemonade, many looked wonderingly at Bindle. There was about it an unaccustomed something that they could not quite analyse or describe. Whatever it was, it was pleasant to the taste, and it gave them courage. Eyes that had previously been sheepish became merry, almost bold. The prospect of joy seemed nearer.
The fame of the lemonade soon spread. The fringes about the stalls deepened. The air became bright with shouts and laughter.
A spirit of wild revelry was abroad. The cokernut-shy was the centre of an uproarious throng. Balls were bought and flung with such wildness that none dared to replace the cokernuts that had been knocked off, or to fetch what by rights was his own property.
Mr. Slocum and Mr. McFie strolled round the grounds, sedately benign. They, the representatives of a Higher Power, must of necessity keep aloof from such pleasures, even temperance pleasures; still, they were glad to see about them evidences of such simple and wholesome gaiety.
With measured steps they approached a considerable group of young people who were laughing and shouting boisterously. When within about twenty yards of the crowd it suddenly opened out.
"It's a race, sir," shouted someone, and they smilingly stood aside to see the sport. A moment after their smiles froze upon their faces and gave place to a look of wonder and of horror. It was indeed a race; but such a race! Coming towards them were five youths, each bearing, pick-a-back fashion, a girl. There was an exhibition of feminine frilleries that caused the reverend gentlemen to gasp, to look at each other quickly and then turn hurriedly aside. When just opposite to where they stood, one couple came to the ground and the pair following immediately behind fell over the others. Mr. McFie blushed, and Mr. Slocum, remembering his companion's youth, gripped him by the arm and hurried him away with a muttered, "Dreadful, dreadful!"
No other word was spoken until they reached the refreshment-stall over which Bindle presided, and then the vicar once more murmured, "Dreadful!"
"Have you any tea?" enquired Mr. McFie, more from a desire to say something than a feeling of thirst.
"No, sir," responded Bindle, "tea's over there, sir. Try the lemonade, sir; it's A-1. It'll pull yer together, sir. Do try it, sir," Bindle added eagerly. "You look 'ot and tired, sir. It'll do yer good."
The two pastors looked curiously at Bindle, but accepted each without comment a glass of lemonade. They put it to their lips, tasted it, looked at each other and then drank greedily.
"Another, sir?" enquired Bindle of the vicar when he had finished his glass.
"Er ... no," murmured Mr. Slocum; but Bindle had already refilled his glass and was doing a like service for Mr. McFie. When they left the stall it was arm-in-arm, and Mr. McFie directed his steps to the spot where, a few minutes previously, he had received so severe a shock; but the sport was over and the crowd had dispersed.
When Lady Knob-Kerrick drove round to the Fête ground she was surprised to find the gate open and unattended, but was rendered speechless with astonishment at the noise that assailed her ears. At first she thought there had been an accident; but in the medley of hoarse shouts and shrill screams she clearly distinguished the sound of laughter. She turned to Miss Isabel Strint, her companion, whom she always persisted in treating as she would not have dared to treat her maid. Miss Strint elevated her eyebrows and assumed a look that was intended to be purely tentative, capable of being developed into either horror or amusement.
"People say it takes beer to make the lower classes gay," remarked her ladyship grimly.
"I'm sure they couldn't make more noise if they were intoxicated," responded Miss Strint, developing the tentative look into one of amused tolerance.
"Strint, you're a fool!" remarked Lady Knob-Kerrick.
Miss Strint subsided.
Lady Knob-Kerrick looked round her disapprovingly. She was annoyed that no one should be there to welcome her.
"Strint, see if you can find Mr. Slocum and Mr. McFie, and tell them I am here." Then to the footman, "Thomas, come with me."
At that moment Dick Little came towards the small group.
"How d'you do, Lady Kerrick?" he smiled easily. "Delighted to be the first to welcome the Lady of the Feast. May I get you some refreshment?"
"You may not," was the ungracious response.
Lady Knob-Kerrick disliked both Little and his well-bred manner. She was accustomed to deference and servility. She also disapproved of what she conceived to be her daughter Ethel's interest in the doctor's son, and for that reason had not brought her to the Fête.
With a smile and a lifting of his hat, Little passed on in the direction of Barton Bridge.
Just as Lady Knob-Kerrick was preparing to descend from her carriage, a girl with a flushed face darted round the canvas screen that had been erected inside the gate. A moment after a man followed, coatless, hatless, and flushed. He caught her, lifted her in his arms and carried her back laughing and screaming. Neither had seen the carriage or its occupants. Tool, the coachman, looked only as a well-trained man-servant can look, wooden; but Thomas grinned, and was withered by his mistress's eye.
The man who had pursued and caught the girl was Mr. Marsh, the people's churchwarden, a widower with grown-up daughters.
With an air of stern determination, Lady Knob-Kerrick descended from her carriage and marched boldly round the screen. Never had she beheld such a scene. She did not faint, she did not cry out, she grimly stood and watched.
Bindle had relinquished his refreshment-stall to assume the direction of the revels. All seemed to look to him for inspiration. The dingy cricket cap was to be seen bobbing about everywhere, his grin of enjoyment was all-embracing. He it was who set the Morris dancers going and picked them up when they fell. He it was who explained to Miss Slocum, who hitherto had refreshed herself with tea, that their inability to keep an upright position was due to the heat.
"It's the 'eat, miss, 'as a wonderful effect. Look at 'er now." He indicated to Miss Slocum's horror-stricken gaze the form of Miss McFie, who was sitting on the ground, hat awry, singing quietly to herself.
It was Bindle, too, who fetched for Miss Slocum a glass of lemonade, after which she seemed to see more with the others.
The maypole dance was in full progress when Lady Knob-Kerrick entered the meadow. Youths and girls, men and women staggered unsteadily round the gaily decorated scaffold-pole that had been lent by Mr. Ash, the builder. Lady Knob-Kerrick distinguished many of her tenants among the fringe of stumbling humanity, and two of her own domestics.
The principal object of the men dancers seemed to be to kiss each girl as she passed, and that of the girls to appear to try to avoid the caress without actually doing so. The dance ended prematurely, there being none of the dancers any longer capable of preserving an upright position.
A little to the right of the maypole Lady Knob-Kerrick beheld the Rev. Andrew McFie, who was endeavouring to give a representation of his native sword-dance to an enthusiastic group of admirers. On his head was a pink sunbonnet, round his waist, to represent a kilt, was tied a girl's jacket. His trousers were tucked up above the knee. On the ground sat a girl producing, by the simple process of holding her nose and tapping her throat, strange piercing noises intended to represent the bagpipes.
In another part of the meadow Mr. Grint, the chapel butcher, and an elder of irreproachable respectability, was endeavouring to instruct a number of girls in the intricacies of a quadrille, which, as he informed them, he had once seen danced in Paris. It was this exhibition of shameless abandon that decided Lady Knob-Kerrick upon immediate action.
"Strint," she called, looking about for her companion, "Strint." But Miss Strint was at that moment the centre of a circle of laughing, shouting, and shrieking men and women, hesitating in her choice of the man she should kiss.
"Thomas!"
"Yes, m'lady," replied Thomas, his eyes fixed intently upon a group of youths and girls who were performing a species of exalted barn dance.
"Fetch Saunders and Smith; tell them to fix the fire-hose to the hydrant nearest the meadow, and connect as many lengths as are necessary to reach where I am standing. Quick!"
The last word was uttered in a tone that caused Thomas to wrench his eyes away from the dancers as if he had been caught in the act of some impropriety.
"Yes, m'lady," and he reluctantly left the scene of festivity, full of envy and self-pity.
As Thomas disappeared round one side of the canvas screen, Dr. Little bustled round the other. He had been detained by an important patient who lived ten miles away. When his eyes beheld the scene before him, he stopped as if he had been shot. He looked about in a dazed fashion. Then he closed his eyes and looked again. Finally he saw Lady Knob-Kerrick, and hurried across to her.
"Dear me, dear me!" he fussed. "Whatever does this mean? Is everybody mad?"
"Either that or intoxicated, doctor. I'm not a medical man. I've sent for my fire-hose." There was a note of grim malevolence in Lady Knob-Kerrick's voice.
"Your fire-hose? I—I don't understand!" The doctor removed his panama and mopped his forehead with a large handkerchief.
"You will when it comes," was the reply.
"Dear me, dear me!" broke out the alarmed doctor; "but surely you're not——"
"I am," interrupted Lady Knob-Kerrick. "I most certainly am. It's my meadow."
"Dear me! I must enquire into this. Dear me!" And the doctor trotted off in the direction of the maypole. The first object he encountered was the prostrate form of the vicar, who lay under the shadow of a refreshment-stall, breathing heavily. The doctor shook him.
"Slocum," he called. "Slocum!"
"Goo' fellow tha'," was the mumbled response. "Make him my curate. Go 'way."
"Good God!" ejaculated the doctor. "He's drunk. They're all drunk. What a scandal."
He sat down beside the vicar, trying to think. He was stunned. Eventually he was aroused from his torpor of despair by a carelessly flung cokernut hitting him sharply on the elbow. He looked round quickly to admonish the culprit. At that moment he caught sight of the Rev. Andrew McFie arm-in-arm with Mr. Wace, the vicar's churchwarden, singing at the top of their voices, "Who's your Lady Friend?" Mr. McFie's contribution was limited to a vigorous but tuneless drone. He was obviously unacquainted with either the melody or the words, but was anxious to be convivial. He also threw in a rather unsteady sort of dance. Mr. Wace himself seemed to know only about two lines of the song, and even in this there were gaps.
"Shisssssssssssh!" The two roysterers were on their backs gasping and choking beneath a deluge of water. Lady Knob-Kerrick's hose had arrived, and in the steady hands of Saunders, the head-gardener, seemed likely to bring the Temperance Fête to a dramatic conclusion.
"A water-spout!" mumbled Mr. Wace vacuously.
"Water spout!" cried Mr. McFie. "It's that red-headed carlin wi' the hose."
With a yell of rage he sprang to his feet and dashed at Saunders. Lady Knob-Kerrick screamed, Dr. Little uttered a plaintive "Dear me!" Saunders stood as if petrified, clinging irresolutely to the hose. He was a big man and strong, but the terrifying sight of the minister bearing down upon him with murder in his eyes clearly unnerved him. Releasing his hold of the hose he incontinently bolted. For a moment the force of the water caused the hose to rear its head like a snake preparing to strike, then after a moment's hesitation it gracefully descended, and discharged its stream full in the chest of Dr. Little, who sat down upon the grass with a sob of surprise.
McFie's yell had attracted to him an ever-enlarging crowd.
"Turned the hose on me," he explained thickly. "Me, Andrew McFie of Auchinlech." Suddenly catching sight of the retreating form of Lady Knob-Kerrick, he yelled, "It's all her doin', the old sinner."
With a whoop he sprang after Lady Knob-Kerrick, who at that moment was disappearing round the canvas screen seeking her carriage. The crowd followed, and some bethought themselves of the hose.
Lady Knob-Kerrick was just in the act of getting into her carriage when the jet of water from the hose took her in the small of the back and literally washed her into her seat as, a moment later, it washed her coachman off his. The horses reared and plunged; but McFie and Bindle rushed to their heads. Several men busied themselves with undoing the traces, the frightened animals were freed from the pole, and a cut from the whip, aided by the noise of the crowd, was sufficient to send them clattering down the road.
Hitherto Bindle had been by tacit consent the leading spirit; but now the Rev. Andrew McFie assumed the mantle of authority. Ordering the coachman and footman to take their mistress home, he caused the carriage to be drawn into the meadow and placed across the gateway, thus forming a barricade. This done, he mounted upon the box and harangued the throng.
Cokernuts and the balls used at the shies, together with the Aunt Sally sticks, were collected and piled up near the gate, and every preparation made to hold the meadow against all comers. McFie succeeded in working his hearers into a state of religious frenzy. They danced and sang like mad creatures, ate and drank all that was left of the provisions and lemonade, made bonfires of the stalls and tables; in short, turned Lady Knob-Kerrick's meadow into a very reasonable representation of an inferno.
"There's a-goin' to be trouble over this 'ere little arternoon's doin's," murmured Bindle to himself, as he slipped through a hole in the hedge and made his way towards Barton Bridge, whither he had already been preceded by a number of the more pacific spirits. "The cops 'll be 'ere presently, or I don't know my own mother."
Bindle was right. Lady Knob-Kerrick had telephoned to Ryford, and the police were already on their way in three motor-cars.
At Barton Bridge they were reinforced by the two local constables and later by the men-servants from the Castle. When they arrived at the entrance to the meadow they found McFie leading an extremely out-of-tune rendering of "Onward, Christian Soldiers." Immediately he saw the approaching forces of Mammon, as he called them, he climbed down from his post of vantage and secured the hose.
The police and the retainers from the Castle approached the carriage to remove it and thus gain entrance to the meadow. Led by the red-faced superintendent from Ryford, they presented an imposing array. Allowing them to approach quite close, McFie suddenly gave the signal for the water to be turned on. He had taken the precaution to post men at the hydrant to protect it.
The superintendent's legs flew up into the air as the jet of water caught him beneath the chin. In a few seconds the attacking party had been hosed into a gasping, choking, and struggling heap. Cokernuts, wooden balls, sticks, bits of chairs, glasses and crockery rained upon them.
The forces of Mammon gathered themselves together and retired in disorder. Andrew McFie's blood was up. Victory was at hand. In his excitement he committed the tactical blunder of causing the carriage to be removed, that he might charge the enemy and complete its discomfiture. His followers, however, had too long been accustomed to regard the police with awe, and most of the men, fearful of being recognised, sneaked through holes in the hedges, and made their way home by circuitous routes.
Those who remained, together with a number of girls and women, fought until they were overpowered and captured, and the Barton Bridge Temperance Fête came to an inglorious end.
That same evening, having laden the van with such of the property and tents as had not been utilised for bonfires and missiles, Bindle took his seat on the tail-board, and the van lumbered off in the direction of London.
He proceeded to review the events of the day. What particularly diverted him was the recollection of the way in which horses and vehicles had been mixed up.
When he had returned to the High Street he found there numbers of those who had visited the Fête and were now desirous only of getting home. He helped them to harness their horses, assuring them that the beasts were theirs. If he were asked for a dog-cart he selected the first to hand, and then sought out a horse of suitable size and harnessed it to the vehicle.
If any demur were made, or if identification marks were sought, he hurried the objector off, telling him that he ought to be glad he had got a horse at all.
Bindle was grinning comfortably at the thought of the days it would take to sort out the horses and vehicles, when he saw in the distance a bicycle being ridden by someone obviously in a hurry.
As it came nearer he recognised the rider as Dick Little, who pedalled up beside the van and tendered a sovereign to Bindle.
"No, sir," Bindle remarked, shaking his head. "I'm a bit of a sport myself. Lord! wasn't they drunk!" He chuckled quietly. "That young parson chap, too. No, sir, I been paid in fun."
After a somewhat lengthy discussion carried on in whispers, so that the driver should not hear, Bindle suggested that Dick Little had better come inside the van, as if anyone were to see them it might result in suspicion.
"Yer seem to like a little joke," he added. "I can tell yer about some as won't make yer want to cry."
An hour later, when Dick Little hunched his bicycle from the tail of the van he said:
"Well, come and see me in London; I'm generally in Sunday evenings."
"Right, sir; I will," replied Bindle; "but might I arst, sir, wot it was that made 'em so fidgety?"
"It was pure alcohol mixed with distilled mead," was the reply.
"Well, it done the trick. Good-night, sir. Lord! won't there be some 'eads wantin' 'oldin' in the mornin'," and he laughed joyously as the pantechnicon rumbled noisily Londonwards.
Mrs. Bindle had just returned from evening chapel. On Sundays, especially on Sunday evenings, when there had been time for the cumulative effect of her devotions to manifest itself, Mrs. Bindle was always in a chastened mood. She controlled those gusts of temper which plunged her back into the Doric and precipitated Bindle "into 'ell, dust an' all."
On this particular evening she was almost gentle. The bangs with which she accentuated the placing of each plate and dish upon the table werepianobangs, and Bindle duly noted the circumstance.
With him Sunday was always a day of intellectual freedom. He aired his views more freely on that than on other days.
Having laid the supper, Mrs. Bindle began to remove her bonnet. With a hat-pin in her mouth and her hands stretched behind her head in the act of untying an obstreperous veil that rested like a black line across the bridge of her nose, she remarked, in that casual tone which with her betokened an item of great interest and importance:
"Mr. Hearty prayed for you to-night, Bindle."
Bindle sat up in his chair as if he had been shot.
"'Earty wot?" he interrogated, with unaccustomed anger in his voice, and an unwonted flash in his eye. "'Earty wot?"
"He prayed for you," replied Mrs. Bindle in what was for her a hushed voice; "a beautiful prayer about a brother who had fallen by the wayside, a wheat-ear among thorns."
"'Eprayed forme—'im?"
Bindle removed his pipe from his mouth, and gripping the bowl between thumb and finger, pointed what remained of the stem at Mrs. Bindle, as she stuck a hat-pin through her bonnet and placed it on the dresser.
"'Eprayed forme?" The words came with such deliberation and intensity that Mrs. Bindle glanced round sharply.
"Yes!" she snapped, "an' you want it. You're nothin' but an 'eathen." Mrs. Bindle was forgetting her careful articulation.
"A brother fallen by the roadside——"
"Wayside," corrected Mrs. Bindle, as she banged a loaf on the table.
"A brother 'oo 'as fallen by the wayside, a wheat-ear among thorns," murmured Bindle as if to himself. Suddenly he grinned; the humour of the thing seemed to strike him. "Prayed for in church—leastwise chapel—jest like the Royal Family an' rain. You're comin' on, Joe Bindle," he chuckled.
"Seems to amuse you," remarked Mrs. Bindle as she took her place at the table.
"Yer've 'it it," replied Bindle, as he skilfully opened the tin of salmon. "Yer've just 'it it. Alfred 'Earty was sent to annoy 'eaven with 'is 'ymns and tickle up Joe Bindle with 'is prayers."
"If you was more like what he is, you'd be a better man."
"'Earty is as 'Earty does," flashed Bindle with a grin. Then after a pause to enable him to reduce a particularly large mouthful of bread and salmon to conversational proportions, he continued:
"If I 'ad the runnin' of this 'ere world, there'd be some rather big alterations, with a sort of 'end o' the season' sale, an' there'd be some pretty cheap lines in parsons an' greengrocers, not to speak of chapel-goers."
"I'm surprised at you, Bindle, talking such blasphemies in a Christian 'ome. Unless you stop I'll go out."
"Not while there's any salmon left, Mrs. B.," remarked Bindle oracularly.
"You're a bad man. I done my best, I'm sure——"
"You 'ave; if yer'd done yer second best or yer third best, Joe Bindle might 'a been a better man than wot 'e is." Bindle dug a morsel of salmon out of the tin with the point of his knife. "I been too well brought up, that's wot's the matter wi' me."
"You're always scoffin' and sneerin' at me an' the chapel," responded Mrs. Bindle tartly. "It don't hurt me, whatever you may think."
"There you're wrong, me blossom." Bindle was in high spirits. His mind had been busily at work, and he saw a way of "bein' a bloomin' thorn in 'Earty's wheat-ear 'ole."
"I ain't a scoffer; it's just that I don't understan' 'ow a thing wot was meant to make people 'appy, seems to make 'em about as joyful as a winkle wot feels the pin."
"Winkles are boiled first," retorted the literal Mrs. Bindle, wiping round her plate with a piece of bread; "an' bein' dead don't feel pins. I wouldn't eat them if it hurt. Besides, winkles haven't anythin' to do with religion."
"That's wot makes 'em so tasty," retorted Bindle. "You an' 'Earty 'ave sort o' spoiled me appetite for religion; but winkles still 'old me." After a short silence he continued, "I never see a religious cove yet wot I 'ad any likin' for, leastwise, wot said 'e was religious. It's a funny thing, but as soon as people become good they seems to get about as comfortable to live with as an 'edge'og in bed.
"Funny thing, religion," Bindle continued. "There was one cove I know'd 'oo spent 'is time in 'avin' D.T.'s and gettin' saved, about 'alf an' 'alf, with a slight leanin' to D.T.'s. We called 'im Suds an' Salvation, 'suds' bein' 'is name for beer.
"Look at 'Earty, now. 'E's always talkin' of 'eaven, but 'e ain't in no 'urry to get there. 'E's as nippy as a cat if 'e 'ears a motor 'ooter when 'e's crossin' the road; and 'e 'ustles like 'ell to get inside of a bus when it's rainin'."
"His life is not 'is own, and he's waitin' his call."
Bindle looked up with a laugh.
"'Ow'll 'e know it's for 'im an' not next door?" he asked.
"I won't listen to your evil talk," announced Mrs. Bindle, half rising from her chair, and then resuming her seat again as if thinking better of her determination.
"When," continued Bindle imperturbably, "I 'ears of a place where the beer's better an' cheaper than wot I gets 'ere, orf I goes like a bunny after a lettuce. Now you an' 'Earty knows that in 'eaven 'appiness is better an' cheaper than wot it is 'ere, yet yer does all yer can to keep away from it; and they're all the same. That's wot does me."
"If you wasn't such an 'eathen you'd understand," stormed Mrs. Bindle, "and my life would be 'appier. You won't go to chapel, an' you won't 'ave a bath, and——"
"I don't 'old with all this talk o' washin'. It ain't natural," broke in Bindle cheerfully. "Look at the ladies. Wot do they do? When they gets sort o' soiled, do they wash? Not a bit of it; they shoves on another coat of powder to cover it up. I seen 'em doin' it."
"Scarlet women!" Mrs. Bindle's jaws snapped loudly.
"Yes, an' pink an' white 'uns too. I seen all sorts doin' it—which reminds me of 'ow ole Snooker lorst 'is job. 'E wos sent round by 'is guv'nor to a lady with an estimate for white-washin' and paper-'angin'. When she saw the price she gives a sort of screech o' surprise.
"'This is very expensive,' she says. 'It didn't cost little more than 'alf this last time.'
"'It's the right price, mum,' says Snooker. 'I been through it myself,' 'e says.
"'But I don't understand,' says she.
"'Well, mum,' says Snooker, 'there's the ceilin's to be washed off,' 'e says, 'an' the old paper to be stripped off the walls,' 'e says, 'and it all takes time.'
"'But is that necessary?' says the lady.
"'Well, mum,' says Snooker, quiet like, 'yer wouldn't put clean stockin's on dirty legs, would yer?' says 'e.
"She was as angry as an 'en, and wrote in that Snooker 'ad been sayin' disgustin' things, 'im wot blows a cornet in the Salvation Band o' Sundays. Why, 'e ain't got enough wind left on week-days to be disgustin' with. Any'ow 'e lorst 'is job, and the lady went to someone else as didn't talk about legs."
"Y' ought to be ashamed of yourself, Joseph Bindle, telling me such lewd tales."
"'Lewd!' Wot's that?" queried Bindle.
"An abomination in the sight of the Lord," replied Mrs. Bindle sententiously. "Your talk ain't fit for a woman to listen to. Last time we was at Mr. Hearty's you was speakin' of babies in front of Millie. I went hot all over."
"Is babies lewd then?" enquired Bindle innocently.
"They're born in sin."
"Oh, Lord!" grinned Bindle, "I'm always doin' it. Fancy babies bein' as bad as that."
"You shouldn't speak about them before a young girl like Millie."
"Babies is funny things," remarked Bindle, replacing his empty glass on the table, and wiping his mouth with the back of his disengaged hand. "Babies is funny things. If yer want one it never seems to come; but if yer don't want 'em it rains babies, an' 'fore yer know it you've got a dose or two o' triplets at three pound a bunch from the King. There wos 'Arry Brown; 'e wanted a kid, and 'e 'ated kittens. Yet 'is missis never 'ad a baby, though the cat was always 'avin' kittens, which shows as there wasn't anythink wrong wi' the 'ouse."
"I'm goin' to bed," announced Mrs. Bindle, as she rose. "Your talk ain't fit for decent ears to listen to. If it wasn't the Sabbath I'd tell you wot I think of you."
"I'm goin' out," announced Bindle with decision.
"At this time? You ain't goin' round to Mr. Hearty's?" There was a note of anxiety in Mrs. Bindle's voice. "It's past nine o'clock."
"I ain't decided whether I'll punch 'Earty's 'ead or go an' get drunk. I'm sick of all this 'umbug."
Whilst speaking, Bindle had seized his coat and cap, and made for the door. The utterance of the last word synchronised with the banging of the door itself.
Bindle walked to the Fulham Road, where he boarded an east-bound bus. At Beaufort Street he alighted, and a few minutes later was ringing the bell at 550 Beaufort Mansions, the address given to him by Dick Little. The door was opened by Little himself.
"Why, it's Aristophanes," he said with obvious pleasure.
"No, sir, Joe Bindle."
"Come in, man, whoever you are. Come in, you're just the man we want," said Dick Little heartily.
At that moment there was a gust of laughter from an adjoining room.
"I'm afraid you got friends, sir," said Bindle, hesitating on the mat. "I'll call round another night, sir. Shouldn't like to interrupt you."
"Rot! Come in," Little replied, dragging Bindle towards the room from whence the laughter came. Through the door he cried out:
"Shut up that damned row. Here's Bindle, the immortal Bindle."
The momentary hush that Little's command had produced was followed by yells of delight which crystallised into, "For he's a Jolly Good Fellow!"
Bindle stood at the door listening in amazement; then with a grin remarked to Little:
"Seem to know me, sir; seem sort o' fond of me."
"Know you, Bindle, my boy? There's not a fellow in Tim's that doesn't know and love you. A toast, you fellows," he cried.
Little seized a glass half-full of whisky-and-soda. "A toast," he cried, "to Bindle the Incomparable, rival of Aristophanes as a maker of mirth."
Cries of "Bindle! Bindle!" echoed from all parts of the smoke-dimmed room, and again there broke out what Dick Little called "the National Anthem of Good Fellowship," followed by calls for a speech.
Before he knew it Bindle was hoisted upon the table, where he stood gazing down upon some eight or ten flushed faces.
"Gentlemen, chair, please." Little rapped a glass on the table. Silence ensued. "Now, Aristophanes," to Bindle.
"Bindle, sir, plain Joe Bindle,ifyou please." Then turning to the expectant faces round him Bindle began his first speech.
"Gentlemen—leastways, I 'ope so. You all seem to know me, and likewise to be very fond o' me; well, p'r'aps I might become fond o' you if I don't get to know too much about yer 'abits. I'm sorry to break up this 'ere prayer-meetin', but I come to 'ave a word with Mr. Little." (Cries of "Have it with us.") "Very well, then," continued Bindle. "I got a brother-in-law, 'Earty by name." (There were cries of "Good old Hearty!") "Seem to know 'im too. P'r'aps yer sings in the choir at 'is chapel. Any'ow, 'Earty's been prayin' for me to-night at 'is chapel, an' I come to arst Mr. Little wot I'd better do."
Bindle's announcement caused a sensation and something of an uproar. His voice was drowned in cries of "Shame!"
"Just a moment, gentlemen, and I've done. 'E called me 'a brother fallen by the wayside, a wheat-ear among thorns.'"
Yells of laughter followed this announcement, and Bindle was pulled down and drink forced upon him. Soon he was sitting in the most comfortable armchair in the room, smoking a colossal cigar, with a large kitchen jug full of beer at his elbow. He saw before him nearly a dozen of the most riotous spirits in London listening with eager interest to his stories and opinions, which they punctuated with gusts of laughter. The night was far advanced when at length he rose to go.
"Well, gentlemen," he said, "I never thought that doctors was such sports. Now I understand why it is that the ladies is always gettin' ill. S' long, and thanks for this friendly little evenin'. If I've talked too much you jest come and 'ear Mrs. Bindle one evenin' and yer'll be glad it's me and not 'er."
As Dick Little showed him out Bindle enquired:
"'Ow am I to get 'ome on that psalm-singin' brother-in-law o' mine?—that's wot I wants to know. Prayin' for me in chapel." Bindle wreaked his disgust on the match he was striking.
"I'll think it over," said Little, "and let you know. Good-night, and thanks for coming. We shall always be glad to see you any Sunday night."
"Different from 'Earty's Sunday nights," muttered Bindle, as he walked away. "I wonder which makes the best men. It's a good job I ain't got anythink to do with 'eaven, or them wheat-ears might sort o' get mixed wi' the thorns."