MRS BINDLE

SOME INCIDENTS FROM THE
DOMESTIC LIFE OF THE BINDLES

WHAT THIS BOOK IS ABOUT

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

MRS
BINDLE

SOME INCIDENTS FROM THE
DOMESTIC LIFE OF THE BINDLES

BY
HERBERT
JENKINS

HERBERT JENKINS LIMITED
YORK STREET ST. JAMES’S S.W.1.

Ninth printing, completing 104,643 copies

MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
PURNELL AND SONS, PAULTON (SOMERSET) AND LONDON

TO
ARTHUR
COMPTON
RICKETT
M.A., LL.D.

CONTENTS

[Pg 9]

MRS BINDLE

CHAPTER I

MRS. BINDLE’S LOCK-OUT

I

“Well! What’s the matter now? Lorst
your job?”

With one hand resting upon the edge
of the pail beside which she was kneeling, Mrs. Bindle
looked up, challenge in her eyes. Bindle’s unexpected
appearance while she was washing the kitchen oilcloth
filled her with foreboding.

“There’s a strike on at the yard,” he replied in a
tone which, in spite of his endeavour to render it casual,
sounded like a confession of guilt. He knew Mrs.
Bindle; he knew also her views on strikes.

“A what?” she cried, rising to her feet and wiping
her hands upon the coarse canvas apron that covered
the skirt carefully festooned about her hips. “A
what?”

“A strike,” repeated Bindle. “They give Walter
‘Odson the sack, so we all come out.”[Pg 10]

“Oh! you have, have you?” she cried, her thin lips
disappearing ominously. “And when are you going
back, I’d like to know?” She regarded him with an
eye that he knew meant war.

“Can’t say,” he replied, as he proceeded to fill his
pipe from a tin tobacco-box. “Depends on the
Union,” he added.

“The Union!” she cried with rising wrath. “I
wish I had them here. I’d give them Union, throwing
men out of work, with food the price it is. What’s
going to ‘appen to us? Can you tell me that?” she
demanded, her diction becoming a little frayed at the
edges, owing to the intensity of her feelings.

Bindle remained silent. He realised that he was
faced by a crisis.

“Nice thing you coming ‘ome at eleven o’clock in
the morning calmly saying you’ve struck,” she continued
angrily. “You’re a lazy, good-for-nothing set
of loafers, the whole lot of you, that’s what you are.
When you’re tired of work and want a ‘oliday you
strike, and spend your time in public-‘ouses, betting
and drinking and swearing, and us women slaving
morning, noon and night to keep you. Suppose I was
to strike, what then?”

She undid her canvas apron, and with short, jerky
movements proceeded to fold and place it in the
dresser-drawer. She then let down the festoons into
which her skirt had been gathered about her inconspicuous
hips.

Mrs. Bindle was a sharp, hatchet-faced woman, with
eyes too closely set together to satisfy an artist.[Pg 11]

The narrowness of her head was emphasised by
the way in which her thin, sandy hair was drawn
behind each ear and screwed tightly into a knot at
the back.

Her lips were thin and slightly marked, and when she
was annoyed they had a tendency to disappear altogether.

“How are we going to live?” she demanded.
“Answer me that! You and your strikes!”

Bindle struck a match and became absorbed in
lighting his pipe.

“What are you going to do for food?” She was
not to be denied.

“We’re a-goin’ to get strike pay,” he countered,
seizing the opening.

“Strike pay!” she cried scornfully. “A fat lot of
good that’ll do. A pound a week, I suppose, and you
eating like a—like a——” she paused for a satisfactory
simile. “Eating me out of ‘ouse and ‘ome,” she
amended. “‘Strike pay!’ I’d give ’em strike pay if
I had my way.”

“It’ll ‘elp,” suggested Bindle.

“Help! Yes, it’ll help you to find out how hungry
you can get,” she retorted grimly. “I’d like to have
that man Smillie here, I’d give him a bit of my
mind.”

“But ‘e ain’t done it,” protested Bindle, a sense
of fair play prompting him to defend the absent
leader. “‘E’s a miner. We don’t belong to ‘is
Union.”

“They’re all tarred with the same brush,” cried[Pg 12]
Mrs. Bindle, “a good-for-nothing, lazy lot. They
turn you round their little fingers, and then laugh
at you up their sleeves. I know them,” she added
darkly.

Bindle edged towards the door. He had not been in
favour of the strike; now it was even less popular with
him.

“I suppose you’re going round to your low public-house,
to drink and smoke and tell each other how
clever you’ve been,” she continued. “Then you’ll
come back expecting to find your dinner ready to put in
your mouth.”

Mrs. Bindle’s words were prophetic. Bindle was
going round to The Yellow Ostrich to meet his mates,
and discuss the latest strike-news.

“You wouldn’t ‘ave me a blackleg, Lizzie, would
you?” he asked.

“Don’t talk to me about such things,” she retorted.
“I’m a hardworking woman, I am, inchin’ and pinchin’
to keep the home respectable, while you and your low
companions refuse to work. I wish I had them all
here, I’d give them strikes.” Her voice shook with
suppressed passion.

Realising that the fates were against him, Bindle
beat a gloomy retreat, and turned his steps in the
direction of The Yellow Ostrich.

At one o’clock he returned to Fenton Street, a little
doubtful; but very hungry.

He closed the gate quietly, Mrs. Bindle hated the
banging of gates. Suddenly he caught sight of a piece
of white paper pinned to the front door. A moment[Pg 13]
later he was reading the dumbfounding announcement:

“I have struck too.

“E. Bindle.“

The words, which were written on the back of a coal-merchant’s
advertisement, seemed to dance before his
eyes.

He was conscious that at the front window on either
side a face was watching him intently. In Fenton
Street drama was the common property of all.

With a puzzled expression in his eyes, Bindle stood
staring at the piece of paper and its ominous message,
his right hand scratching his head through the blue and
white cricket cap he habitually wore.

“Well, I’m blowed,” he muttered, as Mrs. Grimps,
who lived at No. 5, came to her door and stood regarding
him not unsympathetically.

At the sight of her neighbour, Mrs. Sawney, who
occupied No. 9, also appeared, her hands rolled up in
her apron and her arms steaming. She had been
engaged in the scullery when “‘Arriet,” who had been
set to watch events, rushed in from the front room with
the news that Mr. Bindle was coming.

“Serves you right, it does,” said Mrs. Sawney.
“You men,” she added, as if to remove from her words
any suggestion that they were intended as personal.
Bindle was very popular with his neighbours.

“Strikes you does, when you ain’t feeling like work,”
chorused Mrs. Grimps, “I know you.”[Pg 14]

Bindle looked from one to the other. For once he
felt there was nothing to say.

“Then there’s the kids,” said a slatternly-looking
woman with a hard mouth and dusty hair, who had
just drifted up from two doors away. “A lot you
cares. It’s us wot ‘as to suffer.”

There was a murmur from the other women, who had
been reinforced by two neighbours from the opposite
side of the street.

“She ‘as my sympathy,” said Mrs. Sawney,
“although I can’t say I likes ‘er as a friend.”

During these remarks, Bindle had been searching
for his latch-key, which he now drew forth and inserted
in the lock; but, although the latch responded, the door
did not give. It was bolted on the inside.

“Well, I’m blowed!” he muttered again, too surprised
at this new phase of the situation to be more
than dimly conscious of the remarks of those about
him.

“My sister’s man struck three months ago,” said one
of the new arrivals, “and ‘er expectin’ ‘er fifth. Crool
I calls it. They ought to ‘ave ’em theirselves is wot I
say. That’ud learn ’em to strike.”

A murmur of approval broke from the others at this
enigmatical utterance.

“It’s all very well for them,” cried Mrs. Sawney;
“but it’s us wot ‘as to suffer, us and the pore kids,
bless ’em. ‘Arriet, you let me catch you swingin’
on that gate again, my beauty, and I’ll skin
you.”

The last remark was directed at the little girl, who[Pg 15]
had seized the moment of her mother’s pre-occupation
to indulge herself in an illicit joy.

Without a word, Bindle turned and walked down
the flagged path to the gate, and along Fenton Street
in the direction of The Yellow Ostrich, leaving behind
him a group of interested women, who would find in
his tragedy material for a week’s gossip.

His customary cheeriness had forsaken him. He
realised that he was faced by a domestic crisis that
frankly puzzled him—and he was hungry.

As he pushed open the hospitable swing-door of The
Yellow Ostrich, he was greeted by a new and even more
bewildering phase of the situation.

“‘Ere, Bindle,” cried an angry voice, “wot the
blinkin’ ‘ell’s your missis up to?”

“You may search me,” was Bindle’s lugubrious
reply, as he moved across to the bar and ordered a pint
of beer, some bread, and “a bit o’ the cheese wot
works the lift.”

“You was agin us chaps striking,” continued the
speaker who had greeted Bindle on his entrance, a
man with a criminal forehead, a loose mouth, and a
dirty neck-cloth.

“Wot’s your complaint, mate?” enquired Bindle
indifferently, as he lifted his pewter from the counter,
and took a pull that half emptied it of its contents.

“Wot’s your ruddy missis been up to?” demanded
the man aggressively.

“Look ‘ere, ‘Enery, ole sport,” said Bindle quietly,
as he wiped his lips with the back of his hand, “you
ain’t pretty, an’ you ain’t good; but try an’ keep[Pg 16]
yer mouth clean when you speaks of Mrs. B. See?”

A murmur of approval rose from the other men,
with whom Bindle was popular and Henry Gilkes was
not.

“Wot’s she mean a-goin’ round to my missis an’
gettin’ ‘er to bolt me out?”

“Bolt you out!” cried Bindle, with a puzzled
expression. “Wotjer talkin’ about?”

“When I goes ‘ome to dinner,” was the angry retort,
“there’s a ticket on the blinkin’ door sayin’ my missis
‘as struck. I’ll strike ‘er!” he added malevolently.
“The lady next door tells me that it’s your missis wot
done it.”

For a moment Bindle gazed at his fellow-sufferer,
then he smacked his thigh with the air of a man who
has just seen a great joke, which for some time has
evaded him.

“‘Enery,” he grinned, “she’s done it to me too.”

“Done wot?” enquired Henry, who, as a Father of
the Chapel, felt he was a man of some importance.

“Locked me out, back and front,” explained Bindle,
enjoying his mate’s bewilderment. “Wot about the
solidarity of labour now, ole sport?” he enquired.

Henry Gilkes had one topic of conversation—”the
solidarity of labour.” Those who worked with him
found it wearisome listening to his views on the bloated
capitalist, and how he was to be overcome. They
preferred discussing their own betting ventures, and the
prospects of the Chelsea and Fulham football teams.

“Done it to you!” repeated Gilkes dully. “Wot
she done?”[Pg 17]

“I jest nipped round to get a bit o’ dinner,” explained
Bindle, “and there was both doors bolted, an’ a note
a-sayin’ that Mrs. B. ‘ad struck. Personally, myself,
I calls it a lock-out,” he added with a grin.

Several of his hearers began to manifest signs of
uneasiness. They had not been home since early
morning.

“I’ll break ‘er stutterin’ jaw if my missis locks
me out,” growled a heavily-bearded man, known as
“Ruddy Bill” on account of the intensity of his
language.

“Jest the sort o’ thing you would do,” said Bindle
genially. “You got a sweet nature, Bill, in spite of
them whiskers.”

Ruddy Bill growled something in his beard, while
several of the other men drained their pewters and
slipped out, intent on discovering whether or no their
own domestic bliss were threatened by this new and
unexpected danger.

From then on, the public bar of The Yellow Ostrich
hummed with angry talk and threats of what would
happen if the lords, who there gloried and drank deep,
should return to their hearths and find manifestations
of rebellion.

Two of the men, who had gone to investigate the
state of their own domestic barometers, were back in
half an hour with the news that they too had been
locked out from home and beauty.

About three o’clock, Ruddy Bill returned, streams
of profanity flowing from his lips. Finding himself
bolted out, he had broken open the door; but no[Pg 18]
one was there. Now he was faced with a threat of
ejectment from the landlord, who had heard of the
wilful damage to his property, plus the cost of a new
door.

Several times that afternoon the landlord of The
Yellow Ostrich, himself regarded as an epicure in
the matter of “language,” found it necessary to
utter the stereotyped phrase, “Now gents, if you
please,” which, with him, meant that the talk was
becoming unfit for the fo’c’sle of a tramp steamer.

II

Left to herself by the departure of Bindle for The
Yellow Ostrich, Mrs. Bindle had, for some time, stood
by the dresser deep in thought. She had then wrung-out
the house-flannel, emptied the pail, placed them
under the sink and once more returned to the dresser.
Five minutes’ meditation was followed by swift
action.

First she took her bonnet from the dresser-drawer,
then unhooking a dark brown mackintosh from behind
the door, she proceeded to make her outdoor
toilet in front of the looking-glass on the mantelpiece.

She then sought out ink-bottle and pen, and wrote
her defiance with an ink-eaten nib. This accomplished,
she bolted the front-door on the inside, first attaching
her strike-notice. Leaving the house by the door[Pg 19]
giving access to the scullery, she locked it, taking the
key with her.

Her face was grim and her walk was determined,
as she made her way to the yard at which Bindle was
employed. There she demanded to see the manager
and, after some difficulty, was admitted.

She began by reproaching him and ordering him
to stop the strike. When, however, he had explained
that the strike was entirely due to the action of the
men, she ended by telling him of her own drastic
action, and her determination to continue her strike
until the men went back.

The manager surprised her by leaning back in his
chair and laughing uproariously.

“Mrs. Bindle,” he cried at length, as he wiped the
tears from his eyes, “you’re a genius; but I’m sorry
for Bindle. Now, do you want to end the strike in a
few hours?”

Mrs. Bindle looked at him suspiciously; but,
conscious of the very obvious admiration with which
he regarded her act, she relented sufficiently to listen
to what he had to say.

Ten minutes later she left the office with a list of
the names and addresses of the strikers, including that
of the branch organising secretary of the Union.
She had decided upon a counter-offensive.

Her first call was upon Mrs. Gilkes, a quiet little
woman who had been subdued to meekness by the
“solidarity of labour.” Here she had to admit
failure.

“I know what you mean, my dear,” said Mrs.[Pg 20]
Gilkes; “but you see, Mr. Gilkes wouldn’t like it.”
There was a tremor of fear in her voice.

“Wouldn’t like it!” echoed Mrs. Bindle. “Of
course he wouldn’t like it. Bindle won’t like it when he
knows,” her jaws met grimly and her lips disappeared.
“You’re afraid,” she added accusingly.

“That’s it, my dear, I am,” was the disconcerting
reply. “I never ‘ad no ‘eart for a fight, that’s why
Mr. Gilkes ‘as come it over me like ‘e ‘as. My sister,
Mary, was sayin’ only last Toosday—no it wasn’t, it
was We’n’sday, I remember because it was the day
we ‘ad sausages wot Mr. Gilkes said wasn’t fresh.
‘Amelia,’ she says, ‘you ain’t got the ‘eart of a rabbit,
or else you wouldn’t stand wot you do,'” and, looking
up into Mrs. Bindle’s face, she added, “It’s true,
Mrs. Gimble, although I didn’t own it to Mary, ‘er
bein’ my sister an’ so uppish in ‘er ways.”

“Well, you’ll be sorry,” was Mrs. Bindle’s comment,
as she turned towards the door. “I’ll be no
man’s slave.”

“You see, I ‘aven’t the ‘eart, Mrs. Gimber.”

“Bindle!” snapped Mrs. Bindle over her shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Spindle, my mistake.”

Mrs. Bindle stalked along the passage, through the
front door and out of the gate, leaving Mrs. Gilkes
murmuring deprecatingly that she “‘adn’t no ‘eart for
a fight.”

Although she would not own it, Mrs. Bindle was
discouraged by the failure of her first attempt at
strike-breaking. But for her good-fortune in encountering
Mrs. Hopton at her second venture,[Pg 21]
she might even have relinquished the part of
Lysistrata and have returned home to prepare
Bindle’s dinner.

It was with something like misgiving that she
knocked at No. 32 Wessels Street. This feeling was
accentuated when the door was opened with great
suddenness by an enormously big woman with a
square chin, fighting eyes, and very little hair.

With arms akimbo, one elbow touching either side
of the passage, as if imbued with the sentiments of
Horatius Cocles, Mrs. Hopton stood with tightly-shut
mouth regarding her caller. As soon as Mrs.
Bindle had made her mission known, however, Mrs.
Hopton’s manner underwent an entire change. Her
hands dropped from her hips, her fixed expression
relaxed, and she stood invitingly aside.

“I’m your woman,” she cried. “You come in,
Mrs.——”

“Bindle!” prompted Mrs. Bindle.

“You come in, Mrs. Bindle, you got the woman
you want in Martha ‘Opton. Us women ‘ave stood
this sort of thing long enough. I’ve always said so.”

She led the way into an airless little parlour, in
which a case of wax-fruit, a dusty stuffed dog and a
clothes-horse hung with the familiarities of Mrs.
Hopton’s laundry, first struck the eye.

“I’ve always said,” continued Mrs. Hopton, “that
us women was too meek and mild by half in the way
we takes things. My man’s a fool,” she added with
conviction. “‘E’s that easily led by them arbitrators,
that’s wot I call ’em, that they makes ‘im do just[Pg 22]
wotever they wants, dirty, lazy set o’ tykes. Never
done a day’s work in their lives, they ‘aven’t, not one
of ’em.”

“That’s what I say,” cried Mrs. Bindle, for once
in her life finding a congenial spirit outside the walls
of the Alton Road Chapel. “I’ve locked up my
house,” she continued, “and put a note on the door
that I’ve struck too.”

The effect of these words upon Mrs. Hopton was
startling. Her head went back like that of a chicken
drinking, her hands rose once more to her hips, and
her huge frame shook and pulsated as if it contained
a high-power motor-engine. Mrs. Bindle gazed at
her with widened eyes.

“Her-her-her!” came in deep, liquid gutturals
from Mrs. Hopton’s lips. “Her-her-her!” Then her
head came down again, and Mrs. Bindle saw that the
grim lips were parted, displaying some very yellow,
unprepossessing teeth. Mrs. Hopton was manifesting
amusement.

Without further comment, Mrs. Hopton left the
room. In her absence, Mrs. Bindle proceeded to
sum-up her character from the evidence that her
home contained. The result was unfavourable. She
had just decided that her hostess was dirty and
untidy, without sense of decency or religion, when Mrs.
Hopton re-entered. In one hand she carried a piece
of paper, in the other a small ink-bottle, out of which
an orange-coloured pen-holder reared its fluted length.

Clearing a space on the untidy table, she bent
down and, with squared elbows and cramped fingers,[Pg 23]
proceeded to scrawl the words: “I have struck too.
M. Hopton.”

Then, straightening herself, she once more threw
back her head, and another stream of “Her-her-her’s”
gushed towards the ceiling.

“Now I’ll come with you,” she said at length.
Without waiting to don cloak or bonnet, she proceeded
to pin the notice on the front door, which she bolted
on the inside. She then left by the scullery door,
locking it, just as Mrs. Bindle had done, and carrying
with her the key.

Although Mrs. Bindle felt that she suffered socially
from being seen with the lumbering, untidy Mrs.
Hopton, she regarded it as a sacrifice to a just cause.
It was not long, however, before she discovered that
she had recruited, not a lieutenant, but a leader.

Seizing the list of names and addresses from her
companion’s hand, Mrs. Hopton glanced at it and turned
in the direction of the street in which lived the timid
Mrs. Gilkes. As they walked, Mrs. Bindle told the
story of Mrs. Gilkes’s cowardice, drawing from the
Amazon-like Mrs. Hopton the significant words “Leave
‘er to me.”

“Now then, none of this,” was her greeting to Mrs.
Gilkes as she opened her front door. “Out you comes
and joins the strike-breakers. None o’ your nonsense
or——” she paused significantly.

Mrs. Gilkes protested her cowardice, she grovelled,
she dragged in her sister, Mary, and the wrathful
Gilkes; but without avail. Almost before she knew
what had happened, she was walking between Mrs.[Pg 24]
Hopton and Mrs. Bindle, the back-door key clasped in
one hand, striving to tie the strings of her bonnet
beneath a chin that was obviously too shallow for the
purpose. In her heart was a great terror; yet she
was conscious of a strange and not unpleasant thrill
at the thought of her own daring. She comforted
herself with Mrs. Hopton’s promise of protection
against her lord’s anger.

The overpowering personality of Mrs. Hopton was
too much for the other wives. The one or two who
made a valiant endeavour to stand out were overwhelmed
by her ponderous ridicule, which bordered
upon intimidation.

“‘Ere, get a pen an’ ink,” she would cry and, before
the reluctant housewife knew what had happened,
she had announced that she too had struck, and Mrs.
Hopton’s army had been swelled by another recruit.

At one house they found the husband about to sit
down to an early dinner. That gave Mrs. Hopton
her chance.

“You lazy, guzzling, good-for-nothing son of a
God-damn loafer!” she shouted, her deep voice throbbing
with passion. “Call yourself a man? Fine
sort of man you are, letting your wife work and slave
while you strike and fill your belly with beef and beer.
I’ve seen better things than you thrown down the sink,
that I ‘ave.”

At the first attack, the man had risen from the
table in bewilderment. As Mrs. Hopton emptied upon
him the vials of her anger, he had slowly retreated
towards the scullery door. She made a sudden move[Pg 25]ment
in his direction; he turned—wrenched open the
door, and fled.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Mrs.——”

“Bolton,” said the neat little woman.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Bolton,” said Mrs. Hopton; “but
we’re going to break this ‘ere strike, me and Mrs.
Bindle and all these other ladies.” She waved her hand
to indicate the army she had already collected.

Then she went on to explain; but Mrs. Bolton was
adamant against all her invitations to join the emancipationists.

“I suppose we got to fight your battle,” Mrs.
Hopton cried, and proceeded to drench her victim
with ridicule; but Mrs. Bolton stood fast, and the
strike-breakers had to acknowledge defeat.

It was Mrs. Bindle’s idea that they should hold a
meeting outside the organising secretary’s house. The
suggestion was acclaimed with enthusiasm.

“Let’s get a tidy few, first,” counselled Mrs. Hopton.
“It’ll make ‘im think ‘arder.”

At the end of an hour, even Mrs. Hopton was satisfied
with the number of her supporters, and she gave
the word for the opening of hostilities.

That afternoon, just as he was rising from an excellent
meal, Mr. James Cunham was surprised to find
that his neatly-kept front-garden was filled with
women, while more women seemed to occupy the
street. Neighbours came out, errand-boys called to
friends, that they might not miss the episode, children
paused on their way to school; all seemed to realise
the dramatic possibilities of the situation.[Pg 26]

Mrs. Hopton played a fugue upon Mr. Cunham’s
knocker, bringing him to the door in person.

“Well, monkey-face,” she boomed. There was a
scream of laughter from her followers.

Mr. Cunham started back as if he had been struck.

“Want to starve us, do you?” continued Mrs.
Hopton.

“What’s all this about?” he enquired, recovering
himself. He was a man accustomed to handling
crowds, even unfriendly crowds; but never had he
encountered anything like the cataract of wrathful
contumely that now poured from Mrs. Hopton’s lips.

“Just ‘ad a good dinner, I suppose,” she cried
scornfully. “Been enjoyin’ it, eh? Cut from the
joint and two vegs, puddin’ to follow, with a glass
of stout to wash it down. That the meenyou, eh?
What does it cost you when our men strike? Do
you ‘ave to keep ‘alf a dozen bellies full on a pound a
week?”

There was a murmur from the women behind her,
a murmur that Mr. Cunham did not like.

“Nice little ‘ouse you got ‘ere,” continued Mrs.
Hopton critically, as she peered into the neat and well-furnished
hall. “All got out o’ strikes,” she added
over her shoulder to her companions. “All got on
the do-nothin’-at-all-easy-purchase-system.”

This time there was no mistaking the menace in the
murmur from the women behind her.

“You’re a beauty, you are,” continued Mrs. Hopton.
“Not much sweat about your lily brow, Mr.
Funny Cunham.”[Pg 27]

Mr. Cunham felt that the time had come for
action.

“What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded.
“Why have you come here, and who are you?”

“Who are we?” cried Mrs. Hopton scornfully.
“He asks who we are,” she threw over her shoulder.

Again there was an angry murmur from the rank
and file.

“We’re the silly fools wot married the men you
brought out on strike,” said Mrs. Hopton, looking the
organising secretary up and down as if he were on
show. “Creases in ‘is trousers, too,” she cried.
“You ain’t ‘alf a swell. Well, we just come to tell
you that the strike’s orf, because we’ve struck. Get
me, Steve?”

“We’ve declared a lock-out,” broke in Mrs. Bindle
with inspiration.

Back went Mrs. Hopton’s head, up went her hands
to her hips, and deep-throated “Her-her-her’s” poured
from her parted lips.

“A lock-out!” she cried. “Her-her-her, a lock-out!
That’s the stuff to give ’em!” and the rank and
file took up the cry and, out of the plenitude of his
experience, Mr. Cunham recognised that the crowd
was hopelessly out of hand.

“Are we down-hearted?” cried a voice, and the
shrieks of “No!” that followed confirmed Mr. Cunham
in his opinion that the situation was not without
its serious aspect.

He was not a coward and he stood his ground, listening
to Mrs. Hopton’s inspiring oratory of denunciation.[Pg 28]
It was three o’clock before he saw his garden again—a
trampled waste; an offering to the Moloch of strikes.

“Damn the woman!” he cried, as, shutting the
door, he returned to the room he used as an office, there
to deliberate upon this new phase of the situation.
“Curse her!”

III

It was nearly half-past ten that night when Bindle
tip-toed up the tiled-path leading to the front door of
No. 7 Fenton Street.

Softly he inserted his key in the lock and turned it;
but the door refused to give. He stepped back to
gaze up at the bedroom window; there was no sign
of a light.

It suddenly struck him that the piece of paper on the
door was not the same in shape as that he had seen
at dinner-time. It was too dark to see if there was
anything written on it. Taking a box of matches
from his pocket, he struck a light, shielding it carefully
so that it should shine only on the paper.

His astonishment at what he read caused him to
forget the lighted match, which burnt his fingers.

“Well, I’m blowed!” he muttered. “If this ain’t
it,” and once more he read the sinister notice:

“You have struck. We women have declared a
lock-out.

“E. Bindle.“

[Pg 29]

After a few minutes’ cogitation, he tip-toed down the
path and round to the back of the house; but the
scullery door was inflexible in its inhospitality.

He next examined the windows. Each was securely
fastened.

“Where’m I goin’ to sleep?” he muttered, as
once more he tip-toed up the path.

After a further long deliberation, he lifted the
knocker, gave three gentle taps—and waited. As
nothing happened, he tried four taps of greater strength.
These, in turn, produced no response. Then he gave
a knock suggestive of a telegraph boy, or a registered
letter. At each fresh effort he stepped back to get a
view of the bedroom window.

He fancied that the postman-cum-telegraph-boy’s
knock had produced a slight fluttering of the curtain.
He followed it up with something that might have been
the police, or a fire.

As he stepped back, the bedroom-window was thrown
up, and Mrs. Bindle’s head appeared.

“What’s the matter?” she cried.

“I can’t get in,” said Bindle.

“I know you can’t,” was the uncompromising
response, “and I don’t mean you shall.”

“But where’m I goin’ to sleep?” he demanded,
anxiety in his voice.

“That’s for you to settle.”

“‘Ere, Lizzie, come down an’ let me in,” he cried,
falling to cajolery.

For answer Mrs. Bindle banged-to the window. He
waited expectantly for the door to be opened.[Pg 30]

At the end of five minutes he realised that Mrs.
Bindle had probably gone back to bed.

“Well, I can’t stay ‘ere all the bloomin’ night, me
with various veins in my legs,” he muttered, conscious
that from several windows interested heads were
thrust.

Fully convinced that Mrs. Bindle was not on her
way down to admit him, he once more fell back upon
the knocker, awakening the echoes of Fenton Street.

At the sound of the window-sash being raised, he
stepped back and looked up eagerly.

“‘Ere, wot the ——!”

Something seemed to flash through the night, and
he received the contents of the ewer full in the
face.

“That’ll teach you to come waking me up at this
time of night,” came the voice of Mrs. Bindle, who, a
moment later, retreated into the room. Bindle, rightly
conjecturing that she had gone for more water, retired
out of reach.

“You soaked me through to the skin,” he cried,
when she re-appeared.

“And serve you right, too, you and your strikes.”

“But ain’t you goin’ to let me in?”

“When the strike’s off the lock-out’ll cease,” was
the oracular retort.

“But I didn’t want to strike,” protested Bindle.

“Then you should have been a man and said so,
instead of letting that little rat make you do everything
he wants, him sitting down to a good dinner every day,
all paid for out of strikes.”[Pg 31]

There were sympathetic murmurs from the surrounding
darkness.

“But——” began Bindle.

“Don’t let me ‘ear anything more of you to-night,
Joe Bindle,” came Mrs. Bindle’s uncompromising
voice, “or next time I’ll throw the jug an’ all at you,”
and with that she banged-to the window in a way
that convinced Bindle it was useless to parley further.

“Catch my death o’ cold,” he grumbled, as he
turned on a reluctant heel in the direction of Fulham
High Street, with the intention of claiming hospitality
from his sister-in-law, Mrs. Hearty. “Wot am I goin’
to do for duds,” he added. “Funny ole bird I should
look in one of ‘Earty’s frock-coats.”

IV

The next morning at nine o’clock, the wives of the
strikers met by arrangement outside the organising
secretary’s house; but the strikers themselves were
before them, and Mr. Cunham found himself faced
with the ugliest situation he had ever encountered.

At the sight of the groups of strikers, the women
raised shrill cries. The men, too, lifted their voices,
not in derision or criticism of their helpmates; but
at the organising secretary.

The previous night the same drama that had been
enacted between Bindle and Mrs. Bindle had taken
place outside the houses of many of the other strikers,[Pg 32]
with the result that they had become “fed up to the
blinkin’ neck with the whole ruddy business.”

“Well!” cried Mrs. Hopton as, at the head of her
legion of Amazons, she reached the first group of men.
“How jer like it?”

The men turned aside, grumbling in their throats.

“Her-her-her!” she laughed. “Boot’s on the
other foot now, my pretty canaries, ain’t it? Nobody
mustn’t do anythink to upset you; but you can do
what you streamin’ well like, you lot o’ silly mugs!

“Wotjer let that little rat-faced sniveller turn you
round ‘is little finger for? You ain’t men, you’re just
Unionists wot ‘ave got to do wot ‘e tells you. I see
‘im yesterday,” she continued after a slight pause,
“‘aving a rare ole guzzle wot you pays for by striking.
‘Ow much does it cost ‘im? That’s wot I want to
know, the rat-faced little stinker!”

At that moment “the rat-faced little stinker” himself
appeared, hat on head and light overcoat thrown
over his arm. He smiled wearily, he was not favourably
impressed by the look of things.

His appearance was the signal for shrill shouts from
the women, and a grumbling murmur from the men.

“‘Ere’s Kayser Cunham,” shouted one woman, and
then individual cries were drowned in the angry murmur
of protest and recrimination.

Mr. Cunham found himself faced by the same men
who, the day before, had greeted his words with cheers.
Now they made it manifest that if he did not find
a way out of the strike difficulty, there would be
trouble.[Pg 33]

“Take that!” roared Mrs. Hopton hoarsely, as she
snatched something from a paper-bag she was carrying,
and hurled it with all her might at the leader. Her
aim was bad, and a small man, standing at right angles
to the Union secretary, received a large and painfully
ripe tomato full on the chin.

Mrs. Hopton’s cry was a signal to the other women.
From beneath cloaks and capes they produced every
conceivable missile, including a number of eggs far
gone towards chickenhood. With more zeal than
accuracy of aim, they hurled them at the unfortunate
Mr. Cunham. For a full minute he stood his ground
valiantly, then, an egg catching him between the eyes
brought swift oblivion.

The strikers, however, did not manifest the courage
of their leader. Although intended for the organising
secretary, most of the missiles found a way into their
ranks. They wavered and, a moment after, turned
and fled.

Approaching nearer, the women concentrated upon
him whom they regarded as responsible for the strike,
and their aim improved. Some of their shots took
effect on his person, but most of them on the front of
the house. Three windows were broken, and it was
not until Mrs. Cunham came and dragged her egg-bespattered
lord into the passage, banging-to the
street door behind her, that the storm began to die
down.

By this time a considerable crowd of interested
spectators had gathered.

“Just shows you what us women can do if we’ve a[Pg 34]
mind to do it,” was the oracular utterance of one woman,
who prided herself upon having been the first arrival
outside the actual combatants.

“She ain’t ‘alf a caution,” remarked a “lady friend,”
who had joined her soon after the outbreak of hostilities.
“That big un,” she added, nodding in the direction
of Mrs. Hopton, who, arms on hips and head thrown
back, was giving vent to her mirth in a series of “her-her-her’s.”

A policeman pushed his way through the crowd
towards the gate. Mrs. Hopton, catching sight of
him, turned.

“You take my advice, my lad, and keep out of
this.”

The policeman looked about him a little uncertainly.

“What’s the matter?” he enquired.

“It’s a strike and a lock-out,” she explained, “an’
they got a bit mixed. We ain’t got no quarrel with a
good-looking young chap like you, an’ we’re on private
premises, so you just jazz along as if you ‘adn’t seen
us.”

A smile fluttered about the lips of the policeman.
The thought of passing Mrs. Hopton without seeing her
amused him; still he took no active part in the proceedings,
beyond an official exhortation to the crowd
to “pass along, please.”

“Well, ladies,” said Mrs. Hopton, addressing her
victorious legions; “it’s all over now, bar shoutin’.
If any o’ your men start a-knockin’ you about, tell
’em we’re a-goin’ to stand together, and just let me[Pg 35]
know. We’ll come round and make ’em wish they’d
been born somethink wot can’t feel.”

That morning the manager at the yard received a
deputation from the men, headed by Mr. Cunham, who,
although he had changed his clothes and taken a hot
bath, was still conscious of the disgusting reek of
rotten eggs. Before dinner-time the whole matter
had been settled, and the men were to resume work at
two o’clock.

Bindle reached home a few minutes to one, hungry
and expectant. The notice had been removed from
the front door, and he found Mrs. Bindle in the kitchen
ironing.

“Well,” she demanded as he entered, “what do
you want?”

“Strike’s orf, Lizzie,” he said genially, an anxious
eye turned to the stove upon which, however, there
were no saucepans. This decided him that his dinner
was in the oven.

“I could have told you that!” was her sole comment,
and she proceeded with her ironing.

For a few minutes Bindle looked about him, then once
more fixed his gaze upon the oven.

“Wot time you goin’ to ‘ave dinner, Lizzie?” he
asked, with all the geniality of a prodigal doubtful of
his welcome.

“I’ve had it.” Mrs. Bindle’s lips met in a hard,
firm line.

“Is mine in the oven?”

“Better look and see.”

He walked across to the stove and opened the[Pg 36]
oven door. It was as bare as the cupboard of Mrs.
Hubbard.

“Wot you done with it, Lizzie?” he enquired, misgiving
clutching at his heart.

“What have I done with what?” she snapped, as
she brought her iron down with a bang that caused
him to jump.

“My little bit o’ groundsel.”

“When you talk sense, perhaps I can understand
you.”

“My dinner,” he explained with an injured air.

“When you’ve done a day’s work you’ll get a day’s
dinner, and not before.”

“But the strike’s orf.”

“So’s the lock-out.”

“But——”

“Don’t stand there ‘butting’ me. Go and do
some work, then you’ll have something to eat,” and
Mrs. Bindle reversed the pillow-case she was ironing,
and got in a straight right full in the centre of it,
whilst Bindle turned gloomily to the door and made
his way to The Yellow Ostrich, where, over a pint
of beer and some bread and cheese, he gloomed his
discontent.

“No more strikes for me,” said a man seated
opposite, who was similarly engaged.

“Same ‘ere,” said Bindle.

“Bob Cunham got a flea in ‘is ear this mornin’
wot ‘e’s been askin’ for,” said the man, and Bindle,
nodding in agreement, buried his face in his pewter.[Pg 37]

Meanwhile, Mrs. Hopton was explaining to a few
personal friends how it all had happened.

“She done good work in startin’ of us orf,” was
her tribute to Mrs. Bindle; “but I can’t say I takes
to her as a friend.”[Pg 38]

CHAPTER II

MRS. BINDLE’S WASHING-DAY

I

Shoooooooossssh!

Like a silver flash, the contents of a water-jug
descended upon the back of the moth-eaten
sandy cat, engaged in excavating Mrs. Bindle’s
geranium-bed.

A curve of yellow, and Mrs. Sawney’s “Sandy”
had taken the dividing wall between No. 7 and No. 9
in one movement—and the drama was over.

Mrs. Bindle closed her parlour-window. She
refilled the jug, placing it ready for the next
delinquent and then returned to her domestic
duties.

On the other side of a thin partitioning wall, Mrs.
Sawney left the window from which she had viewed
her cat’s attack upon Mrs. Bindle’s geranium-bed,
and Mrs. Bindle’s counter-attack upon Sandy’s person.
Passing into the small passage she opened the front
door, her lips set in a determined line.

“Sandy, Sandy, Sandy, Sandy,” she called, in
accents that caused Sandy, now three gardens away,
to pause in the act of shaking his various members[Pg 39]
one by one, in an endeavour to disembarrass himself
of the contents of Mrs. Bindle’s water-jug.

“Sandy, Sandy, Sandy, Sandy,” cooed Mrs.
Sawney. “Poor pussy.”

The tone of his mistress’ voice rendered Sandy suspicious
as to her intentions. He was a cat who had
fought his way from kittenhood to a three-year-old, and
that with the loss of nothing more conspicuous than
the tip of his left ear. He could not remember the
time when he had not been engaged in warfare, either
predatory or defensive, and he had accumulated
much wisdom in the process.

“Sandy, Sandy, Sandy, Sandy. Puss, puss, puss.”
Mrs. Sawney’s tone grew in mellowness as her anger
increased. “Poor pussy.”

With a final shake of his near hind leg, Sandy put
two more gardens between himself and that voice,
and proceeded to damn to-morrow’s weather by
washing clean over his right ear.

Mrs. Sawney closed her front-door and retired to
the regions that knew her best. In her heart was a
great anger. Water had been thrown over her cat,
an act which, according to Mrs. Sawney’s code of
ethics, constituted a personal affront.

It was Monday, and with Mrs. Sawney the effect
of the Monday-morning feeling, coupled with the purifying
of the domestic linen, was a sore trial to her
never very philosophical nature.

“To-morrow’ll be ‘er washing-day,” she muttered,
as she poked down the clothes in the bubbling copper
with a long stick, bleached and furred by constant[Pg 40]
immersion in boiling water. “I’ll show ‘er, throwing
water over my cat, the stuck-up baggage!”

Late that afternoon, she called upon Mrs. Grimps,
who lived at No. 5, to return the scrubbing-board she
had borrowed that morning. With Mrs. Sawney, to
borrow was to manifest the qualities of neighbourliness,
and one of her grievances against Mrs. Bindle
was that she was “too stuck up to borrow a
pin.”

Had Sandy heard the sentiments that fell from his
mistress’s lips that afternoon, and had he not been the
Ulysses among cats that he undoubtedly was, he
would have become convinced that a new heaven
or a new earth was in prospect. As it was, Sandy
was two streets away, engaged in an affair with a
lady of piebald appearance and coy demeanour.

When, half an hour later, Mrs. Sawney returned to
No. 9, her expression was even more grim. The
sight of the pink tie-ups with which the white lace
curtains at No. 7 were looped back, rendered her
forgetful of her recently expressed sentiments. She
sent Sandy at express speed from her sight, and soundly
boxed Harriet’s ears. Mrs. Sawney was annoyed.

II

All her life Mrs. Bindle had been exclusive. She
prided herself upon the fact that she was never to be
seen gossiping upon doorstep, or at garden-gate. In[Pg 41]
consequence, she was regarded as “a stuck-up cat”;
she called it keeping herself to herself.

Another cause of her unpopularity with the housewives
of Fenton Street was the way she stared at
their windows as she passed. There was in that look
criticism and disdain, and it inspired her neighbours
with fury, the more so because of their impotence.

Mrs. Bindle judged a woman by her windows—and
by the same token condemned her. Fenton Street
knew it, and treasured up the memory.

It was this attitude towards their windows, more
than Mrs. Bindle’s exclusiveness in the matter of
front-door, or back-door gossip, that made for her
unpopularity with those among whom circumstances
and the jerry-builder had ordained that she should
spend her days. She regarded it as a virtue not to
be on speaking terms with anyone in the street.

For the most part, Mrs. Bindle and her immediate
neighbours lived in a state of armed neutrality. On
the one side was Mrs. Sawney, a lath of a woman with
an insatiable appetite for scandal and the mouth of
a scold, whose windows were, in Mrs. Bindle’s opinion,
a disgrace; on the other was Mrs. Grimps, a big,
jolly-looking woman, who laughed loudly at things,
about which Mrs. Bindle did not even permit herself
to think.

In spite of the armistice that prevailed, there were
occasions when slumbering dislike would develop into
open hostilities. The strategy employed was almost
invariably the same, just as were the forces engaged.

These encounters generally took place on Tuesdays,[Pg 42]
Mrs. Bindle’s washing-day. To a woman, Fenton
Street washed on Monday, and the fact of Mrs. Bindle
selecting Tuesday for the cleansing her household
linen was, in the eyes of other housewives, a direct
challenge. It was an endeavour to vaunt her own
superiority, and Fenton Street, despite its cockney
good-nature, found it impossible to forgive what it
regarded as “swank”.

The result was that occasionally Fenton Street gave
tongue, sometimes through the medium of its offspring;
at others from the lips of the women themselves.

Mrs. Grimps and Mrs. Sawney had conceived a
clever strategy, which never failed in its effect upon
their victim. On Mrs. Bindle’s washing-days, when
hostilities had been decided on, Mrs. Grimps would
go up to the back-bedroom window, whilst Mrs.
Sawney would stand at her back-door, or conversely.
From these positions, the fences being low, they had
an excellent view of the back garden of No. 7, and
would carry on a conversation, the subject of which
would be Mrs. Bindle, or the garments she was exposing
to the public gaze.

The two women seemed to find a never-ending source
of interest in their neighbour’s laundry. Being
intensely refined in all such matters, Mrs. Bindle subjected
her weekly wash to a strict censorship, drying
the more intimate garments before the kitchen fire.
This evoked frankly-expressed speculation between
her two enemies as to how anyone could live without
change of clothing.

In her heart, Mrs. Bindle had come to dislike, almost[Pg 43]
to dread, washing-days, although she in no way
mitigated her uncompromising attitude towards her
neighbours.

When, on the Wednesday morning following one of
these one-sided battles, Mrs. Bindle went out shopping,
her glances at the front-windows of Mrs. Grimps’s
house, or those of Mrs. Sawney, according to the direction
she took, were steadier and more critical than
ever. Mrs. Bindle was not one to strike her flag to
the enemy.

Soon after nine on the Tuesday morning after Sandy
had constituted himself a casus belli, Mrs. Bindle
emerged from her scullery carrying a basketful of
clothes, on the top of which lay a handful of clothes-pegs.
Placing the basket on the ground, she proceeded
to wipe with a cloth the clothes-line, which Bindle
had put up before breakfast.

The sight of her neat, angular form in the garden
was the signal for Mrs. Grimps to come to her back
door, whilst Mrs. Sawney ascended her stairs. A
moment later, the back window of No. 9 was thrown
up with a flourish, and the hard face of Sandy’s
mistress appeared.

It was a curious circumstance that, although there
was never any pre-arrangement, Mrs. Sawney always
seemed to appear at the window just as Mrs. Grimps
emerged from her back door, or the order would be
reversed. Never had they been known both to appear
together, either at window or at door. Their mutual
understanding seemed to be that of the ancient pair
in the old-fashioned weather-indicator.[Pg 44]

“Good morning, Mrs. Grimps,” called Mrs. Sawney
from her post of vantage.

“Good morning, Mrs. Sawney,” responded Mrs.
Grimps. “Beautiful day, ain’t it?”

“Fine dryin’ weather,” responded Mrs. Sawney.

“I see you got your washin’ finished early yes’day.”

“Yes, an’ a rare lot there was this week,” said Mrs.
Sawney, settling her arms comfortably upon the
window-sill. “You ‘ad a tidy bit, too, I see.”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Grimps, picking a back-tooth
with a hair-pin. “Mr. Grimps is like Mr. Sawney,
must ‘ave ‘is clean pair o’ pants every week, ‘e must,
an’ a shirt an’ vest, too. I tell ‘im he ought to ‘ave
been a millionaire.”

“Ah!” said Mrs. Sawney, “I sometimes wishes
my ‘usband would be content with calico linings to
‘is trousers, like some folks I could name. ‘E’s afraid
o’ them rubbin’ ‘im, ‘e says; but then ‘e always was
clean in ‘is ‘abits.”

This remark was directly levelled at Mrs. Bindle’s
censorship of everything appertaining to nether-laundry.

“Well, I must say I sympathises with ‘im,” remarked
Mrs. Grimps, returning the hair-pin to where it
belonged. “When I sees some folks’ washing, I says
to myself, I says, ‘Wot can they wear underneath?'”

“An’ well you might, Mrs. Grimps,” cried Mrs.
Sawney meaningly. “P’raps they spend the money
on pink ribbons to tie up their lace curtains. It’s
all very well to make a show with yer windows, but,”
with the air of one who has made an important[Pg 45]
discovery, “you can’t be clean unless you’re clean
all over, I says.”

Whilst these remarks were being bandied to and
fro over her head, Mrs. Bindle had been engaged in
pegging to the clothes-line the first batch of her week’s
wash. Her face was grimmer and harder than usual,
and there was in her eyes a cold, grey look, suggestive
of an iron control.

“Yes,” proceeded Mrs. Grimps, “I always ‘ave
said an’ always shall, that it’s the underneaths wot
count.”

Mrs. Bindle stuck a peg in the corner of a tablecloth
and, taking another from her mouth, she
proceeded to the other end of the tablecloth and
jabbed that, too, astride the line.

“‘Always ‘ave dainty linjerry, ‘Arriet,’ my pore
mother used to say,” continued Mrs. Sawney, “an’ I
always ‘ave. After all, who wants three pillow-cases
a week?”

This was in the nature of a direct challenge, as Mrs.
Bindle had just stepped back from attaching to the
line a third pillow-case, which immediately proceeded
to balloon itself into joyous abandon.

“If you are religious, you didn’t ought to be cruel
to dumb animals,” announced Mrs. Grimps, “throwin’
water over the pore creatures.”

“That sort never is kind to any think but theirselves,”
commented Mrs. Sawney, with the air of
one who is well-versed in the ways of the devout.

Each time Mrs. Bindle emerged from her scullery
that morning, her two relentless neighbours appeared[Pg 46]
as if by magic, and oblique pleasantries ebbed and
flowed above her head.

The episode of Mrs. Bindle’s lock-out was discussed
in detail. The “goody-goody” qualities affected by
“some people” were commented on in relation to
the more brutal instincts they occasionally manifested.

The treatment that certain pleasant-spoken husbands,
whom it was “a pleasure to meet,” received
from their wives, whose faces were like “vinegar on
the point of a needle,” left both Mrs. Grimps and Mrs.
Sawney incapable of expressing the indignation that
was within them.

When Bindle came home to dinner, he found
“Mrs. B. with a temper wot ‘ad got a nasty edge
on it,” as he expressed it to one of his mates on
his return to work. He was too wise, however, to
venture an enquiry as to the cause. He realised
that to ask for the wind might mean reaping the
whirlwind.

Immediately after the meal, Mrs. Bindle proceeded
to clear the lines to make room for another batch.
She hoped to get done whilst her neighbours were at
dinner; but she had not been in the garden half-a-minute
before her tormentors appeared.

“I been thinkin’ of keepin’ a few fowls,” remarked
Mrs. Sawney, her mouth full of bread and cheese,
“jest a ‘andful of cocks an’ a few ‘ens,” and she winked
down at Mrs. Grimps, as Mrs. Bindle pegged a lace
window-curtain on the line, having first subjected
it to a vigorous rubbing with a duster.[Pg 47]

“An’ very nice too,” agreed Mrs. Grimps; “I must
say I likes an egg for my tea,” she added, “only them
cocks do fight so.”

“Well, I shouldn’t get too many,” continued Mrs.
Sawney, “say three cocks an’ three ‘ens. They
ought to get on nicely together.”

These remarks had reference to a one-time project
of Mrs. Bindle to supply her table with new-laid eggs,
in the pursuit of which she had purchased three pairs
of birds, equally divided as to sex.

“That was the only time I ever enjoyed a bit o’
cock-fightin’ on my own,” Bindle was wont to remark,
when telling the story of Mrs. Bindle’s application of
the rule of monogamy to a fowl-run.

He had made one endeavour to enlighten Mrs. Bindle
upon the fact that the domestic cock (she insisted on
the term “rooster”) had neither rounded Cape Turk,
nor weathered Seraglio Point; but he was told not
to be disgusting, Mrs. Bindle’s invariable rejoinder
when sex matters cropped up. He had therefore
desisted, enjoying to the full Mrs. Bindle’s efforts to
police her new colony.

In those days, the Bindle’s back garden had been
a riot of flying feathers, belligerent cocks and squawking
hens, chivvied about by Mrs. Bindle, armed with
mop or broom.

Mrs. Sawney and a Mrs. Telcher, who had preceded
Mrs. Grimps in the occupancy of No. 5, had sat at
their bedroom windows, laughing until the tears ran
down their dubious cheeks and their sides ached.
When their mirth permitted, they had tendered advice;[Pg 48]
but for the most part they were so weak from laughing
that speech was denied them.

Mrs. Bindle’s knowledge of the ways of fowls was
limited; but it embraced one important piece of
information—that without “roosters”, hens would
not lay. When Bindle had striven to set her right,
he had been silenced with the inevitable, “Don’t be
disgusting.”

She had reasoned that if hens were stimulated to
lay by the presence of the “male bird”, then a cavalier
each would surely result in an increased output.

The fowls, however, had disappeared as suddenly
as they had come, and thereafter Bindle realised that
it was neither safe nor politic to refer to the subject.
It had taken a plate of rice, hurled at his head from
the other side of the kitchen, to bring him to this
philosophical frame of mind.

For weeks afterwards, the children of Fenton Street
would greet Mrs. Bindle’s appearance with strange
crowing noises, which pleased them and convulsed
their parents; for Mrs. Bindle’s fowls had become the
joke of the neighbourhood.

“I must say I likes a man wots got a pleasant word
for everyone,” remarked Mrs. Sawney, some two
hours later, as Mrs. Bindle picked up the clothes-basket
containing the last of the day’s wash, and made for
the scullery door, “even when ‘e ain’t ‘appy in ‘is
‘ome life,” she added, as the scullery door banged-to
for the day, and Mrs. Grimps concurred as she disappeared,
to catch-up with the day’s work as best
she could, and prepare the children’s tea.[Pg 49]

III

That evening at supper, Bindle heard what had been
withheld from Mrs. Grimps and Mrs. Sawney—Mrs.
Bindle’s opinion of her neighbours. With great
dexterity, she managed to link him up with their misdeeds.
He should have got on as his brother-in-law,
Mr. Hearty, had got on, and then she would not have
been forced to reside in a neighbourhood so utterly
dead to all sense of refinement and proper conduct.

Bindle had come to regard Tuesdays as days of
wrath, and he usually managed to slip out after supper
with as little ostentation as possible. Reasoning that
religion and cleanliness were productive of such mental
disturbances, he was frankly for what he called “a
dirty ‘eathen”; but he was wise enough to keep his
views to himself.

“If you were a man you’d stop it,” she stormed,
“allowing me to be insulted as I’ve been to-day.”

“But ‘ow can I stop you an’ them a-scrappin’?”
he protested, with corrugated forehead.

“You can go in and tell them that you won’t have
it.”

“But then Sawney an’ Grimps would start on me.”

“That’s what it is, you’re afraid,” she cried, triumphantly.
“If you was a man you’d hit back; but you’re
not.”

“But I ain’t a-goin’ to start fightin’ because some
one says I don’t wear——”[Pg 50]

“Stop it!”

And Bindle stopped it.

“Why don’t you do something like Mr. Hearty?”
demanded Mrs. Bindle, as he pushed back his chair
and rose. She was determined not to be deprived
of her scapegoat, at least not without another
offensive.

He paused before replying, making sure that his
line of retreat was open. The greengrocering success
of her brother-in-law was used by Mrs. Bindle as a whip
of scorpions.

“‘Earty don’t do things,” he replied, sidling towards
the door. “‘E does people,” and with footwork that
would have made a champion fly-weight envious, he
was out in the passage before Mrs. Bindle could retort.

Long and late that night she pondered over the
indignities to which she had been subjected during the
day. There were wanton moments when she yearned
to be able to display to the neighbours the whole of
her laundry—and Bindle’s. Herself a connoisseur of
garments that passed through the wash-tub, she knew
that those of her house could hold their own, as joyously
white and playful in the breeze as any that her
neighbours were able to produce.

She had suffered with a still tongue; yet it had not
turned aside wrath, particularly her own wrath.
Instinctively, her thoughts reverted to the time when
an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth were regarded
as legal tender.

All that night and the next day she pondered.
When Bindle returned on the Wednesday evening,[Pg 51]
he found her almost light-hearted. “Gospel Bells”,
Mrs. Bindle’s favourite hymn, was going with a rare
swing, and during the meal that followed, she was
bordering on the conversational.

Several times he regarded her curiously.

“Somethink’s up,” he muttered; but, too wise in
his experience, he made no endeavour to probe the
mystery.

For the rest of the week Mrs. Bindle spent every odd
moment she could spare from her domestic duties in
collecting what she mentally described as “rubbish”.
She went through each room with a toothcomb. By
Saturday night, she had accumulated in the wash-house,
a pile of odds and ends which, as Bindle said,
would have been enough to start a rag-and-bone
shop.

Curiously enough, Mrs. Bindle did not resent his
remark; instead she almost smiled, so marked was
her expression of grim complacency.

On Sunday at chapel, she sang with a vigour and
fervency that attracted to her the curious gaze of
more than one pair of eyes.

“Mrs. B.’s got somethink in ‘er stockin’,” mumbled
Bindle, as he rose from the supper-table that night.
“Never seen ‘er so cheerio in all my puff. I ‘ope it
ain’t drink.”

Monday morning dawned, and Mrs. Bindle was up
an hour earlier than usual, still almost blithe in her
manner.

“Shouldn’t be surprised if she’s a-goin’ to run away
with ole ‘Earty,” muttered Bindle, as he took from[Pg 52]
her almost gracious hands his third cup of tea at
breakfast.

“You sings like a two-year-old, Lizzie,” he ventured.
“I like them little twiddley bits wot you been puttin’
into that ‘ymn.”

The “twiddley bits” to which Bindle referred was
her rendering of “bells,” as a word of three syllables,
“be-e-ells.”

“You get on with your breakfast,” was her retort;
but there was about it neither reproach nor rancour.

Again he looked at her curiously.

“Can’t make ‘er out these last few days,” he
muttered, as he rose and picked up his cap. “Somethink’s
up!”

Mrs. Bindle proceeded to wash-up the breakfast
things to the tune of “Hold the Fort.” From time
to time during the morning, she would glance out of
the window to see if Mrs. Grimps, or Mrs. Sawney had
yet begun to “hang-out”.

They were usually late; but this morning they were
later than usual. It was after ten before Mrs. Grimps
appeared with the first basket of wet clothes. She was
followed a few minutes later by Mrs. Sawney.

The two women exchanged greetings, the day was
too busy a one for anything more.

As they pegged the various items of the week’s
wash to their respective lines, Mrs. Bindle watched
from the back-bedroom window, her eyes like points
of steel, her lips a grim grey line. She was experiencing
the sensations of the general who sees the enemy
delivered into his hands.[Pg 53]

As soon as Mrs. Grimps and Mrs. Sawney had returned
to their wash-tubs, Mrs. Bindle descended to the scullery,
where lay the heap of rubbish she had collected
during the previous week. With great deliberation
she proceeded to stuff it into a clothes-basket, by means
of which she transported the mass to the bottom of
the garden, a proceeding which required several
journeys.

Mrs. Sawney and Mrs. Grimps were too busily occupied
to concern themselves with the movements of
their neighbour.

Her task completed, Mrs. Bindle returned to her
domestic duties, and in due time ate a solitary dinner,
Bindle being engaged too far away to admit of his
sharing it with her. She then proceeded upstairs to
perform her toilette, as on Monday afternoons she
always arranged to go out “dressed”. This in itself
was a direct challenge to Fenton Street, which had
to stay at home and attend to the cleansing of its
linen.

Her toilette finished, Mrs. Bindle slipped into the
back bedroom. Below, her two neighbours were engaged
in hanging-out the second instalment of their wash,
the first batch having been gathered-in ready for the
mangle. After that, they would eat their mid-day
meal. Although no gossip, Mrs. Bindle was not unobservant,
and she knew the movements of her neighbours
as well as they knew hers.

A quarter of an hour later, the front door of No. 7
banged-to. Mrs. Bindle, in brown alpaca, a brown
bonnet with a dash of purple, and biscuit-coloured[Pg 54]
gloves, was going to see her niece, Millie Dixon, née
Hearty, with whom she had arranged to spend the
afternoon.

IV

“Mrs. Sawney! Mrs. Sawney! Come and look
at your clothes!”

Mrs. Grimps, her hands on the top of the fence,
shouted her thrilling appeal across the intervening
garden.

Mrs. Sawney appeared, as if propelled from her
scullery door by some unseen force.

For a moment she stood blinking stupidly, as dense
volumes of smut-laden smoke ascended to the blueness
of heaven from the garden of No. 7. It was only the
smoke, however, that ascended. One glance at the
piebald garments hanging from her linen-lines was
sufficient to convince Mrs. Sawney of that.

“It’s that woman,” she almost screamed, as she
began to pound at the fence dividing her garden from
that of Mrs. Bindle. “I’ll show ‘er.”

“Yes; but what about the——” Mrs. Grimps
broke-off, stifled by a volume of dense black smoke
that curled across to her. “Look at them smuts.”

Mrs. Bindle had taken the precaution of adding some
paraffin and colza oil to her bonfire, which was now
blazing merrily, sending forth an ever-increasing deluge
of smuts, as if conscious of what was expected of it.[Pg 55]

Mrs. Sawney continued to bang on the fence, whilst
Mrs. Grimps dashed through her house and proceeded
to pound at Mrs. Bindle’s front door with a vigour
born of hate and desperation.

“She’s gorn out.”

The information was vouchsafed by a little boy in
petticoats, who had toddled uncertainly from the
other side of the street, and now stood clinging to the
railings with grubby hands.

Mrs. Grimps scurried back again to the scene of
disaster.

She was just in time to see Mrs. Sawney take what
appeared to be the tail-end of a header into Mrs. Bindle’s
back-garden, displaying in the process a pair of stockings
that owed little to the wash-tub, and less to the
darning-needle.

“Get some water,” she gasped, as she picked herself
up and once more consigned her hosiery to the seclusion
of her skirts. Mrs. Grimps dashed into the scullery.

A minute later she re-appeared with a large pail,
from which water slopped as she walked. With
much grunting and a considerable wetting of her own
clothes, she succeeded in passing it over the fence to
her neighbour.

With one hand grasping the handle and the other
the rim at the base, Mrs. Sawney staggered towards
the fire and inverted the pail. Then, with a scream,
she dropped the pail, threw her apron over her head,
and ran from the cloud of steam and the deluge of
blacks that her rash act had occasioned.

“‘Urt yerself?” enquired Mrs. Grimps, solicitously[Pg 56]
as she gazed mournfully at her ruined “wash”, upon
which big flakes of black were descending like locusts
upon the fair lands of Pharaoh.

Mrs. Sawney removed the apron from her head,
and blinked up at the sky, as if to assure herself that
the blessing of sight was still hers.

“The wicked cat!” she vociferated, when she found
that no damage had been done. “Come on, let’s put
it out,” she exhorted as, with a swift movement, she
picked up the pail and handed it over the fence to
the waiting Mrs. Grimps.

Ten minutes later, the fire was extinguished; but
the washing was ruined.

Mrs. Sawney gazed across the fence at a dishevelled
caricature of Mrs. Grimps, with the full consciousness
that she herself must look even worse. She also
realised that she had to make the return journey
over the fence, under the critical eyes of Mrs.
Grimps, and that to climb a fence without an
exposure of leg was an impossibility.

Both women were wet to the skin, as neither had
proved expert in the handing of brimming pails of
water over a wooden fence; both were spotted like
the pard; both were in their hearts breathing dire
vengeance upon the perpetrator of the outrage, who
just at that moment was alighting from a tram at
Hammersmith.

Throughout that afternoon, Mrs. Sawney and Mrs.
Grimps waited; grim-lipped and hard-eyed they waited.
Fenton Street was to see something that it had not[Pg 57]
even dreamed of. Mrs. Sawney and Mrs. Grimps had
decided unanimously to “show ‘er.”

Their offspring had been instructed that, at the sight
of Mrs. Bindle, they were to return hot-foot and report.

The children had told their friends, and their friends
had told their mothers, with the result that not only
Mrs. Sawney and Mrs. Grimps; but every housewife in
Fenton Street was on the qui vive.

Soon after six there were cries of “Here she comes,”
as if Mrs. Bindle had been the Boat Race, followed
by a sudden stampede of children.

Mrs. Sawney and Mrs. Grimps rushed to action-quarters.
Mrs. Sawney gave a stir to a pail of blacklead
and water behind the front door, whilst Mrs.
Grimps seized a soft broom, which she had saturated
in water used for washing-up the dinner-things.

The children clustered round the gate, and hung on
to the railings. Housewives came to their doors, or
appeared at their bedroom windows. Fenton Street
loved Drama, the bigger the “D” with which it was
spelled, the more they enjoyed it.

Behind their front doors, Mrs. Sawney and Mrs.
Grimps waited and watched. Suddenly the crowd
that had attached itself to the railings began to melt
away, and the babel of clattering voices died down.
Several women were seen to leave their garden-gates
and walk up the street. Still the two grim-faced
women waited behind their “street-doors.”

At length, as the last child left the railings and tore
up the street, both women decided that something
must have happened.[Pg 58]

The sight of Mrs. Sawney at her door brought Mrs.
Grimps to hers, just as Harriet, the nine years old
daughter of Mrs. Sawney, rushed up breathless.

“She’s comin’,” gasped the child, whereat both
women disappeared, Mrs. Sawney to grasp the handle
of her pail, and Mrs. Grimps to seize her broom.

When Mrs. Bindle appeared, the centre of an eddying
mass of children, with a few women on the outer
fringe, she was carrying in her arms a child of about
five, who was whimpering pitifully. Her bonnet had
slipped back, her right hand, from which the biscuit-coloured
glove had been removed, was stained with
blood, whilst her umbrella was being carried, as if it
were a sacred relic, by a curly-headed little lad who
was living his hour.

At the sight of the procession, Mrs. Sawney let the
handle of her pail fall with a clang, whilst Mrs. Grimps
dropped her broom.

“It’s my ‘Ector,” she screamed, as she bolted down
the garden path. “Oh, my God! ‘e’s dead.”

“Get some hot water,” ordered Mrs. Bindle, as she
pushed the mother aside and entered the gate. “He’s
cut his leg.”

Followed by Mrs. Bindle, Mrs. Grimps bolted into
the house. There was something in Mrs. Bindle’s
tone that brooked of no delay.

Watched by Mrs. Grimps, Mrs. Sawney, and several
of their friends, Mrs. Bindle washed the wound and
bound it up with clean white rag, in place of her own
blood-soaked handkerchief, and she did her work with
the thoroughness with which she did everything.[Pg 59]

When she had finished, she took the child in her
arms, and for an hour soothed it with the assurance
that it was “the bravest little precious in all the world.”
When she made to transfer her burden to its mother’s
arms, the uproar that ensued decided Mrs. Bindle to
continue her ministrations.

It was ten o’clock before she finally left Mrs. Grimps’s
house, and she did so without a word.

“Who’d ‘ave thought it!” remarked Mrs. Sawney,
as Mrs. Bindle closed the gate.

“She’s got a way with kids,” admitted Mrs. Grimps.
“I will say that for ‘er,” and in turning back along
the dark hall, she fell over the broom with which she
had intended to greet her neighbour.

Mrs. Sawney returned to her own house and hurled
a saucepan at Sandy, a circumstance which kept him
from home for two days and three nights—he was not
a cat to take undue risks.[Pg 60]

CHAPTER III

MRS. BINDLE ENTERTAINS

I

“Bindle!” Mrs. Bindle stepped down from
a chair, protected by her ironing-blanket,
on which she had been standing to replace
a piece of holly that had fallen from a picture.

She gazed at the mid-Victorian riot about her with
obvious pride; it constituted her holy of holies. Upon
it she had laboured for days with soap-and-water and
furniture-polish, with evergreen and coloured candles,
to render it worthy of the approaching festivity. She
had succeeded only in emphasising its uncompromising
atmosphere of coldness and angularity.

Antimacassars seemed to shiver self-consciously
upon the backs of stamped-plush chairs, photo-frames,
and what she called “knick-knacks,” stared at one
another in wide-eyed desolation; whilst chains of
coloured paper, pale green and yellow predominating,
stretched in bilious festoons from picture-nail to
picture-nail.

On the mantelpiece, in wine-coloured lustres, which
were Mrs. Bindle’s especial glory, two long candles
reared aloft their pink nakedness. They were never[Pg 61]
to be lit and they knew it; chilly, pink and naked
they would remain, eventually to be packed away
once more in the cardboard-box, from which for years
they had been taken to grace each successive festivity.

It had always been Bindle’s ambition to light these
candles, which were probably the most ancient pieces
of petroleum-wax in the kingdom; but he lacked
the moral courage.

“Funny thing you can’t be clean without stinkin’
like this,” he had mumbled that morning, as he sniffed
the air, reeking of turpentine with an underlying
motif of yellow-soap. “I suppose ‘appiness is like
drink,” he added, “it takes people different ways.”

Passing over to the sideboard, Mrs. Bindle gazed
down at the refreshments: sausage-rolls, sandwiches,
rock-cakes, blanc-mange, jellies, three-cornered tarts,
exuding their contents at every joint, chocolate-shape,
and other delicacies.

In the centre stood a large open jam-tart made on
a meat-dish. It was Mrs. Bindle’s masterpiece, a
tribute alike to earth and to heaven. On the jam,
in letters contrived out of strips of pastry, appeared
the exhortation, “Prepare to Meet Thy God.”

Bindle had gasped at the sight of this superlative
work of art and religion. “That’s a funny sort o’
way to give a cove a appetite,” he had murmured.
“If it ‘adn’t been Mrs. B., I’d ‘ave said it was a joke.”

It was with obvious satisfaction that Mrs. Bindle
viewed her handiwork. At the sight of an iced-cake,
sheltering itself behind a plate of bananas, she smiled.
Here again her devotional instincts had triumphed.[Pg 62]
On the uneven white surface, in irregular letters of
an uncertain blue, was the statement, “The Wages
of Sin is Death.”

“Well, well, it ain’t my idea of ‘appiness.”

She span round to find Bindle, who had entered
unheard, gazing dubiously at the tart bearing the
disconcerting legend.

“What’s not your idea of happiness?” she demanded.

He grinned genially across at her.

“You’d like beer-bottles on the mantelpiece, I suppose,”
she continued, “and clay pipes and spittoons
and——”

“Not for me, Mrs. B.,” he retorted; “no one ain’t
never known me miss the fire-place yet.”

Mrs. Bindle’s lips tightened, as if she were striving
to restrain the angry words that were eager to leap
out.

She had planned a musical evening, with the object
of assisting her brother-in-law in his aspirations as
trainer of the choir at the Alton Road Chapel, a
post which had recently fallen vacant.

By inviting some of the more humble members of
the choir, those on a higher social plane than her own
would scarcely be likely to accept, Mrs. Bindle had
thought to further Mr. Hearty’s candidature.

She recognised that their influence would be indirect
in its action; but even that, she decided, would be an
asset.

Mr. Hearty had readily consented to lend his harmonium,
and had sent it round by his van. It took
two men and a boy, together with Mr. Hearty and Mrs.[Pg 63]
Bindle, a long time to persuade it along the narrow
passage. Here it had incontinently stuck for nearly
an hour. It was not until Bindle returned, to bring
his professional experience to bear, that it had been
coaxed into the parlour.

Christmas was near at hand, and for weeks past
the choir had been working under forced-draught,
practising carols. That had given Mrs. Bindle the
idea of devoting her evening entirely to seasonable
music.

“Wot jer call me for?” demanded Bindle presently,
remembering the reason of his presence.

“Don’t forget to get a pail of coals and put it in
the kitchen,” she ordered.

“We shan’t want no coals, Mrs. B., with all that ‘ot
stuff we got a-comin’,” he muttered lugubriously.
“Why ain’t we got a bit o’ mistletoe?” he demanded.

“Don’t be disgusting,” she retorted.

“Disgustin’!” he cried innocently. “There ain’t
nothink disgustin’ in a bit o’ mistletoe.”

“I won’t have such things in my house,” she
announced with decision. “You’ve got a lewd mind.”

“There ain’t nothink lood in kissin’ a gal under the
mistletoe,” he demurred, “or under anythink else,”
he added as an after-thought.

“You’re nasty-minded, Bindle, and you know it.”

“Well, wot are we goin’ to do at a party if there
ain’t goin’ to be no kissin’?” he persisted, looking
about him with unwonted despondency.

“Mr. Hearty has lent us his harmonium!” she
said with unction, gazing reverently across at the[Pg 64]
instrument, which was the pride of her brother-in-law’s
heart.

“But wot’s the use of an ‘armonium,” he complained.
“You can’t play ‘unt the slipper, or postman’s knock
with an ‘armonium.”

“We’re going to sing.”

“Wot, ‘ymns?” he groaned.

“No, carols,” was the retort. “It’s Christmas,”
she added as if by way of explanation.

“Well, it don’t look like it, and it don’t smell like
it.” He sniffed the atmosphere with obvious disgust.
“Puts me in mind of ‘orse-oils,” he added.

“That’s right, go on,” she retorted tartly. “You’re
not hurting me, if you think it.” She drew in her lips
and crossed her hands in front of her, with Mrs. Bindle
a manifestation of Christian resignation.

“I don’t want to ‘urt you, Lizzie; but I ask you,
can you see me a-singin’ carols?” He turned towards
her a despondent eye of interrogation. “Me, at my
age?”

“You’re not asked to sing. You can go out and
spend the evening swearing and drinking with your
low companions.” She moved over to the mantelpiece,
and adjusted one of her beloved pink candles. “You’d
only spoil the music,” she added.

“If there wasn’t no music there wouldn’t be no
religion,” he grumbled. “It’s ‘armoniums in this
world and ‘arps in the next. I’d sooner be a pussyfoot
than play an ‘arp.”

Mrs. Bindle ignored the remark, and proceeded to
re-pile a plate of sausage-rolls to a greater symmetry,[Pg 65]
flicking an imaginary speck of dust from a glass-jug
of lemonade.

“Now mind,” she cried, as he walked towards the
door, “I won’t have you spoiling my evening, you’d
better go out.”

“An ‘usband’s cross-roads, or why Bindle left ‘ome,”
he grinned as he turned, winked at the right-hand
pink candle and disappeared, leaving Mrs. Bindle to
gaze admiringly at her handiwork. She had laboured
very hard in preparing for the evening’s festivities.

II

Half-way down the stairs, Mrs. Bindle paused to
listen. Her quick ears had detected the sound of
voices at the back-door, and what was undoubtedly
the clink of bottles. Continuing her descent, she
entered the kitchen, pausing just inside the door.

“That’s all right, ‘Op-o’-my-thumb. A dozen it is,”
she heard Bindle remark to someone in the outer
darkness. There was a shrill “Good-night,” and
Bindle entered the kitchen from the scullery, carrying
a beer-bottle under each arm and one in either hand.

“Who was that?” she demanded, her eyes fixed
upon the bottles.

“Oh! jest a nipper wot ‘ad brought somethink for
me,” he said with assumed unconcern.

“What did he bring?” she demanded, her eyes
still fixed on the bottles.[Pg 66]

“Some beer wot I ordered.”

“What for?”

“To drink.” He looked at her as if surprised at
the question.

“I didn’t suppose you’d bought it to wash in,” was
the angry retort. “There are four bottles in the
cupboard. They’ll last till Saturday. Why did you
order more?” Mrs. Bindle was obviously suspicious.

“P’raps somebody’ll get dry to-night,” he temporised.

“Don’t you tell me any of your wicked lies, Bindle,”
she cried angrily. “You know they’re all temperance.
How many did you order?”

“Oh, jest a few,” he said, depositing the bottles on
the lower shelf of the dresser. “Nothink like ‘avin’ a
bottle or two up yer sleeve.”

“Why have you got your best suit on?” She
regarded with disapproval the blue suit and red
necktie Bindle was wearing. Her eyes dropped to
the white cuffs that only a careful manipulation of his
thumbs prevented from slipping off altogether.

“Ain’t it the night of the party?” he enquired
innocently.

“I told you that I won’t have you come in, you
with your common ways and low talk.”

“That’s all right,” he replied cheerfully. “I’m
a-goin’ to sit in the kitchen.”

“And what good will that do you?” she demanded
suspiciously. “Another time, when I’m alone, you
can go out fast enough. Now because I’ve got a
few friends coming, nothing will move you.”[Pg 67]

“But I want to ‘ear the music,” he protested.
“P’raps I’ll get to like carols if I ‘ear enough of ’em,”
he added, with the air of one who announces that
some day he hopes to acquire a taste for castor-oil.

“You’re enough to try the patience of a saint,” she
cried, still eyeing the bottles of beer. “I suppose
you’re up to some devilment. It wouldn’t be you to
let me enjoy myself.”

“I likes to see you enjoyin’ yerself, Lizzie,” he
protested. “‘Ow’d you like ole Ginger to run in
an’——?”

“If that man enters my house I’ll insult him!”
she cried, her eyes glinting angrily.

“That ain’t easy,” he replied cheerfully, “unless you
was to drink ‘is beer. That always gets ‘is rag
out.”

“I won’t have that man in my house,” she stormed.
“You shall not pollute my home with your foul-mouthed,
public-house companions. I——”

“Ole Ging is all right,” Bindle assured her, as he
proceeded to fetch four more bottles from the scullery.
“All you got to do is to give ‘im some beer, play ‘All
is Forgiven Wot ‘Appened on Peace Night,’ an’ let
‘im stamp ‘is feet to the chorus, an’ ‘e’s one of the
cheerfullest coves wot you’ll find.”

“Well, you bring him here and see what I’ll do,”
she announced darkly.

“That’s all right, Mrs. B., don’t you worry. I jest
asked ‘Uggles to run round an’ keep me company, and
Wilkie may drop in if ‘e ain’t too busy coughin’; but
they shan’t get mixed up with the canaries—they[Pg 68]
won’t want to after wot I’m goin’ to tell ’em, an’ we’ll
all be as quiet as mice.”

“If you bring any of your friends into the parlour,
Bindle,” she cried, “I’ll turn the gas out.”

“Naughty!” he admonished, wagging at her a
playful forefinger. “I ain’t a-goin’ to allow——”

“Stop it!” and with that she bounced out of the
kitchen and dashed upstairs to the bedroom, banging
the door behind her.

“Ain’t women funny,” he grumbled, as he fetched
the remaining four bottles of beer from the scullery,
and placed them upon the shelf of the dresser. “Nice
ole row there’d ‘ave been if I’d said anythink about
turnin’ out the gas. That’s why ole ‘Earty’s so keen
on them choir practices. I bet they got a penny-in-the-slot
meter, an’ everybody takes bloomin’ good care
to leave all their coppers at ‘ome.”

Overhead, Mrs. Bindle could be heard giving expression
to her feelings in the opening and shutting of
drawers.

“Well, well!” he sighed philosophically, “I suppose
you can’t ‘ave everythink, as the cove said
when ‘e found the lodger ‘ad gone orf with ‘is
trousers on Bank ‘Oliday,” and he proceeded to
gather together two cracked tumblers, which had
been censored by Mrs. Bindle as unfit for her guests,
a large white mug, with a pink band and the remains
of a view of Margate, and a pint jug with a pink
butterfly on the spout.

“We’re a-goin’ to enjoy ourselves, any-old-‘ow,” he
murmured as, picking up a meat-dish from the dresser,[Pg 69]
he slipped into the parlour, returning a moment later
with it piled with rock-cakes, sandwiches and sausage-rolls.
These he hid on the bottom shelf of the dresser,
placing a pair of boots in front of them.

“Jest in time,” he muttered, as Mrs. Bindle was
heard descending the stairs. “It’s—’Ullo!” he broke
off, “‘ere’s the first appetite,” as a knock was heard
at the front door.

For the next ten minutes, Mrs. Bindle was busy
conducting her guests upstairs to “take off their
things.” Their escorts waited in the passage, clearing
their throats, or stroking their chins. Convention
demanded that they should wait to make a formal
entry into the parlour with their wives.

With his ear pressed against the kitchen door, Bindle
listened with interest, endeavouring to identify from
their voices the arrivals as they passed.

By ten minutes past seven, the sounds in the passage
had ceased—the guests had all come. In Mrs. Bindle’s
circle it was customary to take literally the time
mentioned in the invitation, and to apologise for even
a few minutes’ lateness.

In order that the Montagues should not become
confused with the Capulets, Bindle had taken the
precaution of asking his own friends to come to the
back door. He had added that the beer would be in
the kitchen.

Mrs. Bindle had always been immovable in her
determination that Bindle’s “low public-house companions”
should not have an opportunity of “insulting”
her friends from the Alton Road Chapel.[Pg 70]

With Mrs. Bindle the first quarter-of-an-hour of her
rare social gatherings was always a period of anguish
and uncertainty. Although everybody knew everybody
else, all were constrained and ill-at-ease.

Miss Lamb kept twirling her rolled-gold bracelet
round her lace-mittened wrist, smiling vacantly the
while. Miss Death seemed unable to keep her hard grey
eyes, set far too closely together, from the refreshment
sideboard, whilst Mrs. Dykes, a tiny woman in a fawn
skirt and a coral-pink blouse, was continually feeling
the back of her head, as if anticipating some
catastrophe to her hair.

Mrs. Hearty, who began in a bright blue satin blouse,
and ended in canary-coloured stockings thrust into
cloth shoes with paste buckles, beat her breast and
struggled for breath. Mr. Hearty was negative, conversationally
he was a bankrupt, whilst Mrs. Stitchley
was garrulous and with a purpose. She was bent
upon talking down the consciousness that she had
not been invited.

Her excuse for coming, at least the excuse she made
to herself, was that of chaperoning her daughter, a
near-sighted, shapeless girl, with no chest and a muddy
complexion, who never had and never would require
such an attention.

The others were just neuter, except Mr. Thimbell,
whose acute nervousness and length of limb rendered
him a nuisance.

Mrs. Bindle was conscious that she was looking her
best in a dark blue alpaca dress, with a cream-coloured
lace yoke, which modesty had prompted her to have[Pg 71]
lined with the material of the dress. To her, the
display of any portion of her person above the instep,
or below the feminine equivalent of the “Adam’s
apple,” was a tribute to the Mammon of Unrighteousness,
and her dressmaker was instructed accordingly.

She moved about the room, trying to make everyone
feel at home, and succeeding only in emphasising the
fact that they were all out.

Everybody was anxious to get down to the serious
business of the evening; still the social amenities
had to be observed. There must be a preliminary
period devoted to conversation.

After a quarter-of-an-hour’s endeavour to exchange
the ideas which none of them possessed, Mrs. Bindle
moved over to Mr. Hearty and whispered something,
at the same time glancing across at the harmonium.
There was an immediate look of interest and expectancy
on faces which, a moment before, had been
blank and apathetic.

Mr. Goslett, a little man with high cheekbones and
a criminal taste in neckwear, cleared his throat; Mr.
Hearty surreptitiously slipped into his mouth an acid
drop, which he had just taken from his waistcoat
pocket; Mr. Dykes, a long, thin man, who in his
youth had been known to his contemporaries as
“Razor,” drew his handkerchief with a flourish, and
tested Mrs. Bindle’s walls as if he were a priest before
Jericho.

Some difficulty arose as to who should play Mr.
Hearty’s beloved instrument. Mrs. Stitchley made it
clear that she expected her daughter, Mabel, to be[Pg 72]
asked. Mrs. Bindle, however, decided that Mrs.
Snarch, a colourless woman who sang contralto (her
own contralto) and sniffed when she was not singing
contralto, should preside; her influence with her
fellow-members of the choir was likely to be greater.
Thus in the first ten minutes Mrs. Bindle scored two
implacable enemies and one dubious friend.

Mrs. Snarch took her seat at the harmonium,
fidgetted about with her skirts and blinked near-sightedly
at the book of carols, which seemed disinclined
to remain open. The others grouped themselves
about her.

There was a medley of strange sounds, as each member
of the party took the necessary steps to ensure
purity of vocal tone. Added to this, Mr. Dykes pulled
his collar away from his throat and stretched his neck
upwards, as if to clear a passage for the sound he
intended to send forth. Mr. Goslett pushed his sandy
moustache up from his full lips with the back of his
right forefinger, whilst Miss Stitchley moistened and
remoistened her thin, colourless lips.

Then they joined together in song.

After a preliminary carol, in which no one seemed
to take any particular interest, they got off well
together with “Good King Wenceslas,” a prime
favourite at the Alton Road Chapel.

This evening it proved an enormous success.

Miss Stitchley’s shrillness clashed with Mrs. Bindle’s
sharpness more than in the preceding carol. Mr.
Hearty shut his eyes more tightly and was woollier,
Mr. Dykes got more breath behind his boom, and[Pg 73]
Mrs. Dykes made more mistakes in her “harmony.”
Mr. Goslett raised his head higher, looking more
than ever like a chicken drinking, whilst Miss Death’s
thin, upper notes seemed to pierce even Mr. Dykes’s
boom, just as they put Miss Lamb, always uncertain
as to pitch, even further off her stroke.

Still, everyone enjoyed it immensely. Even Mrs.
Stitchley, who confessed that she was “no ‘and at
singin’,” croaked a few husky notes, as she sat acutely
upright, due to a six-and-elevenpenny pair of stays
she had bought that afternoon, nodding her head and
beating time.

Mrs. Stitchley never lost an opportunity of making
clear her position in regard to music.

“I’m musical, my dear,” she would say. “It’s in
the fambly; but I don’t sing, I ‘as spasms, you know.”
She volunteered this information much as a man
might seek to excuse his inability to play the French
horn by explaining that he is addicted to bass
viol.

“Now that’s what I call a carol,” said Mrs. Stitchley,
endeavouring to prevent the upper portion of her stay-busk
from burying itself in her flesh. Then, with
sudden inspiration, she cried, “Encore! Encore!”
and made a motion to clap her hands; but the stay-busk
took the opportunity of getting in a vicious dig.
With a little yelp of pain, Mrs. Stitchley’s hands flew
to her rescue.

Everybody was too pleased with “Good King
Wenceslas” to trouble about Mrs. Stitchley’s stay-busk.
The word “encore,” however, had given them[Pg 74]
an idea. Mr. Hearty looked interrogatingly at Mrs.
Bindle.

“Do you think——” he began.

“Shall we have it again?” she queried, and there
was a chorus of pleased acquiescence. Everybody
was determined to put a little bit more into the encore
than into the original rendering. There was only one
dissentient voice, that of Mr. Dykes, who was
eager for “The First Noël,” which gave him such a
chance for individual effort. When out with the
Chapel Christmas singers, Mr. Dykes had been known
to awaken as many as six streets with a single verse
of that popular carol.

Mrs. Bindle almost smiled. Her party was proving
a success.

Mrs. Stitchley, still holding the top of her stay-busk
in her left hand, nodded approval, her beady little
eyes fixed upon the singers. She was awaiting an
opportunity to bring from her pocket a half-quartern
bottle containing what, if she had been caught drinking
it, she would have described as clove-water, taken
medicinally.

To give colour to her assertion, she always chewed a
clove after each reference to the bottle.

At The Golden Horse, Mrs. Stitchley’s clove-water
was known as Old Tom Special.

For an hour Mrs. Bindle’s guests sang, encoring
themselves with enthusiasm. Mr. Dykes got in his
famous “Noël,” he pronounced it “No-ho-hell,” and
everyone else seemed satisfied, if a little sore of
throat.[Pg 75]

It was half-past eight when Mrs. Bindle decided that
the time had come for refreshments.

Throughout the evening her ears had been keenly
alert for sounds from the kitchen; but beyond a suppressed
hum of voices, she could detect nothing; still
she was ill-at-ease. If Mrs. Hearty, for instance, knew
that Bindle was in the house, she would certainly
go over to the enemy.

In the matter of catering for her guests Mrs. Bindle
had nothing to learn. She was a good cook and
delighted in providing well for those she entertained.
Her sausage-rolls, straightforward affairs in which
the sausage had something more than a walking-on
part, were famous among her friends. Her blanc-mange,
jam puffs, rock-cakes, and sandwiches had
already established her reputation with those who had
been privileged to taste them. She basked in the
sunshine of the praise lavished on what she provided.
Without it she would have felt that her party was
a failure.

This evening there was no lack of approval, cordially
expressed. Mrs. Stitchley, who purposely had partaken
of a light luncheon and no tea, was particularly
loud in her encomiums, preluding each sausage-roll
she took, from the sixth onwards, with some fresh
adjective.

Mrs. Bindle was almost happy.

She was in the act of pouring out a glass of lemonade
for Miss Lamb, when suddenly she paused. An
unaccustomed sound from the kitchen had arrested
her hand. Others heard it too, and the hum of con[Pg 76]versation
died away into silence, broken only by Mr.
Hearty’s mastication of a sausage-roll.

Through the dividing wall came the sound of a concertina.
Mrs. Bindle put down the jug and turned
towards the door. As she did so a thin, nasal voice
broke into song:

The verse was followed by a full-throated chorus,
accompanied by a pounding as if someone were hurling
bricks about.

After that came silence; but for the hum of conversation,
above which rose Bindle’s voice forbidding
further singing until “them next door ‘ave ‘ad a go.”

The guests looked at one another in amazement.
The set expression of Mrs. Bindle’s face hardened,
and the lines of her mouth became grim. Her first
instinct had been to rush to the kitchen; but she
decided to wait. She did not want a scene whilst
her guests were there.

Gradually the carol-singers returned to their plates
and glasses, and Mr. Hearty’s mastication was once
more heard in their midst. Mr. Hearty always ate
with relish.

Unobserved by Mrs. Bindle, Mrs. Hearty stole out of[Pg 77]
the parlour on her way to investigate; a minute later
Mrs. Stitchley followed. The solitude of the passage
gave her an admirable opportunity of finishing the
“clove-water” she had brought with her.

When everyone had assured Mrs. Bindle, in answer
to her pressing invitation to refresh themselves still
further, that they “really couldn’t, not if she were
to pay them,” she turned once more to Mr. Hearty
for the necessary encouragement to start another
carol.

Their first effort, however, clearly showed that Mrs.
Bindle’s refreshments had taken the edge off their
singing. Miss Stitchley had lost much of her shrillness,
Mrs. Bindle was less sharp and Mr. Hearty more
woolly. Mr. Dykes’s boom was but a wraith of its
former self, proving the truth of Mrs. Dykes’s laughing
remark that if he ate so many of Mrs. Bindle’s sausage-rolls
he wouldn’t be able to sing at all. Only Miss Death
was up to form, her shrill soprano still cleaving the
atmosphere like a javelin.

As the last chords of the carol died away, the concertina
in the kitchen took up the running, followed
a minute later by the same voice as before, singing
nasally about the adventures of a particularly rollicking
set of boon-companions who knew neither care nor
curfew.

At the first sound, Mrs. Bindle moved swiftly to
the door, where she paused uncertainly. She was in
a quandary. Her conception of good manners did
not admit of a hostess leaving her guests; still something
had to be done.[Pg 78]

At the conclusion of the verse the voice ceased;
but the concertina wailed on. Mrs. Bindle drew
breath. Her guests gazed at one another in a dazed
sort of way. Then with a crash came the chorus,
rendered with enthusiasm:

The applause that followed was annihilating. Accompanying
it again was the curious banging sound
which Mrs. Bindle had noticed before. She was sure
she recognised amid the cries of approval, the sound
of a woman’s voice. That decided her. She had
already noted the absence of Mrs. Hearty and Mrs.
Stitchley.

Without so much as an apology to her guests, who
stood still gazing blankly at one another, Mrs. Bindle
slipped out into the passage, closing the door behind
her, much to the disappointment of the others.

A moment later she threw open the kitchen door,
conscious that one of the most dramatic moments of
her life was at hand.

Through a grey film of tobacco smoke she saw
half-a-dozen men, one seated on the floor, another
on the fender, and two on the table. All were smoking.

About the room were dotted bottles and various[Pg 79]
drinking vessels, mostly cups, whilst on the mantelpiece
were Bindle’s white cuffs, discarded on account
of their inconvenient habit of slipping off at every
movement of his hands.

Mrs. Hearty was seated in front of the dresser,
holding a glass of beer in one hand and beating
her breast with the other, whilst opposite to her
sat Mrs. Stitchley, one hand still clutching the top
of her stay-busk, an idiotic smirk upon her moist
face.

As Mrs. Bindle gazed upon the scene, she was conscious
of a feeling of disappointment; no one seemed
to regard her presence as any deviation from the
normal. Mrs. Stitchley looked up and nodded.
Bindle deliberately avoided her eye.

Mrs. Bindle’s attention became focussed upon the
man seated on her fender. In his hands he grasped
a concertina, before him were stretched a pair of thin
legs in tight blue trousers. Above a violent blue
necktie there rose a pasty face, terminating in a quiff
of amazing dimensions, which glistened greasily in the
gaslight. His heavy-lidded eyes were half-closed,
whilst in his mouth he held a cigarette, the end of
which was most unwholesomely chewed. His whole
demeanour was that of a man who had not yet realised
that the curtain had risen upon a new act in the
drama.

As Mrs. Bindle appeared at the kitchen door, the
concertina once more began to speak. A moment
later the musician threw back his head and gave
tongue, like a hound baying at the moon:[Pg 80]

“Now then, ladies and gents, chorus if you please,”
he cried.

They did please, and soon Mrs. Bindle’s kitchen
echoed with a full-throated rendering of:

It was a doleful refrain, charged with cockney
melancholy; yet there could be no doubt about the
enthusiasm of the singers. Mrs. Hearty spilled
beer over her blue satin bosom, as a result of the
energy with which she beat time; Mrs. Stitchley’s
hand, the one not grasping her stay-busk, was also
beating time, different time from Mrs. Hearty’s, whilst
two light-coloured knees rose and fell with the regularity
of piston-rods, solving for Mrs. Bindle the
mystery of the sounds like the tossing about of bricks
she had heard in the parlour.

Ginger was joining in the chorus!

As the singer started the second verse, Mrs. Bindle
was conscious that someone was behind her. She
turned to find Miss Stitchley standing at her shoulder.
A moment later she realised that the little passage
was overflowing with carol-singers.

Still she made no sign, not even when Miss Stitchley
slipped past her and took up a position behind her[Pg 81]
mother’s chair. Mrs. Bindle realised that she was
faced with a delicate situation.

The second chorus still further complicated matters.
Mrs. Bindle was sure she heard the haunting refrain
mumbled from behind her. She turned quickly;
but treason came from the other direction. Suddenly
Miss Stitchley burst into song, and the passage,
throwing aside its hesitation, joined in, softly it is
true, still it joined in.

“Come in, everybody!” cried Mrs. Stitchley, when
the chorus ceased, momentarily forgetful that it was
Mrs. Bindle’s kitchen.

“Ain’t ‘e clever,” she added, looking admiringly
at the musician, who glanced up casually at the mistress
of the house. Art Wiggins was accustomed to
feminine worship and unlimited beer; he regarded
them as the natural tributes to his genius.

“Come in, the ‘ole lot,” cried Bindle cheerily, as he
proceeded to unscrew the stopper of a bottle. “‘Ave a
wet, Art,” he cried, addressing the vocalist. “You
deserves it.”

The remainder of the parlour-party filtered into
the kitchen, and Mrs. Bindle realised the anguish of
a Louis XVIII. Her legions had gone over to the
enemy.

“Now this,” remarked Mrs. Stitchley to Ginger a
quarter-of-an-hour later, “is wot I calls a cosy
evenin’.”

To which Ginger grumbled something about not
“‘oldin’ wiv women.”

Art Wiggins was the hero of the occasion. He[Pg 82]
smoked halves of endless cigarettes, chewing the remainder;
he drank beer like a personified Sahara, and a
continuous stream of song flowed from his lips.

When at length he paused to eat, Mrs. Stitchley
took up the running, urged on by Bindle, to whom she
had confided that, as a girl, she had achieved what was
almost fame with, “I Heard the Mavis Singing.”

Art Wiggins did not know the tune; but was not
to be deterred.

“Carry on, mother,” he cried through a mouthful
of ham-sandwich, “I’ll pick it up.”

The result was that Art played something strongly
reminiscent of “Bubbles,” whilst Mrs. Stitchley was
telling how she had heard the mavis singing, to the tune
of “Swanee.” It was a great success until Art,
weary of being so long out of the picture, threw
“Bubbles,” “Swanee,” Mrs. Stitchley and the mavis
overboard, and broke into a narrative about a young
man of the name of Bert, who had become enamoured
of a lady whose abbreviated petticoats made an excellent
rhyme for the hero’s name.

Mrs. Stitchley continued singing; but Art and Bert
and the young lady of his choice, plus the concertina,
left her little or no chance.

Like a figure of retribution Mrs. Bindle stood in the
doorway, hard of eye and grim of lip, whilst just behind
her Mr. Hearty picked nervously at the quicks of his
fingers.

The other guests had proved opportunists. They
had thrown over the sacred for the profane.

They came out particularly strong in the choruses.[Pg 83]

III

“I never remember sich a evenin’, my dear,” was
Mrs. Stitchley’s valediction. “Stitchley’ll be sorry
‘e missed it,” she added, indifferent to the fact that
he had not been invited.

She was the last to go, just as she had been the first
to arrive. Throughout the evening she had applauded
every effort of Art Wiggins to add to what Bindle
called “the ‘armony of the evenin’.”

“I have enjoyed it, Mrs. Bindle,” said Miss Stitchley.
“It was lovely.”

With these encomiums ringing in her ears, and
confirmed by what she herself had seen and heard,
Mrs. Bindle closed the door and returned to the kitchen.

Bindle watched her uncertainly as she tidied up
the place, whilst he proceeded to arrange upon the
dresser the beer-bottles, sixteen in number and all
empty.

As a rule he could anticipate Mrs. Bindle’s mood;
but to-night he was frankly puzzled. When he had
asked Huggles and Wilkes to drop in “for a jaw,”
he had not foreseen that on the way they would
encounter Ginger, his cousin Art Wiggins and
two bosom friends of Art, nor could he be expected
to foresee that Art went nowhere without his concertina.
It was as much part of him as his elaborate
quiff.

Their arrival had inspired Bindle with something[Pg 84]
akin to panic. For a long time he had striven to mute
Art’s musical restiveness. At length he had been
over-ruled by the others, and Art had burst into song
about Bill Morgan and his first wife’s funeral. After
that, as well try to dam Niagara as seal those lips of
song.

Mrs. Bindle’s grim silence as she moved about the
kitchen disconcerted Bindle. He was busy speculating
as to what was behind it all.

“Been a ‘appy sort of evenin’,” he remarked at
length, as he proceeded to knock the ashes out of his
pipe.

Mrs. Bindle made no response; but continued to
gather together the plates and glasses and place them
in two separate bowls in the sink.

“Seemed to enjoy theirselves,” he ventured a few
minutes later. “Joined in the choruses too.”

Bindle’s remark was like a shot fired at a waterspout,
Mrs. Bindle’s wrath burst its bounds and engulfed him.

“One of these days you’ll kill me,” she shrilled,
dropping into a chair, “and then p’raps you’ll be
‘appy.”

“Wot ‘ave I done now?” he enquired.

“You’ve made me ashamed of you,” she stormed.
“You’ve humiliated me before all those people. What
must they think, seein’ me married to one who will
suffer unto the third and fourth generation and——”

“But I can’t——”

“You will and you know it,” she cried. “Look
at the men you ‘ad ‘ere to-night. You never been a
proper ‘usband to me. Here have I been toiling and[Pg 85]
moiling, inching and pinching, working my fingers
to the bone for you, and then you treat me like this.”

Bindle began to edge almost imperceptibly towards
the door.

“See how you’ve humiliated me,” her voice began to
quaver. “What will they say at the Chapel? They
know all about you, whistling on Sundays and spending
your time in public-houses, while your wife is working
herself to skin an’ bone to cook your meals and mend
your clothes. What’ll they say now they’ve seen the
low companions you invite to your home? They’ll
see how you respect your wife.”

Still Bindle made no retort; but in a subdued murmur
hummed “Gospel Bells,” Mrs. Bindle’s favourite
hymn, which he used as a snake-charmer uses a
flute.

“You’re glad, I know it,” she continued, exasperated
by his silence. “Glad to see your wife humiliated.
Look at you now! You’re glad.” Her voice was
rising hysterically. “One of these days I shall go out
and never return, and then you’ll be——”

Like a tornado the emotional super-storm burst, and
Mrs. Bindle was in the grip of screaming hysterics.

She laughed, she cried, she exhorted, she reproached.
Everything evil that had ever happened to her, or to the
universe, was directly due to the blackness of Bindle’s
heart and the guiltiness of his conscience. He was
the one barrier between her and earthly heaven. He
had failed where Mr. Hearty had succeeded. She
poured upon him a withering stream of invective,—and
she did it at the top of her voice.[Pg 86]

At first Bindle stared; then he gazed vaguely about
him. He made a sudden dive for the cupboard,
rummaged about until he found the vinegar-bottle.
Pouring some out into a saucer, he filled it up with
water and returned to where Mrs. Bindle sat, slopping
the liquid as he went.

Mrs. Bindle was now engaged in linking him up
with Sodom and Gomorrah, the fate that befell Lot’s
wife and Dr. Crippen. Then, with a final scream,
she slipped from her chair to the floor, where she lay
moaning and sobbing.

With an earnest, anxious look in his eyes, Bindle
knelt beside her and from the saucer proceeded to
sprinkle her generously with vinegar and water, until
in odour she resembled a freshly-made salad.

When he had sprinkled the greater part of the contents
of the saucer on to her person, he sat back on
his heels and, with grave and anxious eyes, regarded
her as a boy might who has lighted the end of a
rocket and waits expectantly to see the result.

Gradually the storm of emotion died down and finally
ceased. He still continued to gaze fixedly at Mrs.
Bindle, convinced that vinegar-and-water was the one
and only cure for hysterics.

Presently, she straightened herself. She moved, then
struggling up into a sitting position, she looked about
her. The unaccustomed smell assailed her nostrils
she sniffed sharply two or three times.

“What have you been doing?” she demanded.

“I been bringin’ you to,” he said, his forehead
still ribbed with anxiety.[Pg 87]

“Oh! you beast, you!” she moaned, as she
struggled to her feet. “You done it on purpose.”

“Done wot on purpose?” he enquired.

“Poured vinegar all over me and soaked me to the
skin. You’ve spoilt my dress. You——” and with
a characteristically sudden movement, she turned and
fled from the room and upstairs, banging the door
with a ferocity that shook the whole house.

“Well, I’m blowed!” he muttered. “An’ me
thinkin’ she’d like me to bring ‘er round,” and he
slipped out into the parlour, which wore a very obvious
morning-after-the-party aspect. His object was to
give Mrs. Bindle an opportunity of returning. He
knew her to be incapable of going to bed with her
kitchen untidy.

He ate a sausage-roll and a piece of the admonitory
jam-tart, listening keenly for sounds of Mrs. Bindle
descending the stairs. Finally he seated himself on
the stamped-plush couch and absent-mindedly lighted
his pipe.

Presently he heard a soft tread upon the stairs, as
if someone were endeavouring to descend without
noise. He sighed his relief.

Ten minutes later he rose and stretched himself
sleepily. There were obvious sounds of movement
in the kitchen.

“Now if I wasn’t the bloomin’ coward wot I am,”
he remarked, as he took a final look round, “I’d light
them two candles; but I ain’t got the pluck.”

With that he turned out the gas and closed the door.

“You take those bottles into the scullery and be[Pg 88]
quick about it,” was Mrs. Bindle’s greeting as he
entered the kitchen.

She fixed her eye on the platoon of empty beer-bottles
that Bindle had assembled upon the dresser.

He paused in the act of digging into his pipe with a
match-stick. He had been prepared for the tail-end
of a tornado, and this slight admonitory puff surprised
him.

“Well! did you hear?”

Without a word the pipe was slipped into his pocket,
and picking up a brace of bottles in either hand he
passed into the scullery.

As he did so a strange glint sprang into Mrs. Bindle’s
eyes. With a panther-like movement she dashed
across to the scullery door, slammed it to and turned
the key. A second later the kitchen was in darkness,
and Mrs. Bindle was on her way upstairs to bed.

The continuous banging upon the scullery door as
she proceeded leisurely to undress was as sweet music
to her ears.

That night Bindle slept indifferently well.[Pg 89]

CHAPTER IV

THE COMING OF JOSEPH THE SECOND

“Why can’t you drink your tea like a Christian?”
Mrs. Bindle hurled the words
at Bindle as if she hoped they would
hit him.

He gazed at her over the edge of the saucerful of
tea, which he had previously cooled by blowing noisily
upon it. A moment later he proceeded to empty the
saucer with a sibilant sound suggestive of relish. He
then replaced it upon the table.

“Might as well be among pigs, the way you behave
at table,” she snapped and, as if to emphasise her
own refinement in taking liquids, she lifted her cup
delicately to her lips, the little finger of her right hand
crooked at an awkward angle.

Bindle leaned slightly towards her, his hand to his
ear. Ignoring his attitude, she replaced the cup in
the saucer.

“You done that fine, Mrs. B. I didn’t ‘ear a sound,”
and he grinned in that provocative manner which
always fanned the flame of her anger.

“Pity you don’t learn yourself, instead of behaving
as you do.”

“But ‘ow am I to know ‘ow a Christian drinks?”[Pg 90]
he demanded, harking back to Mrs. Bindle’s remark.
“There’s ‘Earty now, ‘e’s a Christian; but he sucks
in ‘is whiskers as if ‘e was ‘ungry.”

“Oh! don’t talk to me,” was the impatient
response, as she proceeded to pour herself out another
cup of tea.

“Wotjer marry me for, then? I told you I was
always chatty at breakfast.”

“Don’t be disgusting!” she cried angrily. He
stared at her in genuine astonishment. “You know
I never allowed you to say such things to me before
we were married.”

“Well, I’m blowed!” he muttered as he pushed
across his cup that it might be refilled.

“Millie’s coming this afternoon.”

“Millie!” he cried, his face beaming. “She all
right again?”

“Don’t be disgusting,” she said.

“Disgustin’,” he repeated vaguely. Then understanding
came to him.

Millie Dixon, née Hearty, had, some weeks previously,
presented her husband with “a little Joe.” These had
been her first words to Charley Dixon when he, still
partially in the grip of the terror through which he
had passed, had been taken by the nurse to be introduced
to his son and heir, whilst a pale, tired Millie
smiled bravely up at him.

To Mrs. Bindle the very mention of the word
“babies” in mixed company was an offence. The
news that he was an uncle had reached Bindle from
Mrs. Hearty, Mr. Hearty sharing his sister-in-law’s[Pg 91]
views upon reticence in such delicate and personal
matters.

“She goin’ to bring it with ‘er?” Bindle enquired
eagerly; but Mrs. Bindle, anticipating such a question,
had risen and, going over to the sink, had turned on
the tap, allowing the question to pass in a rushing of
water.

“Funny feelin’ like that about babies,” he muttered
as he rose from the table, his meal completed. “I
suppose that’s why she wouldn’t let me keep rabbits.”

“Charley’s coming in later; he’s going to mend
Aunt Anne’s musical-box,” was Mrs. Bindle’s next
announcement.

Bindle whistled incredulously.

“What’s the matter now?”

“You ain’t goin’ to trust ‘im with Ole Dumb
Abraham, are you?” he asked in a hushed voice.

“And why not, pray?” she challenged. “Millie
says Charley is very clever at mending things, and it’s
never played.”

Bindle said nothing. The musical-box had been
left to Mrs. Bindle by “poor Aunt Anne”—Mrs.
Bindle referred to all dead relatives as “poor”; it
was her one unconscious blasphemy. Dumb Abraham,
as Bindle called the relic, had always been the most
sacred among Mrs. Bindle’s household gods. It had
arrived dumb, and dumb it had remained, as she would
never hear of it leaving the house to be put in order.

If Bindle ever went into the parlour after dark, he
was always told to be careful of Aunt Anne’s musical
box. Many a battle had been waged over its dumb[Pg 92]
ugliness. Once he had rested for a moment upon its
glassy surface a half-smoked cigar, a thoughtless act
which had resulted in one of the stormiest passages of
their married life.

“Well!” challenged Mrs. Bindle, as he remained
silent.

“I didn’t say anythink,” he mumbled, picking up
his cap and making for the door, thankful that it was
Saturday, and that he would be home in time to see
his beloved niece.

That afternoon Bindle arrived home with his pockets
bulging, and several parcels of varying sizes under his
arm.

“What have you got there?” demanded Mrs.
Bindle, who was occupied in spreading a white cloth
upon the kitchen table.

“Oh! jest a few things for ‘is Nibs,” was the
response.

“For who?”

“The nipper,” he explained, as he proceeded to
unburden himself of the parcels, laying them on the
dresser.

“I wish you’d try and talk like a Christian,” and
she banged a metal tea-tray upon the table.

Bindle ignored her remark. He was engaged in
taking from its wrappings a peculiarly hideous rag-doll.

Mrs. Bindle paused in her preparations to watch the
operation.

“What’s that for?” she demanded aggressively.

“Millie’s kid,” he replied, devoting himself to the
opening of other packages, and producing a monkey-[Pg 93]on-a-stick,
an inexpensive teddy-bear, a jack-in-the-box
and several metal animals, which on being blown
through emitted strident noises.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, wasting
money on hideous things like that. They’d frighten
the poor child to death.”

“Frighten ‘im!” he cried. “These ain’t goin’ to
frighten ‘im. You wait an’ ‘ear wot ‘e’s got to say
about ’em.”

“You just clear those things out of my kitchen,”
was the uncompromising rejoinder. “I won’t have
the poor child sent into convulsions because you’re
a fool.”

There was something in her voice which caused
Bindle meekly to gather together the toys and carry
them out of the kitchen and upstairs, where he placed
them in a drawer devoted entirely to his own possessions.

“Well, I’m blowed,” he murmured, as he laid them
one beside another. “And me a-thinkin’ they’d make
‘im laugh;” with that he closed the drawer, determined
that, at least, Millie should see the toys that
were as much a tribute to her as to her offspring.

“Fancy little Millikins ‘avin’ a kid all of ‘er own,”
he muttered, as he descended the stairs, “‘er wot I used
to dangle on my knee till she crowed again. Well,
well,” he added as he opened the kitchen door, “we
ain’t none of us gettin’ younger.”

“Wot’s that?” enquired Mrs. Bindle.

“Merely a sort o’ casual remark that none of us
ain’t puttin’ back the clock.”[Pg 94]

Mrs. Bindle sniffed disdainfully, and busied herself
with preparations for tea.

“Why didn’t you tell me before that Millikins was
comin’?” he enquired.

“Because you’re never in as any other decent
husband is.”

He recognised the portents and held his peace.

When Mrs. Bindle was busy, her temper had a
tendency to be on what Bindle called “the short side,”
and then even her favourite hymn, “Gospel Bells,”
frequently failed to stem the tide of her wrath.

“Ain’t we goin’ to ‘ave tea in the parlour?” he
enquired presently, as Mrs. Bindle smoothed the cloth
over the kitchen table.

“No, we’re not,” she snapped, thinking it unnecessary
to add that Millie had particularly requested that
she might have it “in your lovely kitchen,” because
she was “one of the family.”

Although Bindle infinitely preferred the kitchen to
that labyrinth of furniture and knick-knacks known
as the parlour, he felt that the occasion demanded the
discomfort consequent upon ceremony. He was, however,
too wise to criticise the arrangement; for Mrs.
Bindle’s temper and tongue were of a known sharpness
that counselled moderation.

She had made no mention of the time of Millie’s
arrival, and Bindle decided not to take the risk of
enquiring. He contented himself with hovering about,
getting under Mrs. Bindle’s feet, as she expressed it,
and managing to place himself invariably in the exact
spot she was making for.[Pg 95]

If he sat on a chair, Mrs. Bindle seemed suddenly
to discover that it required dusting. If he took refuge
in a corner, Mrs. Bindle promptly dived into it with
an “Oh! get out of my way, do,” and he would do a
swift side-step, only to make for what was the high-road
of her next strategic move.

“Why don’t you go out like you always do?” she
demanded at one point.

“Because Millikins is comin’,” he replied simply.

“Yes, you can stay at home for—when somebody’s
coming,” she amended, “but other days you leave me
alone for weeks together.”

“But when I do stay at ‘ome you ‘ustles me about
like a stray goat,” he complained, only just succeeding
in avoiding a sudden dash on Mrs. Bindle’s part.

“That’s right, go on. Blame everything on to me,”
she cried, as she made a swift dive for the stove, and
proceeded to poke the fire as if determined to break
the fire-brick at the back. “If you’d only been a
proper ‘usband to me I might have been different.”

Bindle slipped across the kitchen and stepped out
into the passage. Here he remained until Mrs. Bindle
suddenly threw open the kitchen door.

“What are you standing there for?” she demanded
angrily.

“So as not to get in the way,” was the meek reply.

“You want to be able to tell Millie that you were
turned out of the kitchen,” she stormed. “I know
you and your mean, deceitful ways. Well, stay there
if you like it!” and she banged the door, and Bindle
heard the key turn in the lock.[Pg 96]

“There’s one thing about Mrs. B.,” he remarked, as
he leaned against the wall, “she ain’t dull.”

When at length the expected knock came, it was Mrs.
Bindle who darted out and opened the door to admit
Millie Dixon, carrying in her arms the upper end of
what looked like a cascade of white lace.

A sudden fit of shyness seized Bindle, and he
retreated to the kitchen; whilst aunt and niece greeted
one another in the passage.

“Where’s Uncle Joe?” he heard Millie ask presently.

“I’m ‘ere, Millikins,” he called-out, “cookin’ the
veal for that there young prodigal.”

A moment later Millie, flushed and happy, fluttered
into the room, still holding the cascade of lace.

“Darling Uncle Joe,” she cried, advancing towards
him.

He took a step backwards, a look of awe in his eyes,
which were fixed upon the top of the cascade.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me, Uncle Joe?” she asked,
holding up her face.

“Kiss you, my dear, why——” Bindle was seized
with a sudden huskiness in his voice, as he leaned
forward gingerly and kissed the warm red lips held out
to him.

“Is that It?” he asked, looking down with troubled
eyes at Millie’s burden.

“This is Little Joe,” she said softly, the wonder-light
of motherhood in her eyes, as she placed one foot
on the rail of a chair to support her precious burden,
thus releasing her right hand to lift the veil from a red[Pg 97]
and puckered face, out of which gazed a pair of filmy
blue eyes.

“Ooooooosssss.” Instinctively Bindle drew a deep
breath as he bent a few inches forward.

For fully a minute he stood absorbing all there was
to be seen of Joseph the Second.

“‘E ain’t very big, is ‘e?” he enquired, raising his
eyes to Millie’s.

“He’s only six weeks old,” snapped Mrs. Bindle, who
had followed Millie into the kitchen and now stood,
with ill-concealed impatience, whilst Bindle was
gazing at the infant. “What did you expect?” she
demanded.

“Don’t ‘e look ‘ot?” said Bindle at length, his forehead
seamed with anxiety.

“Hot, Uncle Joe?” enquired Millie, unable to keep
from her voice a tinge of the displeasure of a mother
who hears her offspring criticised.

“I mean ‘e don’t look strong,” he added hastily,
conscious that he had said the wrong thing.

“Don’t be silly, Uncle Joe, he’s just a wee little baby,
aren’t you, bootiful boy?” and she gazed at the red
face in a way that caused Bindle to realise that his
niece was now a woman.

“‘E’s the very spit of ‘is old uncle, ain’t ‘e?” and
he turned to Mrs. Bindle for corroboration.

She ignored the remark; but Millie smiled sympathetically.

“I ‘ad a takin’ way with me when I was a little
‘un,” continued Bindle reminiscently. “Why, once I
was nearly kissed by a real lady—one with a title, too.”[Pg 98]

“Oh! do tell me, Uncle Joe,” cried Millie, looking
at him with that odd little lift of the brows, which
always made Charley want to kiss her. She had heard
the story a score of times before.

“Well, ‘er ‘usband was a-tryin’ to get into Parliament,
an’ ‘is wife, wot was the lady, came round a-askin’
people to vote for ‘im. Seein’ me in my mother’s arms,
she says, ‘Wot a pretty child.’ You see, Millikins,
looks was always my strong point,” and he paused in
the narrative to grin.

“Then she bends down to kiss me,” he continued,
“an’ jest at that moment wot must I go and do but
sneeze, an’ that’s ‘ow I missed a kiss an’ ‘er
‘usband a vote.”

“Poor Uncle Joe,” laughed Millie, making a little
motion with her arms towards Mrs. Bindle.

Without a word, Mrs. Bindle took the precious bundle
of lace, out of which two filmy eyes gazed vacantly.
With a swaying movement she began to croon a
meaningless tune, that every now and then seemed as
if it might develop into “Gospel Bells”; yet always
hesitated on the brink and became diverted into something
else.

The baby turned on her a solemn, appraising look
of interrogation, then, apparently approving of the
tune, settled down comfortably to enjoy it.

Bindle regarded Mrs. Bindle with wonder. Into her
eyes had crept a something he had only once seen
there before, and that was on the occasion he had
brought Millie to Fenton Street when she left home.

Seeing that “Baby” was content, Millie dropped[Pg 99]
into a chair with a tired little sigh, her eyes fixed upon
the precious bundle of lace containing what would one
day be a man.

Mrs. Bindle continued to sway and croon in a way
that seemed to Little Joe’s entire satisfaction.

“Aren’t you glad we called him after you, Uncle
Joe?” said Millie, tearing her eyes with difficulty from
the bundle and turning them upon Bindle.

“Yer aunt told me,” he said simply.

“Oh! I do hope he’ll grow up like you, Uncle Joe,
dear Uncle Joe,” she cried, clasping her hands in her
earnestness, as if that might help to make good her
wish.

“Like me?” There was wonder and incredulity
in his voice.

“Charley says he must grow up like you, darling
Uncle Joe. You see——” She broke off as Bindle
suddenly turned and, without a word, made for the
door. A moment later it banged-to behind him
arousing Mrs. Bindle from her pre-occupation.

“Where’s your Uncle gone?” she enquired, lifting
her eyes from their absorbed contemplation of the
flaming features of her nephew.

“He’s—he’s gone to fetch something,” lied Millie.
Instinctively she felt that this was an occasion that
called for anything but the truth. She had seen the
unusual brightness of Bindle’s eyes.

From the passage he was heard vigorously blowing
his nose.

“It’s them toys he’s after,” said Mrs. Bindle, with
scornful conviction.[Pg 100]

“Toys?” Millie looked up enquiringly.

“He bought a lot of hideous things for this little
precious,” and her eyes fell upon the bundle in her arms,
her lips breaking into a curve that Bindle had never
seen.

“You see, Millie,” she continued, “he doesn’t know.
We’ve neither chick nor child of——” She broke off
suddenly, and bowed her head low over the baby.

In a second Millie was on her feet, her arm round
Mrs. Bindle’s shoulders.

“Dear Aunt Lizzie!” she cried, her voice a little
unsteady. “Darling Aunt Lizzie. I—I know—I——”

At this point Joseph the Second, objecting to the
pressure to which he was being subjected between the
two emotional bosoms, raised his voice in protest, just
as Bindle entered, his arms full of the toys he had
bought.

He stood in the doorway, gaping with amazement.

As Mrs. Bindle caught sight of him, she blinked
rapidly.

“Don’t bring that rubbish in here,” she cried with
a return to her normal manner. “You’ll frighten the
child out of its life.”

“Oh! Uncle Joe,” cried Millie, as Bindle deposited
the toys on the table. “I think you’re the darlingest
uncle in all the world.”

There were tears in the eyes she turned on him.

Mrs. Bindle swung her back on the pair, as Bindle
proceeded to explain the virtues and mechanism of
his purchases. She was convinced that such monstrosities
would produce in little Joseph nothing less[Pg 101]
than convulsions, probably resulting in permanent
injury to his mind.

Whilst they were thus engaged, Mrs. Bindle walked
up and down the kitchen, absorbed in the baby.

“Auntie Lizzie,” cried Millie presently, “please
bring Little Joe here.”

Mrs. Bindle hesitated. “They’ll frighten him,
Millie,” she said, with a gentleness in her voice that
caused Bindle to look quickly up at her.

To disprove the statement, and with all the assurance
of a young mother, Millie seized the rag-doll and a
diminutive golliwog, and held them over the recumbent
form of Joseph the Second.

In an instant a pudgy little hand was thrust up,
followed immediately after by another, and Joseph
the Second demonstrated with all his fragile might
that, as far as toys were concerned, he was at one with
his uncle.

Bindle beamed with delight. Seizing the monkey-on-a-stick
he proceeded vigorously to work it up
and down. The pudgy hands raised themselves
again.

“Oh! let Uncle Joe hold him,” cried Millie, in
ecstasy at the sight of the dawning intelligence on the
baby’s face.

“Me!” cried Bindle in horror, stepping back as if
he had been asked to foster-mother a vigorous young
rattlesnake. “Me ‘old It?” He looked uncertainly
at Mrs. Bindle and then again at Millie. “Not for an
old-age pension.”

“He’ll make him cry,” said Mrs. Bindle with con[Pg 102]viction,
hugging Little Joe closer and increasing the
swaying movement.

“Oh yes, you must!” cried Millie gaily. “I’ll take
him, Auntie Lizzie,” she said, turning to Mrs. Bindle,
who manifested reluctance to relinquish the bundle.

“I might ‘urt ‘im,” protested Bindle, retreating a
step further, his forehead lined with anxiety.

“Now, Uncle Joe,” commanded Millie, extending the
bundle, “put your arms out.”

Bindle extended his hands as might a child who is
expecting to be caned. There was reluctance in the
movement, and a suggestion that at any moment he
was prepared to withdraw them suddenly.

“Not that way,” snapped Mrs. Bindle, with all the
scorn of a woman’s superior knowledge.

Millie settled the matter by thrusting the bundle
into Bindle’s arms and he had, perforce, to clasp it.

He looked about him wildly, then, his eyes happening
to catch those of Joseph the Second, he forgot his
responsibilities, and began winking rapidly and in a
manner that seemed entirely to Little Joe’s satisfaction.

“Oh, Auntie Lizzie, look,” cried Millie. “Little
Joe loves Uncle Joe already.” The inspiration of
motherhood had enabled her to interpret a certain
slobbering movement about Little Joe’s lips as affection.

“Oh, look!” she cried again, as one chubby little
hand was raised as if in salutation. “Auntie
Lizzie——” She suddenly broke off. She had caught
sight of the tense look on Mrs. Bindle’s face as she
gazed at the baby, and the hunger in her eyes.

Without a word she seized the bundle from Bindle’s[Pg 103]
arms and placed it in those of her aunt, which instinctively
curved themselves to receive the precious
burden.

“There, darling Joeykins,” she crooned as she bent
over her baby’s face, as if to shield from Mrs. Bindle
any momentary disappointment it might manifest.
“Go to Auntie Lizzie.”

“‘Ere, wot ‘ave I——?” began Bindle, when he
was interrupted by a knock at the outer door.

“That’s Charley,” cried Millie, dancing towards the
door in a most unmatronly manner. “Come along,
Uncle Joe, he’s going to mend the musical-box,” and
with that she tripped down the passage, had opened
the door and was greeting her husband almost before
Bindle had left the kitchen.

“Come in here,” she cried, opening the parlour
door, and hardly giving Bindle time to greet Charley.

“‘Ere,” cried Bindle, “why——?”

“Never mind, Uncle Joe, Charley’s going to mend
the musical-box.”

“But wot about it—’im,” Bindle corrected himself,
indicating the kitchen with a jerk of his thumb.

“Charley’s-going-to-mend-the-musical-box,” she repeated
with great distinctness. And again Bindle
marvelled at the grown-upness of her.

He looked across at his nephew, a puzzled expression
creasing his forehead.

“Better do as she says, Uncle Joe,” laughed Charley.
“It saves time.”

“But——” began Bindle.

“There it is, Charley,” cried Millie, indicating a[Pg 104]
mahogany object, with glass top and sides that gave an
indelicate view of its internal organism. Being a
dutiful husband, Charley lifted down the box and
placed it on to the table.

“For Gawd’s sake be careful of Ole Dumb Abraham,”
cried Bindle. “If——”

“Of who?” cried Millie, her pretty brows puckered.

Bindle explained, watching with anxious eyes as
Charley lifted the treasure from the small table on
which it habitually rested, and placed it upon the
centre table, where Millie had cleared a space.

Charley’s apparent unconcern gave Bindle an
unpleasant feeling at the base of his spine. He had
been disciplined to regard the parlour as holy ground,
and the musical-box as the holiest thing it contained.

For the next three-quarters of an hour Bindle and
Millie watched Charley, as, with deft fingers, he took
the affair to pieces and put it together again.

Finally, with much coaxing and a little oil, he got it
to give forth an anæmic interpretation of “The Keel
Row.” Then it gurgled, slowed down and gave up the
struggle, in consequence of which Charley made further
incursions into its interior.

Becoming accustomed to the thought of Aunt
Anne’s legacy being subjected to the profanation of
screw-driver and oil-bottle, Bindle sat down by the
window, and proceeded to exchange confidences with
Millie, who had made it clear to him that her aunt and
son were to be left to their tête-à-tête undisturbed.

The conversation between uncle and niece was
punctuated by snatches from “The Keel Row,” as[Pg 105]
Charley was successful in getting the sluggish mechanism
of Dumb Abraham into temporary motion.

Occasionally he would give expression to a hiss or
murmur of impatience, and Millie would smile across
at him an intimate little smile of sympathy.

Suddenly, gaunt tragedy stalked into the room.

Crash!

“My Gawd!”

“Oh, Charley!”

“Damn!”

And Poor Aunt Anne’s musical-box lay on the floor,
a ruin of splintered glass.

Charley Dixon sucked a damaged thumb, Millie
clung to his arm, solicitous and enquiring, whilst
Bindle gazed down at the broken mass, fear in his eyes,
and a sense of irretrievable disaster clutching at his
heart.

Charley began to explain, Millie demanded to see
the damaged thumb—but Bindle continued to gaze at
the sacred relic.

Five minutes later, the trio left the parlour. As
noiselessly as conspirators they tip-toed along the
passage to the kitchen door, which stood ajar.

Through the aperture Mrs. Bindle could be seen
seated at the table, Joseph the Second reposing in the
crook of her left arm, whilst she, with her right hand,
was endeavouring to work the monkey-on-a-stick.

In her eyes was a strange softness, a smile broke the
hard lines of her mouth, whilst from her lips came an
incessant flow of baby language.

For several minutes they watched. They saw Mrs.[Pg 106]
Bindle lay aside the monkey-on-a-stick, and bend over
the babe, murmuring the sounds that come by instinct
to every woman’s lips.

At a sign from Millie, they entered. Mrs. Bindle
glanced over her shoulder in their direction; but other
and weightier matters claimed her attention.

“Lizzie,” began Bindle, who had stipulated that he
should break the awful news, urging as his reason that
it had to be done with “tack.” He paused. Mrs.
Bindle took no notice; but continued to bend over
Little Joe, making strange sounds.

“Lizzie——” he began, paused, then in a rush the
words came. “We broken the musical-box.”

He stopped, that the heavens might have an opportunity
of falling.

“Did-he-love-his-Auntie-Lizzie-blossom-um-um-um-um.”

Charley and Millie exchanged glances; but Bindle
was too intent upon his disastrous mission to be
conscious of anything but the storm he knew was about
to break.

“Did you ‘ear, Lizzie,” he continued. “We broken
the musical-box. Smashed it all to smithereens.
Done for it,” he added, as if to leave no loophole for
misconception as to the appalling nature of the tragedy.

He held his breath, as one who has just tugged at
the cord of a shower-bath.

“Oh! go away do!” she cried. “Um-um-um-um-prettyums.”

“Pore Aunt Anne’s musical-box,” he repeated dully.
“It’s smashed.”[Pg 107]

“Oh, bother the musical-box! Um-um-um-per-weshus-um-um-um.”

Mrs. Bindle had not even looked up.

It was Millie who shepherded the others back into
the parlour, where Bindle mopped his brow, with the
air of a man who, having met death face to face, has
survived.

“Well, I’m blowed!” was all he said.

And Millie smiled across at Charley, a smile of
superior understanding.[Pg 108]

CHAPTER V

MRS. BINDLE BURNS INCENSE

“I wonder you allow that girl to wear such
disgusting clothes.”

For the last five minutes Mrs. Bindle had
been watching Alice, Mrs. Hearty’s maid, as she
moved about the room, tidying-up. The girl had
just returned from her evening out, and her first act
had been to bring Mrs. Hearty her nightly glass of
Guinness and “snack of bread-and-cheese,” an enormous
crust torn from a new cottage loaf and plentifully
spread with butter, flanked by about a quarter-of-a-pound
of cheese. Now that the girl had left
the room, Mrs. Bindle could contain herself no longer.

Mrs. Hearty was a woman upon whom fat had
descended as a disguise. Her manifold chins rippled
downwards until they became absorbed in the gigantic
wave of her bust. She had a generous appetite,
and was damned with a liking for fat-forming foods.

With her sister she had nothing in common; but
in Bindle she had found a kindred spirit. The very
sight of him would invariably set her heaving and
pulsating with laughter and protestations of “Oh,
Joe, don’t!”

For response to her sister’s comment, Mrs. Hearty[Pg 109]
took a deep draught of Guinness and then, with a
film of froth still upon her upper lip, she retorted,
“It’s ‘er night out,” and relapsed into wheezes and
endeavours to regain her breath.

Mrs. Bindle was not in a good humour. She had
called hoping to find Mr. Hearty returned from choir-practice,
after which was to be announced the deacons’
decision as to who was to succeed Mr. Smithers in
training the choir.

Her brother-in-law’s success was with her something
between an inspiration and a hobby. It became
the absorbing interest in life, outside the chapel and
her home. No wife, or mother, ever watched the
progress of a husband, or son, with keener interest,
or greater admiration, than Mrs. Bindle that of Mr.
Hearty.

As a girl, she had been pleasure-loving. There were
those who even went to the extent of regarding her
as flighty. She attended theatres and music-halls,
which she had not then regarded as “places of sin,”
and her contemporaries classified her as something
of a flirt; but disillusionment had come with marriage.
She soon realised that she had made the great and
unforgivable mistake of marrying the wrong man.
It turned her from the “carnal,” and was the cause
of her joining the Alton Road Chapel, at which Mr.
Hearty worshipped.

From that date she began a careful and elaborate
preparation for the next world.

Although she nightly sought the Almighty to forgive
her her trespasses, volunteering the information[Pg 110]
that she in turn would forgive those who trespassed
against her, she never forgave Bindle for his glib
and ready tongue, which had obscured her judgment
to the extent of allowing to escape from the matrimonial
noose, a potential master-greengrocer with
three shops.

There was nothing in her attitude towards Mr.
Hearty suggestive of sentiment. She was a woman,
and she bowed the knee at an altar where women
love to worship.

“I call it——” Mrs. Bindle stopped short as Alice
re-entered the room with a small dish of pickled
onions, without which Mrs. Hearty would have found
it impossible to sleep.

With a woman’s instinct, Alice realised that Mrs.
Bindle disapproved of her low-cut, pale blue blouse,
and the short skirt that exposed to the world’s gaze
so much of the nether Alice.

“You ain’t been lonely, mum?” she queried
solicitously, as she took a final look round before
going to bed, to see that everything was in order.

Mrs. Hearty shook her head and undulated violently.

“It’s my breath,” she panted, and proceeded to
hit her chest with the flat of her doubled-up fist.
“‘Ad a nice time?” she managed to gasp in the tone
of a mistress who knows and understands, and is
known and understood by, her maid.

“Oh! it was lovely,” cried Alice ecstatically. “I
went to the pictures with”—she hesitated and blushed—”a
friend,” then, pride getting the better of self-consciousness,
she added, “a gentleman friend, mum.[Pg 111]
There was a filum about a young girl running away
with ‘er boy on a horse who turned out to be a millionaire
and she looked lovely in her veil and orange-blossom
and ‘im that ‘andsome.”

“And when’s it to be, Alice?” enquired Mrs.
Hearty, between the assaults upon her chest.

“Oh, mum!” giggled Alice, and a moment later
she had disappeared round the door, with a “Good
night, mum, mind you sleeps well.”

“I’m surprised the way you let that girl talk to
you, Martha,” snapped Mrs. Bindle, almost before the
door had closed behind the retreating Alice. “You
allow her to be too familiar. If you give them an
inch, they’ll take an ell,” she added.

“She’s a good gal,” gasped Mrs. Hearty, as she
lifted the glass of Guinness to her lips. “It’s gone
orf,” she added a moment later. “It ain’t wot it
used to be,” and she shook a despondent head as she
replaced the almost empty glass upon the table.

“You’d be better without it,” was the unsympathetic
rejoinder, then, not to be diverted from the
topic of Alice and her scanty attire, Mrs. Bindle added,
“Her blouse was disgusting, and as for her skirt,
I should be ashamed for her to be seen entering my
house.”

Mrs. Bindle believed in appearances as she believed
in “the Lord,” and it is open to question, if the two
had at any time clashed, whether appearances would
have been sacrificed.

“She’s all right,” wheezed Mrs. Hearty comfortably,
through a mouthful of bread-and-cheese.[Pg 112]

“The way girls dress now makes me hot all over,”
snapped Mrs. Bindle. “The police ought to stop
it.”

“They,”—with a gigantic swallow Mrs. Hearty
reduced the bread-and-cheese to conversational
proportions,—”they like it,” she gasped at length,
and broke into ripples and wheezes.

“Don’t be disgusting, Martha. You make me
ashamed. You ought to speak to Alice. It’s not
respectable, her going about like that.”

Mrs. Hearty made an effort to speak; but the
words failed to penetrate the barrage of bread-and-cheese—Mrs.
Hearty did everything with gusto.

“Supposing I was to go out in a short skirt like
that. What would you say then?”

“You—you ain’t got the legs, Lizzie,” and Mrs.
Hearty was off into a paroxysm of gasps and undulations.

“Oh don’t, don’t,” she gasped, as if Mrs. Bindle
were responsible for her agony. “You’ll be the
death of me,” she cried, as she wiped her eyes with a
soiled pocket-handkerchief.

To Mrs. Hearty, laughter came as an impulse and
an agony. She would implore the world at large not
to make her laugh, heaving and shaking as she protested.
She was good-natured, easy-going, and
popular with her friends, who marvelled at what it
was she had seen in the sedate and decorous Mr.
Hearty to prompt her to marry him.

During her sister’s paroxysm, Mrs. Bindle preserved[Pg 113]
a dignified silence. She always deplored Mrs. Hearty’s
lack of self-control.

“There are the neighbours to consider,” she continued
at length. Mrs. Bindle’s thoughts were always
with her brother-in-law. “Look how low her blouse
was.”

“It’s ‘ealthy,” puffed Mrs. Hearty, who could
always be depended upon to find excuses for a black
sheep’s blackness.

“I call it disgusting.” Mrs. Bindle’s mouth shut
with a snap.

“You——” Mrs. Hearty’s reply was stifled in
a sudden fit of coughing. She heaved and struggled
for breath, while her face took on a deep purple hue.

Mrs. Bindle rose and proceeded to bestow a series
of resounding smacks with the flat of her hand upon
Mrs. Hearty’s ample back. There was a heartiness in
the blows that savoured of the Old rather than the New
Testament.

Nearly five minutes elapsed before Mrs. Hearty
was sufficiently recovered to explain that a crumb had
gone the wrong way.

“Serves you right for encouraging that girl in her
wickedness,” was Mrs. Bindle’s unsympathetic comment
as she returned to her chair. Vaguely she saw in
her sister’s paroxysm, the rebuke of a frowning Providence.

“You wasn’t always like wot you are now,”
complained Mrs. Hearty at length.

“I never dressed anything like that girl.” There
was a note of fierceness in Mrs. Bindle’s voice,[Pg 114]
“and I defy you to say I did, Martha Hearty, so
there.”

“Didn’t I ‘ave to speak to you once about your
stockings?” Mrs. Hearty’s recent attack seemed to
have rendered speech easier.

“No wonder you choke,” snapped Mrs. Bindle
angrily, “saying things like that.”

“Didn’t the boys shout after you ‘yaller legs’?”
she gasped, determined to get the full flavour out of
the incident. “They wasn’t worn coloured then.”

“I wonder you aren’t afraid of being struck dead,”
cried Mrs. Bindle furiously.

“And you goin’ out in muslin and a thin petticoat,
and yer legs showin’ through and the lace on——”

“Don’t you dare——” Mrs. Bindle stopped, her
utterance strangled. Her face was scarlet, and in
her eyes was murder. She was conscious that her
past was a past of vanity; but those were days she
had put behind her, days when she would spend
every penny she could scrape together upon her
person.

But Mrs. Hearty was oblivious to the storm of
anger that her words had aroused in her sister’s heart.
The recollection of the yellow stockings and the
transparent muslin frock was too much for her, and
she was off into splutters and wheezes of mirth, among
which an occasional “Oh don’t!” was distinguishable.

“I don’t know what’s coming to girls, I’m sure,”
cried Mrs. Bindle at length. She had to some extent
regained her composure, and was desirous of turning
the conversation from herself. She lived in fear of[Pg 115]
her sister’s frankness; Mrs. Hearty never censored a
wardrobe before speaking of it.

“They’re a lot of brazen hussies,” continued Mrs.
Bindle, “displaying themselves like they do. I can’t
think why they do it.”

“Men!” grunted Mrs. Hearty.

“Don’t be disgusting, Martha.”

“You always was a fool, Lizzie,” said Mrs. Hearty
good-humouredly.

Mrs. Bindle was determined not to allow the subject
of Alice’s indelicate display of her person to escape
her. She had merely been waiting her opportunity
to return to the charge.

“You should think of Mr. Hearty,” she said
unctuously; “he’s got a position to keep up, and
people will talk, seeing that girl going out like that.”

At this, Mrs. Hearty once more became helpless
with suppressed laughter. Her manifold chins
vibrated, tears streamed down her cheeks, and she
wheezed and gasped and struck her chest, fierce,
resounding blows.

“Oh, my God!” she gasped at length. “You’ll
be the death of me, Lizzie,” and then another wave
of laughter assailed her, and she was off again.

Presently, as the result of an obvious effort, she
spluttered, “‘E likes it, too,” she ended in a little
scream of laughter. “You watch him. Oh, oh, I
shall die!” she gasped.

“Martha, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,”
she cried angrily. “You’re as bad as Bindle.”

For fully a minute, Mrs. Hearty rocked and heaved,[Pg 116]
as she strove to find utterance for something that
seemed to be stifling her.

“You don’t know Alf!” she gasped at length, as she
mopped her face with the dingy pocket-handkerchief.
“Alice gives notice,” she managed to gasp. “Alf
tries to kiss——” and speech once more forsook
her.

The look in Mrs. Bindle’s eyes was that she usually
kept for blasphemers. Mr. Hearty was the god of
her idolatry, impeccable, austere and unimpeachable.
The mere suggestion that he should behave in a way
she would not expect even Bindle to behave, filled her
with loathing, and she determined that her sister
would eventually share the fate of Sapphira.

“Martha, you’re a disgrace,” she cried, rising.
“You might at least have the decency not to drag
Mr. Hearty’s name into your unclean conversation.
I think you owe him an apology for——”

At that moment the door opened, and Mr. Hearty
entered.

“Didn’t you, Alf?” demanded Mrs. Hearty.

“Didn’t I what, Martha?” asked Mr. Hearty in a
thin, woolly voice. “Good evening, Elizabeth,” he
added, turning to Mrs. Bindle.

“Didn’t you try to kiss Alice, and she slapped
your face?” Mrs. Hearty once more proceeded to
mop her streaming eyes with her handkerchief. The
comedy was good; but it was painful.

For one fleeting moment Mr. Hearty was unmasked.
His whole expression underwent a change. There was
fear in his eyes. He looked about him like a hunted[Pg 117]
animal seeking escape. Then, by a great effort, he
seemed to re-assert control over himself.

“I—I’ve forgotten to post a letter,” he muttered,
and a second later the door closed behind him.

“‘E’s always like that when I remind him,” cried
Mrs. Hearty, “always forgotten to post a letter.”

“Martha,” said Mrs. Bindle solemnly, as she resumed
her seat, “you’re a wicked woman, and to-night I
shall ask God to forgive you.”

“Make it Alf instead,” cried Mrs. Hearty.

Five minutes later, Mr. Hearty re-entered the
parlour, looking furtively from his wife to Mrs. Bindle.
He was a spare man of medium height, with an iron-grey
moustache and what Bindle described as
“‘alleluia whiskers”; but which the world knows as
mutton-chops. He was a man to whom all violence,
be it physical or verbal, was distasteful. He preferred
diplomacy to the sword.

“Oo’s got it, Alf?” enquired Mrs. Hearty, suddenly
remembering the chapel choir and her husband’s
aspirations.

“Mr. Coplestone.” The natural woolliness of Mr.
Hearty’s voice was emphasised by the dejection of
disappointment; but his eyes told of the relief he
felt that Alice was no longer to be the topic of conversation.

“It’s a shame, Mr. Hearty, that it is.”

Mrs. Bindle folded her hands in her lap and drew
in her chin, with the air of one who scents a great
injustice. The injustice of the appointment quite
blotted-out from her mind all thought of Alice.[Pg 118]

“You got quite enough to do, Alf,” wheezed Mrs.
Hearty as, after many ineffectual bounces, she struggled
to her feet, and stood swaying slightly as she beat her
breast reproachfully.

“I could have found time,” said Mr. Hearty, as
he picked nervously at the quicks of his finger-nails.

“Of course you could,” agreed Mrs. Bindle, looking
up at her sister disapprovingly.

“I’ve never once missed a choir-practice,” he
continued, with the air of a man who is advancing a
definite claim.

“Trust you,” gasped Mrs. Hearty, as she rolled
towards the door. “It’s them gals,” she added.
“Good-night, Lizzie. Don’t be long, Alf. You always
wake me getting into bed,” and, with a final wheeze,
she passed out of the room.

Mr. Hearty coughed nervously behind his hand;
whilst Mrs. Bindle drew in her lips and chin still
further. The indelicacy of Mrs. Hearty’s remark
embarrassed them both.

It had always been Mr. Hearty’s wish to train the
choir at the Alton Road Chapel, and when Mr.
Smithers had resigned, owing to chronic bronchitis
and the approach of winter, Mr. Hearty felt that the
time had come when yet another of his ambitions was
to be realised. There had proved, however, to be
another Richmond in the field, in the shape of Mr.
Coplestone, who kept an oil-shop in the New King’s
Road.

By some means unknown to Mr. Hearty, his rival
had managed to invest the interest of the minister[Pg 119]
and several of the deacons, with the result that Mr.
Hearty had come out a very bad second.

Now, in the hour of defeat, he yearned for sympathy,
and there was only one to whom he could turn, his
sister-in-law, who shared so many of his earthly
views and heavenly hopes. Would his sister-in-law
believe——

“I call it a shame,” she said for the second time, as
Mr. Hearty drew a deep sigh of relief. In spite of
herself, Mrs. Bindle was irritated at the way in which
he picked at the quicks of his finger-nails, “and you
so musical, too,” she added.

“I have always been interested in music,” said Mr.
Hearty, with the air of one who knows that he is
receiving nothing but his due. Alice and her alluring
clothing were forgotten. “I had learned the Tonic
Sol-fa notation by heart before I was twenty,” he added.

“You would have done so much to improve the
singing.” Mrs. Bindle was intent only on applying balm
to her hero’s wounds. She too had forgotten Alice
and all her ways.

“It isn’t what it might be,” he remarked. “It
has been very indifferent lately. Several have noticed
it. Last Sunday, they nearly broke down in ‘The
Half Was Never Told.'”

Mrs. Bindle nodded.

“They always find it difficult to get high ‘f’,” he
continued. “I should have made a point of cultivating
their upper registers,” he added, with the melancholy
retrospection of a man who, after a fire, states that it
had been his intention to insure on the morrow.[Pg 120]

“Perhaps——” began Mrs. Bindle, then she stopped.
It seemed unchristian to say that perhaps Mr. Coplestone
would have to relinquish his newly acquired honour.

“I should also have tried to have the American
organ tuned, I don’t think the bellows is very sound,
either.”

For some minutes there was silence. Mr. Hearty was
preoccupied with the quicks of his finger-nails. He
had just succeeded in drawing blood, and he glanced
covertly at Mrs. Bindle to see if she had noticed it.

“Er——” he paused. He had been seeking an
opportunity of clearing his character with his sister-in-law.
Suddenly inspiration gripped him.

“I—we——” he paused. “I’m afraid Martha will
have to get rid of Alice.”

“And about time, with clothes like she wears,” was
Mrs. Bindle’s uncompromising comment.

“And she tells—she’s most untruthful,” he continued
eagerly; he was smarting under the recollection
that Alice had on one occasion pushed aside the half-crown
he had tendered, and it had required a ten
shilling note to remove from her memory the thought
of her “friend” with whom she had threatened
him.

“I’ve been speaking about her to Martha this evening.”
The line of Mrs. Bindle’s lips was still grim.

“I’m afraid she’s a bad—not a good girl,” amended
Mr. Hearty. “I——”

“You don’t push yourself forward enough,” said
Mrs. Bindle, her thoughts still on Mr. Coplestone’s
victory. “Look at Bindle. He knows a lord, and[Pg 121]
look what he is.” She precipitated into the last two
words all the venom of years of disappointment.
“And you’ve got three shops,” she added inconsequently.

“I—I never had time to go out and about,” stuttered
Mr. Hearty, as if that explained the fact of his not
possessing a lord among his acquaintance. His thoughts
were still preoccupied with the Alice episode.

“You ought to, Mr. Hearty,” said Mrs. Bindle with
conviction. “You owe it to yourself and to what
you’ve done.”

“You see, Joseph is different,” said Mr. Hearty,
pursuing his own line of thought. “He——”

“Talks too much,” said Mrs. Bindle with decision,
filling in the blank inaccurately. “I tell him his fine
friends only laugh up their sleeves at him. They
should see him in his own home,” she added.

For some moments there was silence, during which
Mrs. Bindle sat, immobile as an Assyrian goddess, her
eyes smouldering balefully.

“I should have liked to have trained the choir,”
he said, his mind returning to the cause of his disappointment.

“It’s that Mr. Coplestone,” said Mrs. Bindle with
conviction. “I never liked him, with his foxy little
ways. I never deal with him.”

“I have always done what I could for the chapel,
too,” continued Mr. Hearty, not to be diverted from
his main theme by reference to Mr. Coplestone’s
shortcomings.

“You’ve done too much, Mr. Hearty, that’s what’s[Pg 122]
the matter,” she cried with conviction, loyalty to her
brother-in-law triumphing over all sense of Christian
charity. “It’s always the same. Look at Bindle,”
she added, unable to forget entirely her own domestic
cross. “Think what I’ve done for him, and look at
him.”

“Last year I let them have all the fruit at cost price
for the choir-outing,” said Mr. Hearty; “but I’ll
never do it again,” he added, the man in him triumphing
over the martyr, “and I picked it all out myself.”

“The more you do, the more you may do,” said
Mrs. Bindle oracularly.

Mr. Hearty’s reference was to a custom prevailing
among the worshippers at the Alton Road Chapel.
It was an understood thing that, in placing orders,
preference should always be given to members of
the flock, who, on their part, undertook to supply their
respective commodities at cost price. The object of
this was to bring all festivities “within reach of our
poorer brethren,” as Mr. Sopley, a one-time minister,
had expressed it when advocating the principle.

The result was hours of heart-searching for those
entrusted with the feeding of the Faithful. Mr. Hearty,
for instance, spent much time and thought in wrestling
with figures and his conscience. He argued that
“cost price” must allow for rent, rates and taxes;
salaries, a knowledge of the cheapest markets (which
he possessed) and interest on capital (his own).

By a curious coincidence, the actual figures came out
very little above the ordinary retail price he was charging
in his shops, which proved to him conclusively[Pg 123]
that he was in no sense of the term a profiteer. As
a matter of fact, it showed that he was under-charging.

Other members of the chapel seemed to arrive at
practically the same result as Mr. Hearty, and by similar
means.

As the “poorer brethren” had no voice in the fixing
of these prices, and as everyone was too interested
in his own figures to think of criticising those of others,
the “poorer brethren” either paid, or stayed away.

“You ought to join the choir, Elizabeth.” It was
Mr. Hearty’s thank-offering for sympathy.

“Oh, Mr. Hearty!” she simpered. “I’m sure I
couldn’t sing well enough.”

“You sing very nicely, Elizabeth. I have noticed
it on Sunday evenings when you come round. You
have a very good high soprano.”

A quiver passed through Mrs. Bindle. She drew
herself up, and her lips seemed to take on a softer line.

“I’m sure it’s very good of you to say so,” she
responded gratefully.

“I shall still sing in the choir,” said Mr. Hearty;
“but——”

A heavy pounding overhead caused him to start
violently. It was Mrs. Hearty’s curfew.

Mrs. Bindle rose and Mr. Hearty accompanied her
to the street-door. Alice was in the passage, apparently
on her way to bed.

“Good night, Mr. Hearty,” said Mrs. Bindle.

“Good night, Elizabeth,” and Mr. Hearty closed
the door behind her.

She paused to open her umbrella, it was spotting[Pg 124]
with rain and Mrs. Bindle was careful of her clothes.

Suddenly through the open transom she heard a
surprised scream and the sound of scuffling.

“You beast,” cried a feminine voice. “I’ll tell
missis, that I will.”

And Mrs. Bindle turned and ran full-tilt into a
policeman.[Pg 125]

CHAPTER VI

MRS. BINDLE DEFENDS HER HOME

I

“Gospel bells, gospel bells, hm-hm-hm-hm-hm-hm-hm.”

Mrs. Bindle accompanied her favourite
hymn with bangs from the flat-iron as she strove to
coax one of Bindle’s shirts to smoothness.

She invariably worked to the tune of “Gospel Bells.”
Of the hymn itself she possessed two words, “gospel”
and “bells”; but the tune was hers to the most
insignificant semi-quaver, and an unlimited supply of
“hms” did the rest.

Turning the shirt at the word “gospel,” she brought
the iron down full in the middle of what, judging from
the power she put into the stroke, might have been
Bindle’s back.

“Bells,” she sang with emphasis, and proceeded
to trail off into the “hms.”

With Mrs. Bindle, singing reflected her mood. When
indignation or anger gripped her soul, “Gospel Bells”
was rendered with a vigour that penetrated to Mrs.
Grimps and Mrs. Sawney.

Then, as her mood mellowed, so would the tune[Pg 126]
soften, almost dying away until, possibly, a stray thought
of Bindle brought about a crescendo passage, capable
of being developed into full forte, brass-wind and
tympani.

After one of these full-throated passages, the thought
of her brother-in-law, Mr. Hearty, mellowed the stream
of melody passing through her thin, slightly parted
lips.

It had reached an almost caressing softness, when
a knock at the door caused her to stop suddenly.
A moment later, the iron was banged upon
the rest, and she glanced down at her apron. To
use her own phrase, she was the “pink of neatness.”

Walking across the kitchen and along the short
passage, she threw open the door with the air of one
who was prepared to defend the sacred domestic hearth
against all comers.

“I’ve come about the ‘ouse, mum.” A mild-looking
little man with a dirty collar and a deprecating manner
stood before her, sucking nervously at a hollow tooth,
the squeak of which his friends had learned to live
down.

“The house!” repeated Mrs. Bindle aggressively.
“What house?”

“This ‘ouse wot’s to let, mum.” The little man
struggled to extract a newspaper from his pocket.
“I’d like to take it,” he added.

“Oh! you would, would you?” Mrs. Bindle eyed
him with disfavour. “Well, it’s not to let,” and with
that she banged the door in the little man’s face,[Pg 127]
just as his pocket gave up the struggle and released a
soiled copy of The Fulham Signal.

He started back, the paper falling upon the tiled-path
that led from the gate to the front-door.

For nearly a minute he stood staring at the door,
as if not quite realising what had happened. Then,
picking up the paper, he gazed at it with a puzzled
expression, turned to a marked passage under the heading
“Houses to Let,” and read:

HOUSE TO LET.—Four-roomed house to let in
Fulham. Easy access to bus, tram and train. Rent
15/6 a week. Immediate possession. Apply to
occupier, 7 Fenton Street, Fulham, S.W.

He looked at the number on the door, back again
at the paper, then once more at the number. Apparently
satisfied that there was no mistake, he knocked
again, a feeble, half-hearted knock that testified to
the tremors within him.

He had been graded C3; but he possessed a wife
who was, physically, A1. It was the knowledge
that she would demand an explanation if he failed
to secure the house, after which she had sent him
hot-foot, that inspired him with sufficient courage
to make a second attempt to interview Mrs. Bindle.

With inward tremblings, he waited for the door to
open again. As he stood, hoping against hope in his
coward heart that the summons had not been heard,
a big, heavily-hipped woman, in a dirty black-and-white
foulard blouse, a draggled green skirt, and
shapeless stays, slid through the gate and waddled
up the path.[Pg 128]

“So you got ‘ere fust,” she gasped, her flushed face
showing that she had been hurrying. “Well, well, it
can’t be ‘elped, I suppose, fust come fust served. I
always says it and always shall.”

The little man had swung round, and now stood
blinking up at the new arrival, who entirely blocked
his line of retreat.

“Knocked, ‘ave you?” she enquired, fanning her
flushed face with a folded newspaper.

He nodded; but his gaze was directed over her
heaving shoulder at a man and woman, with a little
girl between them, approaching from the opposite
side of the way.

As the new arrivals entered the garden, the stout
woman explained that “this gentleman” had already
knocked.

“P’raps they ain’t up yet,” suggested the man with
the little girl.

“Well, they ought to be,” said the stout woman with
conviction.

Another woman now joined the throng, her turned-up
sleeves and the man’s tweed cap on her head,
kept in place by a long, amber-headed hat-pin, testifying
to the limited time she had bestowed upon her
toilette.

“Is it took?” she demanded of the woman with
the little girl.

“Dunno!” was the reply. “She ain’t opened the
door yet.”

“She opened it once,” said the little man.

“Wot she say?”[Pg 129]

“Said it wasn’t to let, then banged it to in my
face,” was the injured response.

“‘Ere, let me ‘ave a try,” cried the woman in the
foulard blouse, as she grasped the knocker and proceeded
to awaken the echoes of Fenton Street. Corple Street
at one end and Bransdon Road at the other, were
included in the sound-waves that emanated from the
Bindles’ knocker.

Several neighbours, including Mrs. Grimps and Mrs.
Sawney, came to their doors and gazed at the collection
of people that now entirely blocked the pathway of
No. 7. Three other women had joined the throng,
together with a rag-and-bone man in dilapidated
clothing, accompanied by a donkey and cart.

“A shame I calls it, a-keepin’ folks ‘angin’ about like
this,” said one of the new arrivals.

“P’raps it’s let,” said the rag-and-bone man.

“Well, why don’t they say so?” snapped she with
the tweed cap and hat-pin.

“‘Ave another go, missis,” suggested the man
with the little girl. “I’m losin’ ‘alf a day over
this.”

Inspired by this advice, the big woman reached
forward to seize the knocker. At that moment the
door was wrenched open, and Mrs. Bindle appeared.
She had removed her apron and brushed her thin,
sandy hair, which was drawn back from her sharp,
hatchet-like face so that not a hair wantoned from
the restraining influence of the knot behind.

Grim, with indrawn lips and the light of battle in
her eyes she glared, first at the little man with whom[Pg 130]
she had already held parley, then at the woman in the
foulard blouse.

At chapel, there was no more meek and docile
“Daughter of the Lord” than Mrs. Bindle. To her,
religion was an ever-ready help and sustenance; but
there was something in her life that bulked even larger
than her Faith, although she would have been the first
to deny it. That thing was her Home.

In keeping the domestic temple of her hearth as
she conceived it should be kept, Mrs. Bindle toiled
ceaselessly. It was her fetish. She worshipped at
chapel as a stepping-stone to post-mortem glory;
but her home was the real altar at which she sacrificed.

As she gazed at the “rabble,” as she mentally
characterised it, littering the tiled-path of the front
garden, which only that morning she had cleaned, the
rage of David entered her heart; but she was a God-fearing
woman who disliked violence—until it was
absolutely necessary.

“Was it you knocking?” she demanded of the
big woman in the foulard blouse. Her voice was sharp
as the edge of a razor; but restrained.

“That’s right, my dear,” replied the woman comfortably,
“I come about the ‘ouse.”

“Oh! you have, have you?” cried Mrs. Bindle.
“And are these your friends?” Her eyes for a moment
left those of her antagonist and took in the queue
which, by now, overflowed the path into the roadway.

“Look ‘ere, I’ll give you sixteen bob a week,” broke[Pg 131]
in the woman with the tweed cap and the hat-pin,
instantly rendering herself an Ishmael.

“‘Ere, none o’ that!” cried an angry female voice.
“Fair do’s.”

There was a murmur of approval from the others,
which was interrupted by Mrs. Bindle’s clear-cut,
incisive voice.

“Get out of my garden, and be off, the lot of you,”
she cried, taking a half-step in the direction of the big
woman, to whom she addressed herself.

“Is it let?” enquired the rag-and-bone man from
the rear.

“Is what let?” demanded Mrs. Bindle.

“The ‘ouse, mum,” said the rag-and-bone man,
whose profession demanded tact and politeness.

“This house is not to let,” was the angry retort,
“never was to let, and never will be to let till I’m gone.
Now you just be off with you, or——” she paused.

“Or wot?” demanded she of the tweed cap and
hat-pin, desirous of rehabilitating herself with the
others.

“I’ll send for a policeman,” was Mrs. Bindle’s
rejoinder. She still restrained her natural instincts
in a vice-like self-control. Her hands shook slightly;
but not with fear. It was the trembling of the tigress
preparing to spring.

“Then wot about this advert?” cried the man
with the little girl, extending the newspaper towards
her.

“Yes, wot about it?” demanded the woman in
the foulard blouse, extending her paper in turn.[Pg 132]

“There’s no advertisement about this house,”
said Mrs. Bindle, ignoring the papers, “and you’d
better go away. Pity you haven’t got something better
to do than to come disturbin’ me in the midst of my
ironin’,” and with that she banged the door and
disappeared.

A murmur of anger passed along the queue, anger
which portended trouble.

“Nice way to treat people,” said a little woman
with a dirty face, a dingy black bonnet and a velvet
dolman, to which portions of the original jet-trimming
still despairingly adhered. “Some folks don’t seem to
know ‘ow to be’ave.”

There was another murmur of agreement.

“Kick the blinkin’ door in,” suggested a pacifist.

“I’d like to get at ‘er with my nails,” said a sharp-faced
woman with a baby in her arms. “I know ‘er
sort.”

“Deserves to ‘ave ‘er stutterin’ windows smashed,
the stuck-up baggage!” cried another.

“‘Ullo, look at all them people.”

A big, puffy man with a person that rendered his
boots invisible, guided the hand-cart he was pushing
into the kerb in front of No. 7 Fenton Street. A pale,
dispirited lad was harnessed to the vehicle by a dilapidated
piece of much-knotted rope strung across his
narrow chest. As the barrow came to a standstill,
he allowed the rope to drop to the ground and, stepping
out of the harness, he turned an apathetic and unspeculative
eye towards the crowd.

The big man, whose clothing consisted of a shirt, a[Pg 133]
pair of trousers and some braces, stood looking at the
applicants for the altar of Mrs. Bindle’s life. The
crowd returned the stare with interest. The furniture
piled upon the barrow caused them some anxiety.
Was that the explanation of the unfriendly reception
accorded them?

“Now then, Charley, when you’ve done a-drinkin’
in this bloomin’ beauty-show, you can give me a
‘and.”

“‘Oo are you calling a beauty-show?” demanded
the woman in the dolman. “You ain’t got much to
talk about, with a stummick like yours.”

“My mistake, missis,” said the big man imperturbably.
“Sorry I made you cry.” Then, turning to
Charley, he added: “If you ‘adn’t such a thick ‘ead,
Charley, you’d know it was a sugar queue. They’re
wearin’ too much for a beauty-show. Now, then,
over the top, my lad.” He indicated the railings with
a nod, the gateway was blocked.

With the leisurely movements of a fatalist, Charley
moved his inconspicuous person towards the railings
of No. 7, while the big man proceeded to untie the
rope that bound a miscellaneous collection of household
goods to the hand-cart, an operation which entirely
absorbed the attention of the queue.

“You took it?” interrogated the rag-and-bone
man.

“Don’t you worry, cocky,” said the big man as he
lifted from the barrow a cane-bottomed chair, through
which somebody had evidently sat, and placed it on
the pavement. “Once inside the garding and the[Pg 134]
‘ouse is mine. ‘Ere, get on wiv it, Charley,” he admonished
the lad, who was standing by the kerb
as if reluctant to trespass.

With unexpressive face, the boy turned and climbed
the railings.

“Catch ‘old,” cried the man, thrusting into Charley’s
unwilling hands a dilapidated saucepan.

The boy tossed it on to the small flower-bed in the
centre of the garden, where Mrs. Bindle was endeavouring
to cultivate geraniums from slips supplied by a
fellow-worshipper at the Alton Road Chapel. These
geranium slips were the stars in the grey firmament of
her life. She tended them assiduously, and always
kept a jug of water just inside the parlour-window with
which to discourage investigating cats. It was she
too that had planted the lobelia-border.

The queue seemed hypnotised by the overwhelming
personality of the big man. With the fatalism of
despair they decided that the gods were against them,
and that he really had achieved the success he claimed.
They still lingered, as if instinct told them that dramatic
moments were pending.

“I don’t doubt but wot I’ll be very comfortable,”
remarked the big man contentedly. “‘Ere, catch
‘old, Charley,” he cried, tossing the lad a colander,
possessed of more holes than the manufacturer had
ever dreamed of.

Charley turned too late, and the colander caught a
geranium which, alone among its fellows, had shown
a half-hearted tendency to bloom. That particular
flower was Mrs. Bindle’s ewe-lamb.[Pg 135]

“Ain’t ‘e a knock-out?” cried the big man, pausing
for a moment to gaze at his offspring. “Don’t take
after ‘is pa, and that’s a fact,” and he exposed three
or four dark-brown stumps of teeth.

“P’raps you ain’t ‘is father,” giggled a feminine
voice at the end of the queue.

The big man turned in the direction from which the
voice had come, stared stolidly at an inoffensive little
man, who had “not guilty” written all over him,
then, deliberately swinging round, he lifted a small
wicker clothes-basket from the cart.

“‘Ere, catch it, Charley,” he cried, and without
waiting to assure himself of Charley’s willingness or
ability to do so, he pitched it over the railings.

Charley turned just in time to see the basket coming.
He endeavoured to avoid it, tripped over the colander,
and sat down in the centre of the geranium-bed, carrying
riot and desolation with him.

“Ain’t you a——” but Charley was never to know
how he appeared to his father at that moment.

Observing that several heads were turned towards
the front door, the eyes of the big man had instinctively
followed their direction. It was what he saw there
that had caused him to pause in describing his offspring.

Standing very still, her face deathly pale, with no
sign of her lips beyond a thin, grey line, stood Mrs.
Bindle, her eyes fixed upon the geranium-bed and the
desolation reigning there. Her breath came in short
jerks.

With an activity of which his previous movements[Pg 136]
had given no indication, Charley climbed the railings
to the comparative safety of the street.

Mrs. Bindle turned her gaze upon the big man.

“‘Ere, come along, let me get in,” he cried, pushing
his way through the crowd, which showed no inclination
for resistance. The little man who had first
arrived was already well outside, talking to the woman
with the tweed cap and hat-pin, while she of the
foulard blouse was edging down the path towards
the gate. None showed the least desire to protest
against the big man’s claim to the house by right of
conquest—and he passed on to his Waterloo.

“I taken this ‘ouse,” he cried, as he approached
the grim figure on the doorstep. “Fifteen an’ a kick
a week, an’ cheap at ‘alf the price,” he added jovially.

“‘Ere, get on wiv it, Charley,” he called out over
his shoulder.

Charley, however, stood gazing at his parent with
a greater show of interest than he had hitherto manifested.
He seemed instinctively to grasp the dramatic
possibilities of the situation.

“Thought I’d bring the sticks wiv me, missis,” said
the man genially. “Nothink like makin’ sure in these
days.” He stopped suddenly. Without a word, Mrs.
Bindle had turned and disappeared into the house.

“May as well pay a deposit,” he remarked, thrusting
a dirty hand into his trouser pocket. He glanced
over his shoulder and winked jocosely at the woman
with the foulard blouse.

The next thing he knew was that Drama with a
capital “D” had taken a hand in the game. The[Pg 137]
crowd drew its breath with almost a sob of surprised
expectancy.

Into Charley’s vacant eyes there came a look of
interest, and into the big man’s mouth, just as he
turned his head, there came a something that was wet
and tasted odiously of carbolic.

He staggered back, his eyes bulging, as Mrs. Bindle,
armed with a large mop, which she had taken the
precaution to wet, stood regarding him like an avenging
fury. Her eyes blazed, and her nostrils were distended
like those of a frightened thoroughbred.

Before the big man had time to splutter his protests,
she had swung round the mop and brought the handle
down with a crack upon his bare, bald head. Then,
once more swinging round to the business end of the
mop, she drew back a step and charged.

The mop got the big man just beneath the chin.
For a moment he stood on one leg, his arms extended,
like the figure of Mercury on the Piccadilly Circus
fountain.

Mrs. Bindle gave another thrust to the mop, and
down he went with a thud, his head coming with a
sharp crack against the tiles of the path.

The crowd murmured its delight. Charley danced
from one foot to the other, the expression on his face
proving conclusively that the vacuous look with which
he had arrived was merely a mask assumed for defensive
purposes.

“Get up!”

Into these two words Mrs. Bindle precipitated an
amount of feeling that thrilled the crowd. The big[Pg 138]
man, however, lay prone, his eyes fixed in fear upon
the end of the mop.

“Get up!” repeated Mrs. Bindle. “I’ll teach you
to come disturbing a respectable home. Look at my
garden.”

As he still made no attempt to move, she turned
suddenly and doubled along the passage, reappearing
a moment later with a pail of water with which she
had been washing out the scullery. Without a moment’s
hesitation she emptied the contents over the recumbent
figure of the big man. The house-cloth fell across
his eyes, like a bandage, and the hearthstone took
him full on the nose.

“Oo-er!”

That one act of Mrs. Bindle’s had saved from entire
annihilation the faith of a child. For the first time in
his existence, Charley realised that there was a God
of retribution.

Murmurs of approval came from the crowd.

“Give it to ‘im, missis, ‘e done it,” shouted one.
“It warn’t the kid’s fault, blinkin’ ‘Un.”

“Dirty profiteer,” cried the thin woman. “Look
at ‘is stummick,” she added as if in support of her
words.

“Get up!” Again Mrs. Bindle’s hard, uninflected
words sounded like the accents of destiny.

She accompanied her exhortation by a jab from the
mop-end of her weapon directed at the centre of that
portion of the big man’s anatomy which had been
advanced as proof of his profiteering propensities.

He raised himself a few inches; but Mrs. Bindle,[Pg 139]
with all the inconsistency of a woman, dashed the mop
once more in his face, and down went his head again
with a crack.

“Charley!” he roared; but there was nothing of
the Paladin about Charley. Between him and his
father at that moment were eleven years of heavy-handed
tyranny, and Charley remained on the safety-side
of the railings.

“Get up! You great, hulkin’ brute,” cried Mrs.
Bindle, reversing the mop and getting in a stroke at
his solar-plexus which would have made her fame in
pig-sticking.

“Grrrrumph!” The fat man’s exclamation was
involuntary.

“Get up, I tell you,” she reiterated. “You fat,
ugly son of Satan, you Beelzebub, you leper, you Judas,
you——” she paused a moment in her search for the
undesirables from Holy Writ. Then, with inspiration,
she added—”Barabbas.”

The man made another effort to rise; but Mrs.
Bindle brought the end of the mop down upon his
head with a crack that sounded like a pistol-shot.

The expression on Charley’s face changed. The
lower jaw lifted. The loose, vacuous mouth spread.
Charley was grinning.

For a moment the man lay still. Mrs. Bindle was
standing over him with the mop, a tense and righteously
indignant St. George over a particularly evil dragon.

Suddenly he gave tongue.

“‘Elp!” he yelled. “I’m bein’ murdered. ‘Elp!
Charley, where are you?” But Charley’s grin had[Pg 140]
expanded and he was actually rubbing his hands with
enjoyment.

Mrs. Bindle brought the mop down on the man’s
mouth. “Stop it, you blaspheming son o’ Belial,”
she cried.

The big man roared the louder; but he made no
effort to rise.

“‘Ere comes a flatty,” cried a voice.

“Slop’s a-comin’,” echoed another, and a minute
later, a clean-shaven embodiment of youthful dignity
and self-possession, in a helmet and blue uniform,
approached and began to make his way through the
crowd towards the Bindles’ gate.

From the position in which he lay the big man,
unable to see that assistance was at hand, continued
to roar for help.

At the approach of this symbol of the law, Mrs.
Bindle stepped back and brought her mop to the stand-at-ease
position.

The policeman looked from one to the other, and
then proceeded to ferret somewhere in the tails of his
tunic, whence he produced a notebook. This was
obviously a case requiring literary expression.

The big man, seeing Mrs. Bindle fall back, turned
his head and caught a glimpse of the policeman. Very
cautiously he raised himself to a sitting posture.

“She’s been murderin’ me,” he said, with one eye
fixed warily upon the mop. “‘Ere, Charley!” he
cried, looking over his left shoulder.

Charley reluctantly approached, regretful that law
and order had triumphed over red revolution.[Pg 141]

“Ain’t she been tryin’ to kill me?” demanded the
big man of his offspring.

“Biffed ‘im on the ‘ead wiv the ‘andle,” corroborated
the boy in a toneless voice.

“Poured water over me and ‘it me in the stummick
too, didn’t she, Charley?” Once more the big man
turned to his son for corroboration.

“Got ‘im a rare ‘un too!” agreed Charley, with a
feeling in his voice that caused his father to look at
him sharply. “Sloshed ‘im on the jaw too,” he added,
as if finding pleasure in dwelling upon the sufferings
of his parent.

“Do you wish to charge her?” asked the policeman
in an official voice.

“‘Charge me!'” broke in Mrs. Bindle. “‘Charge
me!’ I should like to see ‘im do it. See what ‘e’s
done to my geraniums, bringing his filthy sticks into
my front garden. ‘Charge me!'” she repeated. “Just
let him try it!” and she brought the mop to a position
from which it could be launched at the big man’s head.

Instinctively he sank down again on to the path,
and the policeman interposed his body between the
weapon and the vanquished.

“There’s plenty of witnesses here to prove what he
done,” cried Mrs. Bindle shrilly.

Once more the big man raised himself to a sitting
posture; but Mrs. Bindle had no intention of allowing
him to control the situation. To her a policeman
meant justice, and to this self-possessed lad in the
uniform of unlimited authority she opened her heart
and, at the same time, the vials of her wrath.[Pg 142]

“‘Ere was I ironin’ in my kitchen when this
rabble,” she indicated the crowd with the handle of
the mop, “descended upon me like the plague of
locusts.” To Mrs. Bindle, scriptural allusion was a
necessity.

“They said they wanted to take my ‘ouse. Said I’d
told them it was to let, the perjured scum of Judas.
Then he came along”—she pointed to her victim who
was gingerly feeling the bump that Mrs. Bindle’s mop
had raised—”and threw all that dirty lumber into
my garden, and—and——” Here her voice broke,
for to Mrs. Bindle those geranium slips were very
dear.

“You’d better get up.”

At the policeman’s words the big man rose heavily
to his feet. For a moment he stood still, as if to make
quite sure that no bones were broken. Then his hand
went to his neck-cloth and he produced a piece of
hearthstone which had, apparently, become detached
from the parent slab.

“Threw bricks at me,” he complained, holding out
the piece of hearthstone to the policeman.

“Ananias!” came Mrs. Bindle’s uncompromising
retort.

“Do you want to charge her?” asked the policeman
brusquely.

“Serves ‘im jolly well right,” cried the woman with
the tweed cap and hat-pin, pushing her way in front
of a big man who obstructed her view.

“Oughter be run-in ‘isself,” agreed a pallid woman
with a shawl over her head.[Pg 143]

“Look wot ‘e done to ‘er garding,” mumbled the
rag-and-bone man, pointing at the flower-bed with
the air of one who has just made an important discovery.

“It’s the likes of ‘im wot makes strikes,” commented
the woman in the dolman. “Blinkin’
profiteer.”

“She’s got pluck, any’ow,” said a telephone mechanic,
who had joined the crowd just before Charley’s father
had bent before the wind of Mrs. Bindle’s displeasure.
“Knocked ‘im out in the first round. Regular George
Carpenter,” he added.

“You get them things out of my garden. If you
don’t I’ll give you in charge.”

The big man blinked, a puzzled expression creeping
into his eyes. He looked at the policeman uncomprehendingly.
This was an aspect of the case that had
not, hitherto, struck him.

“Are they your things?” asked the policeman,
intent upon disentangling the situation before proceeding
to use the pencil, the point of which he was
meditatively sucking.

Charley’s father nodded. He was still thinking over
Mrs. Bindle’s remark. It seemed to open up disconcerting
possibilities.

“Now then, what are you going to do?” demanded
the policeman sternly. “Do you wish to make a
charge?”

“I will,” said Mrs. Bindle, “unless ‘e takes ‘is
furniture away and pays for the damage to my flowers.
I’ll charge ‘im, the great, ‘ulking brute, attacking a[Pg 144]
defenceless woman because he knows ‘er ‘usband’s
out.”

“That’s right, missis, you ‘ave ‘im quodded,”
called out the rag-and-bone man. “‘E didn’t ought
to ‘ave done that to your garding.”

“Tryin’ to swank us ‘e’d taken the ‘ouse,” cried
the woman with the tweed cap and hat-pin. “I see
through ‘im from the first, I did. There ain’t many
men wot can throw dust in my eyes,” she added,
looking eagerly round for a dissenting look.

“‘Ullo, ‘ullo!” cried a voice from the outskirts of
the crowd. “Somebody givin’ somethink away, or
is it a fire? ‘Ere, let me pass, I’m the cove wot pays
the rent,” and Bindle pushed his genial way through
the crowd.

They made way without protest. The advent of
the newcomer suggested further dramatic developments,
possibly even a fight.

“‘Ullo, Tichborne!” cried Bindle, catching sight
of the big man. “Been scrappin’?”

The three protagonists in the drama turned, as if
with relief, to face this new phase of the situation.

“‘Oo’s ‘e?” enquired Bindle of the policeman,
indicating the big man with a jerk of his thumb.

“He’s been tryin’ to murder me, and if you were a
man, Joe Bindle, you’d kill ‘im.”

Bindle subjected the big man to an elaborate scrutiny.
“Looks to me,” he remarked drily, “as if someone’s
got in before me. Wot’s ‘appened?” He looked
interrogatingly up at the policeman.[Pg 145]

“‘Oly ‘Orace,” he cried suddenly, as he caught
sight of the miscellaneous collection of furniture that
lay about the geranium bed. “What’s that little
pawnshop a-doin’ on our front garden?”

With the aid of the rag-and-bone man and the woman
with the tweed cap and hat-pin, the whole situation
was explained and expounded to both Bindle and the
policeman.

When he had heard everything, Bindle turned to
the big man, who stood sulkily awaiting events.

“Now, look ‘ere, cully,” he said. “You didn’t
oughter start doin’ them sort o’ things with a figure
like yours. When Mrs. B. gets ‘old of a broom, or
a mop, the safest thing to do is to draw in your solar-plexus
an’ run. It ‘urts less. Now, speakin’ as a
Christian to a bloomin’ ‘eathen wot’s done ‘imself
pretty well, judgin’ from the size of ‘is pinafore, you’d
better send for the coachman, ‘arness up that there
dray o’ yours, carry orf them bits o’ sticks an’ let
bygones be bygones. Ain’t that good advice?” He
turned to the policeman for corroboration.

There was a flicker of a smile at the corners of the
policeman’s mouth, which seemed not so very many
years before to have been lisping baby language.
He looked at the big man. It was not for him to
advise.

“‘Ere, Charley, blaaarst you,” cried the big man,
pushing his way to the gate. He had decided that the
dice had gone against him. “Get them things on to
the blinkin’ barrer, you stutterin’ young pup. Wot the
purple——”[Pg 146]

“Here, that’s enough of that,” said a quiet, determined
voice, and the soft lines of the policeman’s face
hardened.

“Wot she want to say it was to let for?” he grumbled
as he loped towards the hand-cart.

“‘Ere ‘ave I come wiv all these things to take the
blinkin’ ‘ouse, then there’s all this ruddy fuss. Are
you goin’ to get over into that blinkin’ garden and
fetch out them stutterin’ things, or must I chuck you
over?”

The last remark was addressed to Charley, who, with
a wary eye on his parent, had been watching events,
hoping against hope that the policeman would manifest
signs of aggression, and carry on the good work that
Mrs. Bindle had begun.

Charley glanced interrogatingly at the policeman.
Seeing in his eye no encouragement to mutiny, he
sidled towards the gate, a watchful eye still on his
father. A moment later he was engaged in handing
the furniture over the railings.

After the man had deposited the colander, a tin-bath,
and two saucepans in the barrow, he seemed suddenly
smitten with an idea.

He tugged a soiled newspaper from his trouser pocket.
Glancing at it, he walked over to where the policeman
was engaged in moving on the crowd.

“Read that,” he said, thrusting the paper under the
officer’s nose and pointing to a passage with a dirty
forefinger. “Don’t that say the blinkin’ ‘ouse is to
let? You oughter run ‘er in for false——” He paused.
“For false——” he repeated.[Pg 147]

With a motion of his hand, the policeman brushed
aside the newspaper.

“Move along there, please. Don’t block up the
footpath,” he said.

At length the barrow was laden.

The policeman stood by with the air of a man whose
duty it is to see the thing through.

The crowd still loitered. They had even yet hopes
of a breach of the peace.

The big man was reluctant to go without a final
effort to rehabilitate himself. Once more he drew the
paper from his pocket and approached the policeman.

“Wot she put that in for?” he demanded, indicating
the advertisement.

Ignoring the remark, the policeman drew his notebook
once more from his pocket.

“I shall want your name and address,” he said with
an official air.

“Wotjer want it for?”

“Now, then, come along,” said the policeman, and
the big man gave his name and address.

“Wot she do it for?” he repeated, “an’ wot’s going
to ‘appen to ‘er for ‘ittin’ me in the stummick?”

“You’d better get along,” said the policeman.

With a grumble in his throat, the big man placed
himself between the shafts of the barrow and, having
blasted Charley into action, moved off.

“Made a rare mess of the garding, ain’t ‘e?”
remarked the rag-and-bone man to the woman with
the tweed cap and the hat-pin.

“Blinkin’ profiteer!” was her comment.[Pg 148]

II

“It’s all your fault. Look wot they done.” Mrs.
Bindle surveyed the desolation which, that morning,
had been a garden.

The bed was trodden down, the geraniums broken,
and the lobelia border showed big gaps in its blue and
greenness.

“It’s always the same with anything I ‘ave,” she
continued. “You always spoil it.”

“But it wasn’t me,” protested Bindle. “It was
that big cove with the pinafore.”

“Who put that advertisement in?” demanded Mrs.
Bindle darkly. “That’s what I should like to know.”

“Somebody wot ‘ad put the wrong number,” suggested
Bindle.

“I’d wrong number them if I caught them.”

Suddenly she turned and made a bolt inside the
house.

Bindle regarded the open door in surprise. A moment
later his quick ears caught the sound of Mrs.
Bindle’s hysterical sobbing.

“Now ain’t that jest like a woman?” was his
comment. “She put ‘im to sleep in the first round,
an’ still she ain’t ‘appy. Funny things, women,” he
added.

That evening as Mrs. Bindle closed the front door
behind her on her way to the Wednesday temperance
service, she turned her face to the garden; it had been
in her mind all day.[Pg 149]

She blinked incredulously. The lobelia seemed bluer
than ever, and within the circular border was a veritable
riot of flowering geraniums.

“It’s that Bindle again,” she muttered with indrawn
lips as she turned towards the gate. “Pity he hasn’t
got something better to do with his money.” Nevertheless
she placed upon the supper-table an apple-tart
that had been made for to-morrow’s dinner, to which
she added a cup of coffee, of which Bindle was
particularly fond.[Pg 150]

CHAPTER VII

MRS. BINDLE DEMANDS A HOLIDAY

I

“I see they’re starting summer-camps.” Mrs.
Bindle looked up from reading the previous
evening’s paper. She was invariably twelve
hours late with the world’s news.

Bindle continued his breakfast. He was too
absorbed in Mrs. Bindle’s method of serving dried
haddock with bubble-and-squeak to evince much
interest in alien things.

“That’s right,” she continued after a pause, “don’t
you answer. Your ears are in your stomach. Pleasant
companion you are. I might as well be on a desert
island for all the company you are.”

“If you wasn’t such a damn good cook, Mrs. B., I
might find time to say pretty things to you.” It was
only in relation to her own cooking that Bindle’s
conversational lapses passed without rebuke.

“There are to be camps for men, camps for women,
and family camps,” continued Mrs. Bindle without
raising her eyes from the paper before her.

“Personally myself I says put me among the gals.”
The remark reached Mrs. Bindle through a mouthful[Pg 151]
of haddock and bubble-and-squeak, plus a fish-bone.

“You don’t deserve to have a decent home, the
way you talk.”

There were times when no answer, however gentle,
was capable of turning aside Mrs. Bindle’s wrath.
On Sunday mornings in particular she found the
burden of Bindle’s transgressions weigh heavily upon
her.

Bindle sucked contentedly at a hollow tooth. He
was feeling generously inclined towards all humanity.
Haddock, bubble-and-squeak, and his own philosophy
enabled him to withstand the impact of Mrs. Bindle’s
most vigorous offensive.

“It’s years since I had a holiday,” she continued
complainingly.

“It is, Mrs. B.,” agreed Bindle, drawing his pipe
from his coat pocket and proceeding to charge it from
a small oblong tin box. “We ain’t exactly wot you’d
call an ‘oneymoon couple, you an’ me.”

“The war’s over.”

“It is,” he agreed.

“Then why can’t we have a holiday?” she
demanded, looking up aggressively from her paper.

“Now I asks you, Mrs. B.,” he said, as he returned the
tin box to his pocket, “can you see you an’ me in a
bell-tent, or paddlin’, or playin’ ring-a-ring-a-roses?”
and he proceeded to light his pipe with the blissful
air of a man who knows that it is Sunday, and that
The Yellow Ostrich will open its hospitable doors a
few hours hence.[Pg 152]

“It says they’re very comfortable,” Mrs. Bindle
continued, her eyes still glued to the paper.

“Wot is?”

“The tents.”

“You ought to ask Ging wot a bell-tent’s like,
‘e’d sort o’ surprise you. It’s worse’n a wife, ‘otter
than religion, colder than a blue-ribboner. When
it’s ‘ot it bakes you, when it’s cold it lets you freeze,
and when it’s blowin’ ‘ell an’ tinkers, it ‘oofs it, an’
leaves you with nothink on, a-blushin’ like a curate
‘avin’ ‘is first dip with the young women in the choir.
That’s wot a bell-tent is, Mrs. B. In the army they
calls ’em ‘ell-tents.”

“Oh! don’t talk to me,” she snapped as she rose
and proceeded to clear away the breakfast-things,
during which she expressed the state of her feelings
by the vigour with which she banged every utensil she
handled. As she did so Bindle proceeded to explain
and expound the salient characteristics of the army
bell-tent.

“When you wants it to stand up,” he continued, “it
comes down, you bein’ underneath. When you
wants it to come down, nothing on earth’ll move it,
till you goes inside to ‘ave a look round an’ see wot’s
the trouble, then down it comes on top o’ you. It’s
a game, that’s wot it is,” he added with conviction,
“a game wot nobody ain’t goin’ to win but the
tent.”

“Go on talking, you’re not hurting me,” said Mrs.
Bindle, with indrawn lower lip, as she brought down
the teapot upon the dresser with a super bang.[Pg 153]

“I’ve ‘eard Ging talk o’ twins, war, women, an’
the beer-shortage; but to ‘ear ‘im at ‘is best, you got
to get ‘im to talk about bell-tents.”

“Everybody else has a holiday except me.” Mrs.
Bindle was not to be diverted from her subject. “Here
am I, slavin’ my fingers to the bone, inchin’ and
pinchin’ to keep you in comfort, an’ I can’t ‘ave a
holiday. It’s a shame, that’s what it is, and it’s all
your fault.” She paused in the act of wiping
out the inside of the frying-pan, and stood before
Bindle like an accusing fury. Anger always sullied
the purity of her diction.

“Well, why don’t you ‘ave an ‘oliday if you set
yer ‘eart on it? I ain’t got nothink to say agin it.”
He continued to puff contentedly at his pipe, wondering
what had become of the paper-boy. Bindle had become
too inured to the lurid qualities of domesticity to allow
them to perturb him.

“‘Ow can I go alone?”

“You’d be safe enough.”

“You beast!” Bindle was startled by the vindictiveness
with which the words were uttered.

For a few minutes there was silence, punctuated by
Mrs. Bindle’s vigorous clearing away. Presently she
passed over to the sink and turned on the tap.

“Nice thing for a married woman to go away
alone,” she hurled at Bindle over her shoulder, amidst
the rushing of water.

“Well, take ‘Earty,” he suggested, with the air
of a man anxious to find a way out of a difficulty.

“You’re a dirty-minded beast,” was the retort.[Pg 154]

“An’ this Sunday, too. Oh, naughty!”

“You never take me anywhere.” Mrs. Bindle was
not to be denied.

“I took you to church once,” he said reminiscently.

“Why don’t you take me out now?” she demanded,
ignoring his remark.

“Well,” he remarked, as he dug into the bowl of his
pipe with a match-stick, “when you caught a bus,
you don’t go on a-runnin’ after it, do you?”

“Why don’t you get a week off and take me
away?”

“Well, I’ll think about it.” Bindle rose and,
picking up his hat, left the room, with the object of
seeking the missing paper-boy.

The loneliness of her life was one of Mrs. Bindle’s
stock grievances. If she had been reminded of the
Chinese proverb that to have friends you must deserve
friends, she would have waxed scornful. Friends,
she seemed to think, were a matter of luck, like a
goose in a raffle, or a rich uncle.

“It’s little enough pleasure I get,” she would cry, in
moments of passionate protest.

To this, Bindle would sometimes reply that “it’s
wantin’ a thing wot makes you get it.” Sometimes
he would go on to elaborate the theory into the impossibility
of “‘avin’ a thing for supper an’ savin’ it
for breakfast.”

By this, he meant to convey to Mrs. Bindle that
she was too set on post-mortem joys to get the full
flavour of those of this world.[Pg 155]

Mrs. Bindle possessed the soul of a potential martyr.
If she found she were enjoying herself, she would
become convinced that, somewhere associated with it,
must be Sin with a capital “S”, unless of course
the enjoyment were directly connected with the
chapel.

She was fully convinced that it was wrong to be
happy. Laughter inspired her with distrust, as laughter
rose from carnal thoughts carnally expressed. She
fought with a relentless courage the old Adam within
herself, inspired always by the thought that her
reward would come in another and a better world.

Her theology was that you must give up in this world
all that your “carnal nature” cries out for, and your
reward in the next world will be a sort of perpetual
jamboree, where you will see the damned being boiled
in oil, or nipped with red-hot pincers by little devils
with curly tails. In this she had little to learn either
from a Dante, or the Spanish Inquisition.

The Biblical descriptions of heaven she accepted in
all their literalness. She expected golden streets and
jewelled gates, wings of ineffable whiteness and harps
of an inspired sweetness, the whole composed by an
orchestra capable of playing without break or
interval.

She insisted that the world was wicked, just as she
insisted that it was miserable. She struggled hard to
bring the light of salvation to Bindle, and she groaned
in spirit at his obvious happiness, knowing that to be
happy was to be damned.

To her, a soul was what a scalp is to the American[Pg 156]
Indian. She strove to collect them, knowing that the
believer who went to salvation with the greatest
number of saved souls dangling at her girdle, would be
thrice welcome, and thrice blessed.

In Bindle’s case, however, she had to fall back upon
the wheat that fell upon stony ground. With a
cheerfulness that he made no effort to disguise, Bindle
declined to be saved.

“Look ‘ere, Lizzie,” he would say cheerily.
“Two ‘arps is quite enough for one family and, as
you and ‘Earty are sure of ’em, you leave me
alone.”

One of Mrs. Bindle’s principal complaints against
Bindle was that he never took her out.

“You could take me out fast enough once,” she
would complain.

“But where’m I to take you?” cried Bindle. “You
don’t like the pictures, you won’t go to the ‘alls, and
I can’t stand that smelly little chapel of yours, listenin’
to a cove wot tells you ‘ow uncomfortable you’re
goin’ to be when you’re cold meat.”

“You could take me for a walk, couldn’t you?”
demanded Mrs. Bindle.

“When I takes you round the ‘ouses, you bully-rags
me because I cheer-o’s my pals, and if we passes a pub
you makes pleasant little remarks about gin-palaces.
Tell you wot it is, Mrs. B.,” he remarked on one
occasion, “you ain’t good company, at least not in this
world,” he added.

“That’s right, go on,” Mrs. Bindle would conclude.
“Why did you marry me?”[Pg 157]

“There, Mrs. B.,” he would reply, “you ‘ave me
beaten.”

From the moment that Mrs. Bindle read of the Bishop
of Fulham’s Summer-Camps for Tired Workers, she
became obsessed by the idea of a holiday in a summer-camp.
She was one of the first to apply for the
literature that was advertised as distributed free.

The evening-paper that Bindle brought home
possessed a new interest for her.

“Anything about the summer-camps?” she would
ask, interrupting Bindle in his study of the cricket
and racing news, until at last he came to hate the very
name of summer-camps and all they implied.

“That’s the worst o’ religion,” he grumbled one
night at The Yellow Ostrich; “it comes a-buttin’
into your ‘ome life, an’ then there ain’t no
peace.”

“I don’t ‘old wiv religion,” growled Ginger.

“I ain’t got nothink to say against religion as religion,”
Bindle had remarked; “but I bars summer-camps.”

Mrs. Bindle, however, was packing. With all the
care of a practised housewife, she first devoted herself
to the necessary cooking-utensils. She packed and
unpacked half-a-dozen times a day, always stowing
away some article that, a few minutes later, she found
she required.

Her conversation at meal-times was devoted exclusively
to what they should take with them. She asked
innumerable questions, none of which Bindle was able
satisfactorily to answer. To him the bucolic life[Pg 158]
was a closed book; but he soon realised that a holiday
at the Surrey Summer-Camp was inevitable.

“Wot am I to do in a summer-camp?” he mumbled,
one evening after supper. “I can drive an ‘orse, if
some one’s leadin’ it, an’ I knows it’s an ‘en wot lays
the eggs an’ the cock wot makes an ‘ell of a row in the
mornin’, same as them ole ‘orrors we used to ‘ave;
but barrin’ that, I’m done.”

“That’s right,” broke in Mrs. Bindle, “try and spoil
my pleasure, it’s little enough I get.”

“But wot are we goin’ to do in the country?”
persisted Bindle with wrinkled forehead. “I don’t
like gardenin’, an’——”

“Pity you don’t,” she snapped.

“Yes, it’s a pity,” he agreed; “still, it’s saved me
an ‘ell of a lot o’ back-aches. But wot are we goin’
to do in a summer-camp, that’s wot I want to
know.”

“You’ll be getting fresh air and—and you can watch
the sunsets.”

“But the sun ain’t goin’ to set all day,” he persisted.
“Besides, I can see the sunset from Putney Bridge,
an’ damn good sunsets too, for them as likes ’em.
There ain’t no need to go to a summer-camp to see
a sunset.”

“You can go on, you’re not hurting me.” Mrs.
Bindle drew in her lips and sat looking straight in
front of her, a grim figure of Christian patience.

“I can’t milk a cow,” Bindle continued disconsolately,
reviewing his limitations. “I can’t catch chickens,
me with various veins in my legs, I ‘ates the smell[Pg 159]
o’ pigs, an’ I ain’t good at weedin’ gardens. Now I
asks you, Mrs. B., wot use am I at a summer-camp?
I’ll only be a sort o’ fly in the drippin’.”

“You can enjoy yourself, I suppose, can’t you?”
she snapped.

“But ‘ow?”

“Oh! don’t talk to me. I’m sick and tired of your
grumbling, with your don’t like this, an’ your don’t like
that. Pity you haven’t something to grumble about.”

“But I ain’t——”

“There’s many men would be glad to have a home
like yours, an’ chance it.”

“Naughty!” cried Bindle, wagging an admonitory
finger at her. “If I——”

“Stop it!” she cried, jumping up, and making a
dash for the fire, which she proceeded to poke into
extinction.

Meanwhile, Bindle had stopped it, seizing the opportunity
whilst Mrs. Bindle was engaged with the fire,
to slip out to The Yellow Ostrich.

II

“Looks a bit lonely, don’t it?” Bindle gazed about
him doubtfully.

“What did you expect in the country?” snapped
Mrs. Bindle.

“Well, a tram or a bus would make it look more
‘ome-like.”[Pg 160]

The Bindles were standing on the down platform
of Boxton Station surrounded by their luggage. There
was a Japanese basket bursting to reveal its contents,
a large cardboard hat-box, a small leather bag without
a handle and tied round the middle with string to
reinforce a dubious fastening. There was a string-bag
blatantly confessing to its heterogeneous contents,
and a roll of blankets, through the centre of which poked
Mrs. Bindle’s second-best umbrella, with a travesty
of a parrot’s head for a handle.

There was a small deal box without a lid and marked
“Tate’s Sugar,” and a frying-pan done up in newspaper,
but still obviously a frying-pan. Finally there
was a small tin-bath, full to overflowing, and covered
by a faded maroon-coloured table-cover that had seen
better days.

Bindle looked down ruefully at the litter of
possessions that formed an oasis on a desert of platform.

“They ain’t afraid of anythink ‘appening ‘ere,” he
remarked, as he looked about him. “Funny little ‘ole,
I calls it.”

Mrs. Bindle was obviously troubled. She had
been clearly told at the temporary offices of the Committee
of the Summer-Camps for Tired Workers, that
a cart met the train by which she and Bindle had
travelled; yet nowhere was there a sign of life. Vainly
in her own mind she strove to associate Bindle with the
cause of their standing alone on a country railway-platform,
surrounded by so uninviting a collection of
luggage.[Pg 161]

Presently an old man was observed leaving the distant
signal-box and hobbling slowly towards them. When
within a few yards of the Bindles, he halted and gazed
doubtfully, first at them, then at the pile of their
possessions. Finally he removed his cap of office as
railway porter, and scratched his head dubiously.

“I missed un that time,” he said at length, as he
replaced his cap.

“Missed who?” enquired Bindle.

“The four-forty,” replied the old man, stepping
aside to get a better view of the luggage. “Got
a-talkin’ to Young Tom an’ clean forgot un.” It
was clear that he regarded the episode in the light of
a good joke. “Yours?” he queried a moment later,
indicating with a jerk of his head the litter on the
platform.

“Got it first time, grandpa,” said Bindle cheerfully.
“We come to start a pawnshop in these parts,” he
added.

The porter looked at Bindle with a puzzled expression,
then his gaze wandered back to the luggage and
finally on to Mrs. Bindle.

“We’ve come to join the Summer-Camp,” she
explained.

“The Summer-Camp!” repeated the man, “the
Summer-Camp!” Then he suddenly broke into a
breeze of chuckles. He looked from Mrs. Bindle to
the luggage and from the luggage to Bindle, little gusts
of throaty croaks eddying and flowing. Finally with a
resounding smack he brought his hand down upon his
fustian thigh.[Pg 162]

“Well, I’m danged,” he chuckled, “if that ain’t
a good un. I maun go an’ tell Young Tom,” and he
turned preparatory to making off for the signal-box.

Bindle, however, by a swift movement barred his
way.

“If it’s as funny as all that, ole sport, wot’s the
matter with tellin’ us all about it?”

Once more the old man stuttered off into a fugue of
chuckles.

“Young Tom’ll laugh over this, ‘e will,” he gasped;
“‘e’ll split ‘isself.”

“I suppose they don’t ‘ave much to amuse ’em,”
said Bindle patiently. “Now then, wot’s it all
about?” he demanded.

“Wrong station,” spluttered the ancient. Then
a moment later he added, “You be wantin’ West
Boxton. Camp’s there. Three mile away. There
ain’t another train stoppin’ here to-night,” he
added.

Mrs. Bindle looked at Bindle. Her lips had disappeared;
but she said nothing. The arrangements
had been entirely in her hands, and it was she who had
purchased the tickets.

“How far did you say it was?” she demanded of the
porter in a tone that seemed, as if by magic, to dry up
the fountain of his mirth.

“Three mile, mum,” he replied, making a shuffling
movement in the direction of where Young Tom stood
beside his levers, all unconscious of the splendid joke
that had come to cheer his solitude. Mrs. Bindle,[Pg 163]
however, placed herself directly in his path, grim and
determined. The man fell back a pace, casting an
appealing look at Bindle.

“Where can we get a cart?” she demanded with
the air of one who has taken an important decision.

The porter scratched his head through his cap and
considered deeply, then with a sudden flank movement
and a muttered, “I’ll ask Young Tom,” he shuffled
off in the direction of the signal-box.

Bindle gazed dubiously at the pile of their possessions,
and then at Mrs. Bindle.

“Three miles,” he muttered. “You didn’t ought
to be trusted out with a young chap like me, Mrs. B.,”
he said reproachfully.

“That’s enough, Bindle.”

Without another word she stalked resolutely along
the platform in the direction of the signal-box. The
old porter happening to glance over his shoulder saw
her coming, and broke into a shambling trot, determined
to obtain the moral support of Young Tom
before another encounter.

Drawing his pipe from his pocket, Bindle sank down
upon the tin-bath, jumping up instantly, conscious that
something had given way beneath him with a crack
suggestive of broken crockery. Reseating himself
upon the bundle of blankets, he proceeded to smoke
contentedly. After all, something would happen, something
always did.

Twenty minutes elapsed before Mrs. Bindle returned
with the announcement that the signalman had telegraphed
to West Boxton for a cart.[Pg 164]

“Well, well,” said Bindle philosophically, “it’s
turnin’ out an ‘appy day; but I could do with a
drink.”

An hour later a cart rumbled its noisy way up to
the station, outside which stood the Bindles and their
luggage. A business-like little boy scout slid off the
tail.

“You want to go to the Camp?” he asked
briskly.

“Well,” began Bindle, “I can’t say that
I——”

“Yes,” interrupted Mrs. Bindle, seeing in the boy
scout her St. George; “we got out at the wrong
station.” She looked across at Bindle as she spoke,
as if to indicate where lay the responsibility for the
mistake.

“All right!” said the friend of all the world.
“We’ll soon get you there.”

“An’ who might you be, young-fellow-my-lad?”
enquired Bindle.

“I’m Patrol-leader Smithers of the Bear Patrol,”
was the response.

“You don’t say so,” said Bindle. “Well, well,
it’s live an’ learn, ain’t it?”

“Now we’ll get the luggage up,” said Patrol-leader
Smithers.

“‘Ow ‘Aig an’ Foch must miss you,” remarked
Bindle as between them they hoisted up the tin-bath;
but the lad was too intent upon the work on hand for
persiflage.

A difficulty presented itself in how Mrs. Bindle was[Pg 165]
to get into the cart. Her intense sensitiveness, coupled
with the knowledge that there would be four strange
pairs of male eyes watching her, constituted a serious
obstacle. Young Tom, in whom was nothing of the
spirit of Jack Cornwell, and his friend the old porter
made no effort to disguise the fact that they were determined
to see the drama through to the last fade-out.

Bindle’s suggestion that he should “‘oist” her up,
Mrs. Bindle had ignored, and she flatly refused to climb
the spokes of the wheel. The step in front was nearly
a yard from the ground, and Mrs. Bindle resented
Young Tom’s sandy leer.

It was Patrol-leader Smithers who eventually
solved the problem by suggesting a dandy-chair, to
which Mrs. Bindle reluctantly agreed. Accordingly
Bindle and the porter crossed arms and clasped one
another’s wrists.

Mrs. Bindle took up a position with her back to the
tail of the cart, and the two Sir Walters bent down,
whilst Patrol-leader Smithers turned his back and,
with great delicacy, strove to engage the fixed eye of
Young Tom; but without success.

“Now when I says ‘eave—’eave,” Bindle admonished
the porter.

Gingerly Mrs. Bindle sat down upon their crossed
hands.

“One, two, three—’eave!” cried Bindle, and they
heaved.

There was a loud guffaw from Young Tom, a stifled
scream, and Mrs. Bindle was safely in the cart; but[Pg 166]
on her back, with the soles of her elastic-sided boots
pointing to heaven. Bindle had under-estimated the
thews of the porter.

“Right away!” cried Patrol-leader Smithers, feeling
that prompt action alone could terminate so regrettable
an incident, and he and Bindle clambered up
into the cart, where Mrs. Bindle, having regained
control of her movements, was angrily tucking her
skirts about her.

The cart jerked forward, and Young Tom and his
colleague grinned their valedictions, in their hearts
the knowledge that they had just lived a crowded hour
of glorious life.

The cart jolted its uneasy way along the dusty high-road,
with Bindle beside the driver, Mrs. Bindle sitting
on the blankets as grim as Destiny itself, engaged
in working up a case against Bindle, and the boy
scout watchful and silent, as behoves the leader of an
enterprise.

Bindle soon discovered that conversationally the
carter was limited to the “Aye” of agreement, varied
in moments of unwonted enthusiasm with an “Oh,
aye!”

At the end of half an hour’s jolt, squeak, and crunch,
the cart turned into a lane overhung by giant
elms, where the sun-dried ruts were like miniature
trenches.

“Better hold on,” counselled the lad, as he made
a clutch at the Japanese basket, which was in
danger of going overboard. “It’s a bit bumpy
here.”[Pg 167]

“Fancy place in wet weather,” murmured Bindle,
as he held on with both hands. “So this is the Surrey
Summer-Camp for Tired Workers,” and he gazed
about him curiously.[Pg 168]

CHAPTER VIII

THE SUMMER CAMP FOR TIRED WORKERS

The Surrey Summer-Camp for Tired Workers
had been planned by the Bishop of Fulham
out of the largeness of his heart and the
plenitude of his inexperience in such undertakings.
He had borrowed a meadow, acquired a cow, hired
a marquee, and wangled fifty army bell-tents and a
field-kitchen, about which in all probability questions
would be asked in the House. Finally as the result
of a brain-wave he had requisitioned the local boy
scouts. Later there would be the devil to pay with
the leaders of the Boys’ Brigade; but the bishop
abounded in tact.

When the time came, the meadow was there, the
bell-tents, the cow, and the boy scouts duly arrived;
but of the marquee nothing had been seen or heard,
and as for the field-kitchen, the War Office could
say little beyond the fact that it had left Aldershot.

For days the bishop worked indefatigably with
telephone and telegraph, endeavouring to trace the
errant field-kitchen and the missing marquee; but[Pg 169]
so much of his time had been occupied in obtaining
the necessary assistance to ensure that the cow was
properly and punctually milked, that other things,
being farther away, had seemed less insistent.

In those days the bishop had much to worry him;
but his real cross was Daisy, the cow. Everything
else was of minor importance compared with this
bovine responsibility. Vaguely he had felt that
if you had a cow you had milk; but he was to discover
that on occasion a cow could be as unproductive of
milk as a sea-serpent.

None of the campers had ever approached a cow
in her professional capacity. Night and morning
she had to be relieved of a twelve hours’ accumulation
of milk, all knew that; but how? That was a question
which had perturbed bishop and campers alike;
for the whole camp shared the ecclesiastical anxiety
about Daisy. Somewhere at the back of the cockney
mind was the suspicion, amounting almost to a certainty,
that, unless regularly milked, cows exploded,
like overcharged water-mains.

Daisy soon developed into something more than
a cow. When other occupations failed (amusements
there were none), the campers would collect round
Daisy, examining her from every angle. She was a
mystery, just as a juggler or the three-card trick
were mysteries, and as such she commanded
respect.

Each night and morning the bishop had to produce
from somewhere a person capable of ministering to the
requirements of Daisy, and everyone in the neighbour[Pg 170]hood
was extremely busy. Apart from this, West
Boxton was a hot-bed of Nonconformity, and some of
the inhabitants were much exercised in their minds as
to the spiritual effect upon a Dissenter of milking a
church cow.

There were times when the bishop felt like a conjurer,
billed to produce a guinea-pig from a top-hat, who had
left the guinea-pig at home.

Daisy was not without her uses, quite apart from
those for which she had been provided by Providence
and the bishop. “Come an’ ‘ave a look at Daisy,”
had become the conversational forlorn hope of the
campers when utterly bankrupt of all other interests.
She was their shield against boredom and the spear
with which to slay the dragon of apathy.

“No beer, no pictures, only a ruddy cow,” a cynic
had remarked in summing up the amusements provided
by the Surrey Summer-Camp for Tired Workers.
“Enough to give a giddy flea the blinkin’ ‘ump,”
he had concluded; but his was only an isolated view.
For the most part these shipwrecked cockneys were
grateful to Daisy, and they never tired of watching
the milk spurt musically into the bright pail beneath
her.

The bishop was well-meaning, but forgetful. In
planning his camp he had entirely overlooked the
difficulty of food and water supplies. The one was a
mile distant and could not be brought nearer; the
other had been overcome by laying a pipe, at considerable
expense.

In the natural order of disaster the campers had[Pg 171]
arrived, and in a very few hours became tinctured with
the heresy of anti-clericalism. Husbands quarrelled
with wives as to who should bear the responsibility
for the adventure to which they found themselves
committed. One and all questioned the right of a
bishop to precipitate himself into the domestic circle
as a bearer of discord and summer-camps.

At the time of the arrival of the Bindles, everything
seemed chaos. There was a spatter of bell-tents on the
face of the meadow, piles of personal possessions at
the entrance of the tents, whilst the “tired workers”
loitered about in their shirt sleeves, or strove to prepare
meals in spite of the handicaps with which they were
surrounded. The children stood about wide-eyed and
grave, as if unable to play their urban games in a
bucolic setting.

When, under the able command of Patrol-leader
Smithers, the Bindles’ belongings had been piled up
just inside the meadow and Mrs. Bindle helped down,
sore in body and disturbed in temper, the indefatigable
boy scout led the way towards a tent. He carried the
Japanese basket in one hand, and the handleless bag
under the other arm, whilst Bindle followed with the
tin-bath, and Mrs. Bindle made herself responsible for
the bundle of blankets, through the centre of which
the parrot-headed umbrella peeped out coyly.

Their guide paused at the entrance of a bell-tent,
and deposited the Japanese basket on the
ground.

“This is your tent,” he announced, “I’ll send one
of the patrol to help you,” and, with the air of one[Pg 172]
upon whose shoulders rests the destiny of planets, he
departed.

Bindle and Mrs. Bindle gazed after him, then at
each other, finally at the tent. Bindle stepped
across and put his head inside; but quickly withdrew
it.

“Smells like a bus on a wet day,” he muttered.

With an air of decision Mrs. Bindle entered the tent.
As she did so Bindle winked gravely at a little boy who
had wandered up, and now stood awaiting events with
blue-eyed gravity. At Bindle’s wink he turned and
trotted off to a neighbouring tent, from the shelter of
which he continued to watch the domestic tragedy of
the new arrivals.

“There are no bedsteads.” Mrs. Bindle’s voice
came from within the tent in tones of muffled
tragedy.

“You don’t say so,” said Bindle abstractedly, his
attention concentrated upon a diminutive knight of
the pole, who was approaching their tent.

“Where’s the feather beds, ‘Orace?” he demanded
when the lad was within ear-shot.

“There’s a waterproof ground-sheet and we
supply mattresses of loose straw,” he announced as
he halted sharply within two paces of where Bindle
stood.

“Oh! you do, do you?” said Bindle, “an’ who
‘appens to supply the brass double-bedstead wot me
and Mrs. B. is used to sleep on. P’raps you can tell
me that, young shaver?”

Before the lad had time to reply, Mrs. Bindle appeared[Pg 173]
at the entrance of the tent, grimmer and more uncompromising
than ever. For a moment she eyed the lad
severely.

“Where am I to sleep?” she demanded.

“Are you with this gentleman?” enquired the boy
scout.

“She is, sonny,” said Bindle, “been with me for
twenty years now. Can’t lose ‘er no’ow.”

“Bindle, behave yourself!” Mrs. Bindle’s jaws
closed with a snap.

“We’re going to ‘ave some sacks of straw in place
of that missionary’s bed you an’ me sleeps on in
Fulham,” explained Bindle; but Mrs. Bindle had
disappeared once more into the tent.

For the next hour the Bindles and their assistant
scout were engaged in getting the bell-tent into
habitable condition. During the process the scout
explained that the marquee was to have been used for
the communal meals, which the field-kitchen was to
supply; but both had failed to arrive, and the
bishop had himself gone up to London to make
enquiries.

“An’ wot’s goin’ to ‘appen to us till ‘e runs acrost
’em?” enquired Bindle. “I’m feelin’ a bit peckish
myself now—wot I’ll be like in a hour’s time I don’t
know.”

“I’ll show you how to build a scout-fire,” volunteered
the lad.

“But I ain’t a fire-eater,” objected Bindle. “I
want a bit o’ steak, or a rasher an’ an egg.”

“What’s the use of a scout-fire to me with kippers[Pg 174]
to cook?” demanded Mrs. Bindle, appearing once
more at the entrance of the tent.

At that moment another “tired worker” drifted
across to the Bindles’ tent. He was a long, lean
man with a straggling moustache and three days’
growth of beard. He was in his shirt sleeves, collarless,
with unbuttoned waistcoat, and he wore a general air
of despondency and gloom.

“‘Ow goes it, mate?” he enquired.

Bindle straightened himself from inspecting the
interior of the tin-bath which he was unpacking.

“Oh! mid; but I’ve known wot it is to be ‘appier,”
said Bindle, with a grin.

“Same ‘ere,” was the gloomy response.

“Things sort o’ seem to ‘ave gone wrong,” suggested
Bindle conversationally.

“That’s right,” said the man, rubbing the bristles
of his chin with a meditative thumb.

“‘Ow you gettin’ on for grub?” asked Bindle.

The man shook his head lugubriously.

“What about a pub?”

“Mile away,” gloomed the man.

“Gawd Almighty!” Bindle’s exclamation was not
concerned with the man’s remark, but with something
he extracted from the bath. “Well, I’m blowed,” he
muttered.

“‘Ere, Lizzie,” he called out.

Mrs. Bindle appeared at the entrance of the tent.
Bindle held up an elastic-sided boot from which
marmalade fell solemnly and reluctantly.[Pg 175]

Then the flood-gates of Mrs. Bindle’s wrath burst
apart, and she poured down upon Bindle’s head a deluge
of reproach. He and he alone was responsible for all
the disasters that had befallen them. He had done
it on purpose because she wanted a holiday. He
wasn’t a husband, he was a blasphemer, an atheist, a
cumberer of the earth, and all that was evil.

She was interrupted in her tirade by the approach of a
little man with a round, bald, shiny head and a worried
expression of countenance.

“D’yer know ‘ow to milk a cow, mate?” he enquired
of Bindle, apparently quite unconscious that he had
precipitated himself into the midst of a domestic
scene.

“Do I know ‘ow to wot?” demanded Bindle,
eyeing the man as if he had asked a most
unusual question.

“There’s a bloomin’ cow over there and nobody
can’t milk ‘er, an’ the bishop’s gone, and we wants
our tea.”

Bindle scratched his head through his cap, then,
turning towards the tent into which Mrs. Bindle had
once more disappeared, he called out:

“Hi, Lizzie, jer know ‘ow to milk a cow?”

“Don’t be beastly,” came the reply from the
tent.

“It ain’t one of them cows,” he called back,
“it’s a milk cow, an’ ‘ere’s a cove wot wants ‘is
tea.”

Mrs. Bindle appeared at the entrance of the tent,
and surveyed the group of three men.[Pg 176]

“How did you manage yesterday?” she demanded
practically.

“A girl come over from the farm, missis,” said
the little man, “and she didn’t ‘arf make it
milk.”

“Hold your tongue,” snapped Mrs. Bindle.

The man gazed at her in surprise.

“Why don’t you get the same girl?” asked Mrs.
Bindle.

“She says she’s too busy. I ‘ad a try myself,”
said the man, “only it was a washout.”

“I’ll ‘ave a look at ‘er,” Bindle announced, and the
three men moved off across the meadow, picking their
way among the tents with their piles of bedding,
blankets, and other impedimenta outside. All were
getting ready for the night.

When Bindle reached Daisy, he found the problem
had been solved by one of Mr. Timkins’ farm-hands,
who was busily at work, watched by an interested
group of campers.

During the next half-hour, Bindle strolled about
among the tents learning many things, foremost
among which was that “the whole ruddy camp was a
washout.” The commissariat had failed badly, and
the nearest drink was a mile away at The Trowel
and Turtle. A great many things were said about the
bishop and the organisers of the camp.

When he returned to the tent, he found Mrs. Bindle
engaged in boiling water in a petrol-tin over a scout-fire.
With the providence of a good housewife she
had brought with her emergency supplies, and Bindle[Pg 177]
was soon enjoying a meal comprised of kipper, tea
and bread and margarine. When he had finished,
he announced himself ready to face the terrors of
the night.

“I can’t say as I likes it,” he remarked, as he stood
at the entrance to the tent, struggling to undo his
collar. “Seems to me sort o’ draughty.”

“That’s right, go on,” cried Mrs. Bindle, as she
pushed past him. “What did you expect?”

“Well, since you asks me, I’m like those coves in
religion wot expects nothink; but gets an ‘ell of a
lot.”

“Don’t blaspheme. It’s Sunday to-morrow,” was
the rejoinder; but Bindle had strolled away to commune
with the man with a stubbly chin and pessimistic
soul.

“Do yer sleep well, mate?” he enquired, conversationally.

“Crikey! sleep is it? There ain’t no blinkin’ sleep
in this ‘ere ruddy camp.”

“Wot’s up?” enquired Bindle.

“Up!” was the lugubrious response. “Awake all
last night, I was.”

“Wot was you doin’?” queried Bindle with
interest.

“Scratchin’!” was the savage retort.

“Scratchin’! Who was you scratchin’?”

“Who was I scratchin’? Who the ‘ell should I be
scratchin’ but myself?” he demanded, his apathy
momentarily falling from him. “I’d like to know
where they got that blinkin’ straw from wot they give[Pg 178]
us to lie on. I done a bit o’ scratchin’ in the trenches;
but last night I ‘adn’t enough fingers, damn
’em.”

Bindle whistled.

“Then,” continued the man with gloomy gusto,
“there’s them ruddy chickens in the mornin’, a-crowin’
their guts out. Not a wink o’ sleep after three for
anybody,” he added, with all the hatred of the
cockney for farmyard sounds. “Oh! it’s an ‘oliday,
all right,” he added with scathing sarcasm, “only
it ain’t ours.”

“Seems like it,” said Bindle drily, as he turned on
his heel and made for his own tent.

That night, he realised to the full the iniquities of
the man who had supplied the straw for the mattresses.
By the sounds that came from the other side of the
tent-pole, he gathered that Mrs. Bindle was similarly
troubled.

Towards dawn, Bindle began to doze, just as the
cocks were announcing the coming of the sun. If the
man with the stubbly chin were right in his diagnosis,
the birds, like Prometheus, had, during the night,
renewed their missing organisms.

“Well, I’m blowed!” muttered Bindle. “Ole
six-foot-o’-melancholy wasn’t swinging the lead
neither. ‘Oly ointment! I never ‘eard such a row
in all my puff. There ain’t no doubt but wot Mrs.
Bindle’s gettin’ a country ‘oliday,” and with that he
rose and proceeded to draw on his trousers, deciding
that it was folly to attempt further to seek
sleep.[Pg 179]

Outside the tent, he came across Patrol-leader
Smithers.

“Mornin’ Foch,” said Bindle.

“Smithers,” said the lad. “Patrol-leader Smithers
of the Bear Patrol.”

“My mistake,” said Bindle; “but you an’ Foch is
jest as like as two peas. You don’t ‘appen to ‘ave
seen a stray cock about, do you?”

“A cock,” repeated the boy.

“Yes!” said Bindle, tilting his head on one side
with the air of one listening intently, whilst from all
sides came the brazen blare of ecstatic chanticleers.
“I thought I ‘eard one just now.”

“They’re Farmer Timkins’ fowls,” said Patrol-leader
Smithers gravely.

“You don’t say so,” said Bindle. “Seem to
be in good song this mornin’. Reg’lar bunch o’
canaries.”

To this flippancy, Patrol-leader Smithers made no
response.

“Does there ‘appen to be any place where I can get a
rinse, ‘Indenberg?” he enquired.

“There’s a tap over there for men,” said Patrol-leader
Smithers, pointing to the extreme right of the
field, “and for ladies over there,” he pointed in the
opposite direction.

“No mixed bathin’, I see,” murmured Bindle.
“Now, as man to man, Ludendorff, which would you
advise?”

The lad looked at him with grave eyes. “The men’s
tap is over there,” and again he pointed.[Pg 180]

“Well, well,” said Bindle, “p’raps you’re right;
but I ain’t fond o’ takin’ a bath in the middle of a
field,” he muttered.

“The taps are screened off.”

“Well, well, live an’ learn,” muttered Bindle, as he
made for the men’s tap.

When Bindle returned to the tent, he found Patrol-leader
Smithers instructing Mrs. Bindle in how to coax
a scout-fire into activity.

“You mustn’t poke it, mum,” said the lad. “It
goes out if you do.”

Mrs. Bindle drew in her lips, and folded the brown
mackintosh she was wearing more closely about her.
She was not accustomed to criticism, particularly in
domestic matters, and her instinct was to disregard
it; but the boy’s earnestness seemed to discourage
retort, and she had already seen the evil effect of
attacking a scout-fire with a poker.

Suddenly her eye fell upon Bindle, standing in shirt
and trousers, from the back of which his braces dangled
despondently.

“Why don’t you go in and dress?” she demanded.
“Walking about in that state!”

“I been to get a rinse,” he explained, as he walked
across to the tent and disappeared through the
aperture.

Mrs. Bindle snorted angrily. She had experienced
a bad night, added to which the fire had resented her
onslaught by incontinently going out, necessitating an
appeal to a mere child.

Having assumed a collar, a coat and waistcoat,[Pg 181]
Bindle strolled round the camp exchanging a word
here and a word there with his fellow campers, who, in
an atmosphere of intense profanity, were engaged in
getting breakfast.

“Never ‘eard such language,” muttered Bindle with
a grin. “This ‘ere little camp’ll send a rare lot
o’ people to a place where they won’t meet the
bishop.”

At the end of half-an-hour he returned and found
tea, eggs and bacon, and Mrs. Bindle waiting for
him.

“So you’ve come at last,” she snapped, as he seated
himself on a wooden box.

“Got it this time,” he replied genially, sniffing the
air appreciatively. “‘Ope you got somethink nice
for yer little love-bird.”

“Don’t you love-bird me,” cried Mrs. Bindle, who
had been looking for some one on whom to vent her
displeasure. “I suppose you’re going to leave me to
do all the work while you go gallivanting about playing
the gentleman.”

“I don’t needs to play it, Mrs. B., I’m IT.
Vere de Vere with blood as blue as ‘Earty’s
stories.”

“If you think I’m going to moil and toil and cook
for you down here as I do at home, you’re mistaken.
I came for a rest. I’ve hardly had a wink of sleep
all night,” she sniffed ominously.

“I thought I ‘eard you on the ‘unt,” said Bindle
sympathetically.

“Bindle!” There was warning in her tone.[Pg 182]

“But wasn’t you?” He looked across at her in
surprise, his mouth full of eggs and bacon.

“I—I had a disturbed night,” she drew in her lips
primly.

“So did I,” said Bindle gloomily. “I’d ‘ave
disturbed ’em if I could ‘ave caught ’em. My God!
There must ‘ave been millions of ’em,” he added
reminiscently.

“If you’re going to talk like that, I shall go away,”
she announced.

“I’d like to meet the cove wot filled them mattresses,”
was Bindle’s sinister comment.

“It—it wasn’t that,” said Mrs. Bindle. “It was
the——” She paused for a moment.

“Them cocks,” he suggested.

“Don’t be disgusting, Bindle.”

“Disgusting? I never see such a chap as me for
bein’ lood an’ disgustin’ an’ blasphemious. Wot jer
call ’em if they ain’t cocks?”

“They’re roosters—the male birds.”

“But they wasn’t roostin’, blow ’em. They was
crowin’, like giddy-o.”

Mrs. Bindle made no comment; but continued to
eat her breakfast.

“Personally, myself, I’m goin’ to ‘ave a little word
with the bishop about that little game I ‘ad with
wot ‘appened before wot you call them male birds
started givin’ tongue.” He paused to take breath.
“I don’t like to mention wot it was; but I shall itch
for a month. ‘Ullo Weary!” he called out to the
long man with the stubbly chin.[Pg 183]

The man approached. He was wearing the same
lugubrious look and the same waistcoat, unbuttoned
in just the same manner that it had been unbuttoned
the day before.

“You was right about them mattresses and the
male birds,” said Bindle, with a glance at Mrs.
Bindle.

“The wot?” demanded the man, gazing vacantly
at Bindle.

“The male birds.”

“‘Oo the ‘ell—sorry, mum,” to Mrs. Bindle. Then
turning once more to Bindle he added, “Them cocks,
you mean?”

“‘Ush!” said Bindle. “They ain’t cocks ‘ere, they’re
male birds, an’ roosters on Sunday. You see, my
missis——” but Mrs. Bindle had risen and, with angry
eyes, had disappeared into the tent.

“Got one of ’em?” queried Bindle, jerking his
thumb in the direction of the aperture of the
tent.

The man with the stubbly chin nodded dolefully.

“Thought so,” said Bindle. “You looks it.”

Whilst Bindle was strolling round the camp with
the man with the stubbly chin, Mrs. Bindle was
becoming better acquainted with the peculiar temperament
of a bell-tent. She had already realised its
disadvantages as a dressing-room. It was dark, it was
small, it was stuffy. The two mattresses occupied
practically the whole floor-space and there was nowhere
to sit. It was impossible to move about freely,[Pg 184]
owing to the restrictions of space in the upper
area.

Having washed the breakfast-things, peeled the
potatoes, supplied by Mr. Timkins through Patrol-leader
Smithers, and prepared for the oven a small
joint of beef she had brought with her, Mrs. Bindle
once more withdrew into the tent.

When she eventually re-appeared in brown alpaca
with a bonnet to match, upon which rested two
purple pansies, Bindle had just returned from what he
called “a nose round,” during which he had made
friends with most of the campers, men, women and
children, who were not already his friends.

At the sight of Mrs. Bindle he whistled softly.

“You can show me where the bakers is,” she said
icily, as she proceeded to draw on a pair of brown
kid gloves. The inconveniences arising from dressing
in a bell-tent had sorely ruffled her temper.

“The bakers!” he repeated stupidly.

“Yes, the bakers,” she repeated. “I suppose you
don’t want to eat your dinner raw.”

Then Bindle strove to explain the composite tragedy
of the missing field-kitchen and marquee, to say
nothing of the bishop.

In small communities news travels quickly, and the
Bindles soon found themselves the centre of a group of
men and women (with children holding a watching
brief), all anxious to volunteer information, mainly on
the subject of misguided bishops who got unsuspecting
townsmen into the country under false pretences.[Pg 185]

Mrs. Bindle was a good housewife, and she had come
prepared with rations sufficient for the first two days.
She had, however, depended upon the statements
contained in the prospectus of the S.C.T.W., that
cooking facilities would be provided by the committee.

She strove to control the anger that was rising
within her. It was the Sabbath, and she was among
strangers.

Although ready and willing to volunteer information,
the other campers saw no reason to restrain
their surprise and disapproval of Mrs. Bindle’s toilette.
The other women were in their work-a-day attire, as
befitted housewives who had dinners to cook under
severe handicaps, and they resented what they regarded
as a newcomer’s “swank.”

That first day of the holiday, for which she had
fought with such grim determination, lived long in
Mrs. Bindle’s memory. Dinner she contrived with the
aid of the frying-pan and the saucepan she had brought
with her. It would have taken something more than
the absence of a field-kitchen to prevent Mrs. Bindle
from doing what she regarded as her domestic duty.

The full sense of her tragedy, however, manifested
itself when, dinner over, she had washed-up.

There was nothing to do until tea-time. Bindle had
disappeared with the man with the stubbly chin and
two others in search of the nearest public-house, a mile
away. Patrol-leader Smithers was at Sunday-school,
whilst her fellow-campers showed no inclination to
make advances.[Pg 186]

She walked for a little among the other tents; but
her general demeanour was not conducive to hasty
friendships. She therefore returned to the tent and
wrote to Mr. Hearty, telling him, on the authority
of Patrol-leader Smithers, that Mr. Timkins had a
large quantity of excellent strawberries for sale.

Mr. Hearty was a greengrocer who had one eye on
business and the other eye on God, in case of accidents.
On hearing that the Bindles were going into the
country, his mind had instinctively flown to fruit and
vegetables. He had asked Mrs. Bindle to “drop him
a postcard” (Mr. Hearty was always economical in the
matter of postages, even other people’s postages) if
she heard of anything that she thought might interest
him.

Mrs. Bindle told in glowing terms the story of
Farmer Timkins’ hoards of strawberries, giving the
impression that he was at a loss what to do with
them.

Three o’clock brought the bishop and a short open-air
service, which was attended by the entire band
of campers, with the exception of Bindle and his
companions.

The bishop was full of apologies for the past and
hope for the future. In place of a sermon he gave an
almost jovial address; but there were no answering
smiles. Everyone was wondering what they could do
until it was time for bed, the more imaginative going
still further and speculating what they were to do when
they got there.

“My friends,” the bishop concluded, “we must not[Pg 187]
allow trifling mishaps to discourage us. We are here
to enjoy ourselves.”

And the campers returned to their tents as Achilles
had done a few thousand years before, dark of brow
and gloomy of heart.[Pg 188]

CHAPTER IX

MR. HEARTY ENCOUNTERS A BULL

I

“He’s sure to lose his way across the fields,”
cried Mrs. Bindle angrily.

“‘Earty’s too careful to lose anythink,”
said Bindle, as, from a small tin box, he crammed
tobacco into his pipe. “‘E’s used to the narrow way
‘e is,” he added.

“You ought to have gone to meet him.”

“My legs is feelin’ a bit tired——” began Bindle, who
enjoyed his brother-in-law’s society only when there
were others to enjoy it with him.

“Bother your legs,” she snapped.

“Supposin’ you ‘ad various veins in your legs.”

“Don’t be nasty.”

“Well, wot jer want to talk about my legs for, if I
mustn’t talk about yours,” he grumbled.

“You’ve got a lewd mind, Bindle,” she retorted,
“and you know it.”

“Well, any’ow, I ain’t got lood legs.”

She drew in her lips; but said nothing.

“I don’t know wot ‘Earty wants to come down to a
funny little ‘ole like this for,” grumbled Bindle, as[Pg 189]
they walked across the meadow adjoining the camping-ground,
making for a spot that would give them a view
of the field-path leading to the station.

“It’s because he wants to buy some fruit.”

“I thought there was somethink at the back of the
old bird’s mind,” he remarked. “‘Earty ain’t one
to spend railway fares jest for the love o’ seein’ you
an’ me, Mrs. B. It’s apples ‘es after—reg’lar old Adam
‘e is. You only got to watch ‘im with them gals in
the choir.”

“If you talk like that I shall leave you,” she cried
angrily; “and it’s strawberries, apples aren’t in yet,”
she added, as if that were a circumstance in Mr. Hearty’s
favour.

Mr. Hearty had proved himself to be a man of action.
Mrs. Bindle’s glowing account of vast stores of strawberries,
to be had almost for the asking, had torn from
him a telegram announcing that he would be at the
Summer-Camp for Tired Workers soon after two
o’clock that, Monday, afternoon.

Mrs. Bindle was almost genial at the prospect of
seeing her brother-in-law, and earning his thanks for
assistance rendered. Conditions at the camp remained
unchanged. After the service on the previous day,
the bishop had once more disappeared, ostensibly in
pursuit of the errant field-kitchen and marquee, promising
to return early the following afternoon.

Arrived at the gate on the further side of the field,
Bindle paused. Then, as Mrs. Bindle refused his
suggestion that he should “‘oist” her up, he himself
climbed on to the top-rail and sat contentedly smoking.[Pg 190]

“I don’t seem to see ‘Earty a-walkin’ across a field,”
he remarked meditatively. “It don’t seem natural.”

“You can’t see anything but what’s in your own
wicked mind,” she retorted acidly.

“Well, well!” he said philosophically. “P’raps
you’re right. I suppose we shall see them merry
whiskers of ‘is a-comin’ round the corner, ‘im a-leadin’
a lamb with a pink ribbon. I can see ‘Earty with a
little lamb, an’ a sprig o’ mint for the sauce.”

For nearly a quarter of an hour Bindle smoked in
silence, whilst Mrs. Bindle stood with eyes fixed upon a
stile on the opposite side of the field, over which Mr.
Hearty was due to come.

“What was that?”

Involuntarily she clutched Bindle’s knee, as a
tremendous roar broke the stillness of the summer
afternoon.

“That’s ole Farmer Timkins’ bull,” explained Bindle.
“Rare ole sport, ‘e is. Tossed a cove last week, an’
made a rare mess of ‘im.”

“It oughtn’t to be allowed.”

“Wot?”

“Dangerous animals like that,” was the retort.

“Well, personally myself, I likes a cut o’ veal,”
Bindle remarked, watching Mrs. Bindle covertly; but
her thoughts were intent on Mr. Hearty, and the allusion
passed unnoticed.

“It ‘ud be a bad thing for ole ‘Earty, if that bull
was to get ‘im by the back o’ the trousers,” mused
Bindle. “‘Ullo, there ‘e is.” He indicated with the
stem of his pipe a point in the hedge on the right of[Pg 191]
the field, over which was thrust a great dun-coloured
head.

Again the terrifying roar split the air. Instinctively
Mrs. Bindle recoiled, and gripped the parrot-headed
umbrella she was carrying.

“It’s trying to get through. I’m not going to wait
here,” she announced with decision. “It may——”

“Don’t you worry, Mrs. B.,” he reassured her. “‘E
ain’t one o’ the jumpin’ sort. Besides, there’s an
‘edge between ‘im an’ us, not to speak o’ this ‘ere
gate.”

Mrs. Bindle retired a yard or two, her eyes still on
the dun-coloured head.

So absorbed were she and Bindle in watching the
bull, that neither of them saw Mr. Hearty climbing
the opposite stile.

As he stood on the topmost step, silhouetted against
the blue sky, the tails of his frock-coat flapping, Bindle
caught sight of him.

“‘Ullo, ‘ere’s old ‘Earty!” he cried, waving his
hand.

Mr. Hearty descended gingerly to terra firma, then,
seeing Mrs. Bindle, he raised his semi-clerical felt hat.
In such matters, Mr. Hearty was extremely punctilious.

At that moment the bull appeared to catch sight of
the figure with the flapping coat-tails.

It made a tremendous onslaught upon the hedge, and
there was a sound of crackling branches; but the
hedge held.

“Call out to him, Bindle. Shout! Warn him! Do
you hear?” cried Mrs. Bindle excitedly.[Pg 192]

“‘E’s all right,” said Bindle complacently. “That
there bull ain’t a-goin’ to get through an ‘edge like
that.”

“Mr. Hearty, there’s a bull! Run!”

Mrs. Bindle’s thin voice entirely failed to carry to
where Mr. Hearty was walking with dignity and
unconcern, regardless of the danger which Mrs. Bindle
foresaw threatened him.

The bull made another attack upon the hedge. Mr.
Hearty’s flapping coat-tails seemed to goad it to madness.
There was a further crackling and the massive
shoulders of the animal now became visible; but still
it was unable to break through.

“Call out to him, Bindle. He’ll be killed, and it’ll
be your fault,” she cried hysterically, pale and trembling
with anxiety.

“Look out, ‘Earty!” yelled Bindle. “There’s a
bloomin’ bull,” and he pointed in the direction of the
hedge; but the bull had disappeared.

Mr. Hearty looked towards the point indicated;
but, seeing nothing, continued his dignified way,
convinced that Bindle was once more indulging in
what Mr. Hearty had been known to describe as “his
untimely jests.”

He was within some fifty yards of the gate where
the Bindles awaited him, when there was a terrific
crash followed by a mighty roar—the bull was through.
It had retreated apparently in order to charge the
hedge and break through by virtue of its mighty
bulk.

Bindle yelled, Mrs. Bindle screamed, and Mr. Hearty[Pg 193]
gave one wild look over his shoulder and, with terror
in his eyes and his semi-clerical hat streaming behind,
attached only by a hat-guard, he ran as he had never
run before.

Bindle clambered down from the gate so as to leave
the way clear, and Mrs. Bindle thrust her umbrella
into Bindle’s hands. She had always been told that
no bull would charge an open umbrella.

“Come on, ‘Earty!” yelled Bindle. “Run like
‘ell!” In his excitement he squatted down on his
haunches, for all the world like a man encouraging a
whippet.

Mr. Hearty ran, and the bull, head down and with
a snorting noise that struck terror to the heart of the
fugitive, ran also.

“Run, Mr. Hearty, run!” screamed Mrs. Bindle
again.

The bull was running diagonally in the direction of
Mr. Hearty’s fleeing figure. In this it was at a disadvantage.

“Get ready to help him over,” cried Mrs. Bindle,
terror clutching at her heart.

“Looks to me as if ‘Earty and the bull and the whole
bloomin’ caboodle’ll come over together,” muttered
Bindle.

“Oooooh!”

A new possibility seemed to strike Mrs. Bindle and,
with a terrified look at the approaching bull, which at
that moment gave utterance to a super-roar, she
turned and fled for the gate on the opposite side of the
field.[Pg 194]

For a second Bindle tore his gaze from the drama
before him. He caught sight of several inches of white
leg above a pair of elastic-sided boots, out of which
dangled black and orange tabs.

“Help, Joseph, help!” Mr. Hearty screamed in
his terror and, a second later, he crashed against the
gate on which Bindle had climbed ready to haul him
over.

Seizing his brother-in-law by the collar and a mercifully
slack pair of trousers, he gave him a mighty
heave. A moment later, the two fell to the ground;
but on the right side of the gate. As they did so, the
bull crashed his head against it.

The whole structure shivered. For a moment Bindle
gave himself up for lost; but, fortunately, the posts
held. The enraged animal could do nothing more than
thrust its muzzle between the bars of the gate and snort
its fury.

The foaming mouth and evil-looking blood-shot
eyes caused Bindle to scramble hastily to his feet.

“Oh God! I am a miserable sinner,” wailed Mr.
Hearty; “but spare me that I may repent.” Then
he fell to moaning, whilst Bindle caught a vision of
Mrs. Bindle disappearing over the further gate with a
startling exposure of white stocking.

“Well, I’m blowed!” he muttered. “Ain’t it funny
‘ow religion gets into the legs when there’s a bull
about? Bit of a slump in ‘arps, if you was to ask
me!”

For some seconds he stood gazing down on the
grovelling form of Mr. Hearty, an anxious eye on the[Pg 195]
bull which, with angry snorts, was battering the gate
in a manner that caused him some concern.

“Look ‘ere, ‘Earty, you’d better nip orf,” he said
at length, bringing his boot gently into contact with a
prominent portion of the greengrocer’s prostrate form.
Mr. Hearty merely groaned and muttered appeals to
the Almighty to save him.

“It ain’t no use a-kickin’ up all that row,” Bindle
continued. “This ‘ere bit o’ beef seems to ‘ave taken
a fancy to you, ‘Earty, an’ that there gate ain’t none
too strong, neither. ‘Ere, steady Kayser,” he admonished,
as the bull made a vicious dash with its
head against the gate.

Mr. Hearty sat up and gave a wild look about him.
At the sight of the blood-shot eyes of the enraged animal
he scrambled to his feet.

“Now you make a bolt for that there stile,” said
Bindle, jerking his thumb in the direction where Mrs.
Bindle had just disappeared, “and you’ll find Mrs. B.
somewhere on the other side.”

With another apprehensive glance at the bull, Mr.
Hearty turned and made towards the stile. His pace
was strangely suggestive of a man cheating in a walking-race.

The sight of his quarry escaping seemed still further
to enrage the bull. With a terrifying roar it dashed
furiously at the gate.

The sound of the roar lent wings to the feet of the
flying Mr. Hearty. Throwing aside all pretence, he
made precipitately towards the stile, beyond which
lay safety. For a few seconds, Bindle stood watching[Pg 196]
the flying figure of his brother-in-law. Then he turned
off to the right, along the hedge dividing the meadow
from the field occupied by the bull.

“Well, ‘ere’s victory or Westminster Abbey,” he
muttered as he crept through a hole in the hawthorn,
hoping that the bull would not observe him. His
object was to warn the farmer of the animal’s
escape.

Half an hour later, he climbed the stile over which
Mrs. Bindle had disappeared; but there was no sign
either of her or of Mr. Hearty.

It was not until he reached the Summer-Camp that
he found them seated outside the Bindles’ tent. Mr.
Hearty, looking pasty of feature, was endeavouring
to convey to his blanched lips a cup of tea that Mrs.
Bindle had just handed to him; but the trembling
of his hand caused it to slop over the side of the cup
on to his trousers.

“‘Ullo, ‘ere we are again,” cried Bindle cheerily.

“I wonder you aren’t ashamed of yourself,” cried
Mrs. Bindle.

Bindle stared at her with a puzzled expression.
He looked at Mr. Hearty, then back again at Mrs.
Bindle.

“Leaving Mr. Hearty and me like that. We might
have been killed.” Her voice shook.

“That would ‘ave been a short cut to ‘arps an’
wings.”

“I’m ashamed of you, that I am,” she continued,
while Mr. Hearty turned upon his brother-in-law a
pair of mildly reproachful eyes.[Pg 197]

“Well, I’m blowed,” muttered Bindle as he walked
away. “If them two ain’t IT. Me a-leavin’ them.
If that ain’t a juicy bit.”

Mr. Hearty was only half-way through his second
cup of tea when the Bishop of Fulham, followed by
several of the summer-campers, appeared and walked
briskly towards them.

“Where’s that husband of yours, Mrs. Bindle?”
he enquired, as if he suspected Bindle of hiding from
him.

“I’m sure I don’t know, sir,” she cried, rising, whilst
Mr. Hearty, in following suit, stepped upon the tails
of his coat and slopped the rest of the tea over his
trousers.

“Ah,” said the bishop. “I must find him. He’s a
fine fellow, crossing the field behind that bull to warn
Mr. Timkins. If the beast had happened to get into the
camp, it would have been the very—very disastrous,”
he corrected himself, and with a nod he passed on
followed by the other campers.

“That’s just like Bindle,” she complained, “not
saying a word, and making me ridiculous before the
bishop. He’s always treating me like that,” and there
was a whimper in her voice.

“It’s—it’s very unfortunate,” said Mr. Hearty
nervously.

“Thank you, Mr. Hearty,” she said. “It’s little
enough sympathy I get.”[Pg 198]

II

It was not until nearly four o’clock that Bindle re-appeared
with the intimation that he was ready to
conduct Mr. Hearty to call upon Farmer Timkins with
regard to the strawberries, the purchase of which had
been the object of Mr. Hearty’s visit.

“Won’t you come, too, Elizabeth?” enquired Mr.
Hearty, turning to Mrs. Bindle.

“Thank you, Mr. Hearty, I should like to,” she replied,
tightening her bonnet strings as if in anticipation of
further violent movement.

Mr. Hearty gave the invitation more as a precaution
against Bindle’s high-spirits, than from a desire for
his sister-in-law’s company.

“‘Ere, not that way,” cried Bindle, as they were
making for the gate leading to the road.

Mr. Hearty looked hesitatingly at Mrs. Bindle, who,
however, settled the question by marching resolutely
towards the gate.

“But it’ll take a quarter of an hour that way,”
Bindle protested.

“If you think I’m going across any more fields with
wild bulls, Bindle, you’re mistaken,” she announced
with decision. “You’ve nearly killed Mr. Hearty once
to-day. Let that be enough.”

With a feeling of thankfulness Mr. Hearty
followed.

“But that little bit o’ beef is tied up with a ring[Pg 199]
through ‘is bloomin’ nose. I been an’ ‘ad a look at
‘im.”

“Ring or no ring,” she snapped, “I’ll have you know
that I’m not going across any more fields. It’s a
mercy we’re either of us alive.”

Bindle knew that he was not the other one referred
to, and he reluctantly followed, grumbling about long
distances and various veins.

Although upon the high-road, both Mrs. Bindle and
Mr. Hearty were what Bindle regarded as “a bit
jumpy.”

From time to time they looked about them with
obvious apprehension, as if anticipating that from every
point of the compass a bull was preparing to charge
down upon them.

They paused at the main-entrance to the farm,
allowing Bindle to lead the way.

Half-way towards the house, their nostrils were
assailed by a devastating smell; Mr. Hearty held his
breath, whilst Mrs. Bindle produced a handkerchief,
wiped her lips and then held it to her nose. She had
always been given to understand that the only antidote
for a bad smell was to spit; but she was too refined
to act up to the dictum without the aid of her handkerchief.

“Pigs!” remarked Bindle, raising his head and
sniffing with the air of a connoisseur.

“Extremely insanitary,” murmured Mr. Hearty.
“You did say the—er bull was tied up, Joseph?” he
enquired.

“Well, ‘e was when I see ‘im,” said Bindle, “but of[Pg 200]
course it wouldn’t take long for ‘im to undo ‘imself.”

Mr. Hearty glanced about him anxiously.

In front of the house the party paused. Nowhere
was anyone to be seen. An old cart with its shafts
pointing heavenward stood on the borders of a duck
pond, green with slime.

The place was muddy and unclean, and Mrs. Bindle,
with a look of disgust, drew up her skirts almost to
the tops of her elastic-sided boots.

Bindle looked about him with interest. A hen
appeared round the corner of the house, gazed at the
newcomers for a few seconds, her head on one side,
then disappeared from whence she had come.

Ducks stood on their heads in the water, or quacked
comfortably as they swam about, apparently either
oblivious or indifferent to the fact that there were
callers.

From somewhere in the distance could be heard
the sound of a horse stamping in its stall.

At the end of five minutes an old man appeared
carrying a pail. At the sight of strangers, he
stopped dead, his slobbering lips gaping in surprise.

“Can I see Mr. Timkins?” enquired Mr. Hearty, in
refined but woolly tones.

“Farmer be over there wi’ Bessie. I tell un she’ll
foal’ fore night; but ‘e will ‘ave it she won’t. ‘E’ll see.
‘e will,” he added with the air of a fatalist.

Mr. Hearty turned aside and became interested in
the ducks, whilst Mrs. Bindle flushed a deep vermilion.
Bindle said nothing; but watched with enjoyment
the confusion of the others.[Pg 201]

The man stared at them, puzzled to account for their
conduct.

“Where did you say Mr. Timkins was to be found?”
enquired Mr. Hearty.

“I just tell ee, in the stable wi’ Bessie. ‘E says
she won’t foal; but I know she will. Why she——”

Mr. Hearty did not wait for further information;
but turned and made for what, from the motion of
the man’s head, he took to be the stable.

The others followed.

“No, not there,” yelled the man, as if he were
addressing someone in the next field. “Turn round
to left o’ that there muck ‘eap.”

A convulsive shudder passed over Mr. Hearty’s
frame. He was appalled at the coarseness engendered
by an agricultural existence. He hurried on so that
he should not have to meet Mrs. Bindle’s eye.

At that moment Farmer Timkins was seen approaching.
He was a short, red-faced man in a bob-tailed
coat with large flapped-pockets, riding-breeches and
gaiters. In his hand he carried a crop which, at
the sight of Mrs. Bindle, he raised to his hat in
salutation.

“Mornin’.”

“Good afternoon,” said Mr. Hearty genteelly.

The farmer fixed his eyes upon Mr. Hearty’s emaciated
sallowness, with all the superiority of one who
knows that he is a fine figure of a man.

“It was you that upset Oscar, wasn’t it?” There
was more accusation than welcome in his tone.

“Upset Oscar?” enquired Mr. Hearty, nervously[Pg 202]
looking from the farmer to Mrs. Bindle, then back
again to the farmer.

“Yes, my bull,” explained Mr. Timkins.

“It was Oscar wot nearly upset pore old ‘Earty,”
grinned Bindle.

“A savage beast like that ought to be shot,” cried
Mrs. Bindle, gazing squarely at the farmer. “It nearly
killed——”

“Ought to be shot!” repeated the farmer, a dull
flush rising to his face. “Shoot Oscar! Are you mad,
ma’am?” he demanded, making an obvious effort to
restrain his anger.

“Don’t you dare to insult me,” she cried. “You set
that savage brute on to Mr. Hearty and it nearly killed
him. I shall report you to the bishop—and—and—to
the police,” she added as an after-thought. “You
ought to be prosecuted.”

Mrs. Bindle’s lips had disappeared into a grey line,
her face was very white, particularly at the corners of
the mouth. For nearly two hours she had restrained
herself. Now that she was face to face with the owner
of the bull that had nearly plunged her into mourning,
her anger burst forth.

The farmer looked from one to the other in bewilderment.

“Report me to the police,” he repeated dully.
“What——”

“Yes, and I will too,” cried Mrs. Bindle, interpreting
the farmer’s strangeness of manner as indicative of
fear. “Mad bulls are always shot.”

The farmer focussed his gaze upon Mrs. Bindle, as[Pg 203]
if she belonged to a new species. His anger had
vanished. He was overcome by surprise that anyone
should be so ignorant of bulls and their ways as to
believe Oscar mad.

“Why, ma’am, Oscar’s no more mad than you or
me. He’s just a bit fresh. Most times he’s as gentle
as a lamb.”

“Don’t talk to me about lambs,” cried Mrs. Bindle,
now thoroughly roused. “With my own eyes I saw
it chasing Mr. Hearty across the field. It’s a wonder
he wasn’t killed. I shall insist upon the animal being
destroyed.”

The farmer turned to Bindle, as if for an explanation
of such strange views upon bulls in general and Oscar
in particular.

“Oscar’s all right, Lizzie,” said Bindle pacifically.
“‘E only wanted to play tag with ‘Earty.”

“You be quiet!” cried Mrs. Bindle. She felt that
she already had the enemy well beaten and in terror
of prosecution.

“I suppose,” she continued, turning once more to
Mr. Timkins, “you want to hide the fact that you’re
keeping a mad bull until you can turn it into beef and
send it to market; but——”

“Turn Oscar into beef!” roared the farmer. “Why,
God dang my boots, ma’am, you’re crazy! I wouldn’t
sell Oscar for a thousand pounds.”

“I thought so,” said Mrs. Bindle, looking across at
Mr. Hearty, who was feeling intensely uncomfortable,
“and people are to be chased about the country and
murdered just because you won’t——”[Pg 204]

“But dang it, ma’am! there isn’t a bull like Oscar
for twenty miles round. Last year I had—let me see,
how many calves——”

“Don’t be disgusting,” she cried, whilst Mr. Hearty
turned his head aside, and coughed modestly into his
right hand.

Mr. Timkins gazed from one to the other in sheer
amazement, whilst Bindle, who had so man[oe]uvred as
to place himself behind Mrs. Bindle, caught the farmer’s
eye and tapped his forehead significantly.

The simple action seemed to have a magical effect
upon Mr. Timkins. His anger disappeared and his
customary bluff geniality returned.

He acknowledged Bindle’s signal with a wink, then
he turned to Mrs. Bindle.

“You see, ma’am, this is all my land, and I let the
bishop have his camp——”

“That doesn’t excuse you for keeping a mad bull,”
was the uncompromising retort. The life of her hero
had been endangered, and Mrs. Bindle was not to be
placated by words.

“But Oscar ain’t mad,” protested the farmer, taking
off his hat and mopping his forehead with a large
coloured-handkerchief he had drawn from his tail-pocket.
“I tell you he’s no more mad than what I
am.”

“And I tell you he is,” she retorted, with all the
assurance of one thoroughly versed in the ways of
bulls.

“You see, it’s like this here, mum,” he said soothingly,
intent upon placating one who was not “quite all[Pg 205]
there,” as he would have expressed it. “It’s all
through the wind gettin’ round to the sou’west. If
it hadn’t been for that——”

“Don’t talk to me about such rubbish,” she interrupted
scornfully. “I wonder you don’t say it’s
because there’s a new moon. I’m not a fool, although
I haven’t lived all my life on a farm.”

The farmer looked about him helplessly. Then he
made another effort.

“You see, ma’am, when the wind’s in the sou’west,
Oscar gets a whiff o’ them cows in the home——”

“How dare you!” The colour of Mrs. Bindle’s
cheeks transcended anything that Bindle had ever
seen. “How dare you speak to me! How—you
coarse—you—you disgusting beast!”

At the sight of Mrs. Bindle’s blazing eyes and heaving
chest, the farmer involuntarily retreated a step.

Several times he blinked his eyes in rapid
succession.

Mr. Hearty turned and concentrated his gaze upon
what the old man had described as “that there muck
‘eap.”

“Bindle!” cried Mrs. Bindle. “Will you stand by
and let that man insult me? He’s a coarse, low——”
Her voice shook with suppressed passion. Mr. Hearty
drew out his handkerchief and coughed into it.

For several seconds Mrs. Bindle stood glaring at
the farmer, then, with a sudden movement, she turned
and walked away with short, jerky steps of indignation.

Mr. Hearty continued to gaze at the muck heap,
whilst the farmer watched the retreating form of Mrs.[Pg 206]
Bindle, as if she had been a double-headed calf, or a
three-legged duck.

When she had disappeared from sight round the
corner of the house, he once more mopped his forehead
with the coloured-handkerchief, then, thrusting it into
his pocket, he resumed his hat with the air of a man
who has escaped from some deadly peril.

“It’s all that there Jim,” he muttered. “I told
him to look out for the wind and move them cows;
but will he? Not if he knows it, dang him.”

“Don’t you take it to ‘eart,” said Bindle cheerily.
“It ain’t no good to start back-chat with my missis.”

“But she said Oscar ought to be shot,” grumbled
the farmer. “Shoot Oscar!” he muttered to himself.

“You see, it’s like this ‘ere, religion’s a funny
thing. When it gets ‘old of you, it either makes you
mild, like ‘Earty ‘ere, or it makes you as ‘ot as onions,
like my missis. She don’t mean no ‘arm; but when
you gone ‘ead first over a stile, an’ your sort o’ shy
about yer legs, it don’t make you feel you wants to
give yer sugar ticket to the bull wot did it.”

“The—the strawberries, Joseph,” Mr. Hearty broke
in upon the conversation, addressing Bindle rather
than the farmer, of whom he stood in some awe.

“Ah! dang it, o’ course, them strawberries,” cried
the farmer, who had been advised by Patrol-leader
Smithers that a potential customer would call.
“Come along this way,” and he led the way to a
large barn, still mumbling under his breath.

“This way,” he cried again, as he entered and pointed[Pg 207]
to where stood row upon row of baskets full of strawberries,
heavily scenting the air. Hearty walked across
the barn, picked up a specimen of the fruit and bit it.

“What price are you asking for them?” he enquired.

“Fourpence,” was the retort.

“I’m afraid,” said Mr. Hearty with all the instincts
of the chafferer, “that I could not pay more than——”

“Then go to hell!” roared the farmer. “You get
off my farm or—or I’ll let Oscar loose,” he added with
inspiration.

For the last quarter of an hour he had restrained
himself with difficulty; but Mr. Hearty’s bargaining
instinct had been the spark that had ignited the
volcano of his wrath.

Mr. Hearty started back violently; stumbled against
a large stone and sat down with a suddenness that
caused his teeth to rattle.

“Off you go!” yelled the farmer, purple with rage.
“Here Jim,” he shouted; but Mr. Hearty waited for
nothing more. Picking himself up, he fled blindly, he
knew not whither. It sufficed him that it should be
away from that muscular arm which was gripping a
formidable-looking crop.

Bindle turned to follow, feeling that his own popularity
had been submerged in the negative qualities
of his wife and brother-in-law; but the farmer put
out a restraining hand.

“Not you,” he said, “you come up to the house.
I can give you a mug of ale the like of which you haven’t
tasted for years. I’m all upset, I am,” he added, as
if to excuse his outburst. “I’m not forgettin’ that it[Pg 208]
was you that came an’ told me about Oscar. He might
a-done a middlin’ bit o’ damage.” Then, suddenly
recollecting the cause of all the trouble, he added,
“Dang that old Jim! It was them cows what did it.
Shoot Oscar!”[Pg 209]

CHAPTER X

THE COMING OF THE WHIRLWIND

I

“It’s come, mate.”

“Go away, we’re not up yet,” cried the voice
of Mrs. Bindle from inside the tent.

“It’s come, mate,” repeated a lugubrious voice,
which Bindle recognised as that of the tall, despondent
man with the stubbly chin.

“Who’s come?” demanded Bindle, sitting up and
throwing the bedclothes from his chest, revealing a
washed-out pink flannel night-shirt.

“The blinkin’ field-kitchen,” came the voice from
without. “Comin’ to ‘ave a look at it?”

“Righto, ole sport. I’ll be out in two ticks.”

“I won’t have that man coming up to the
tent when—when we’re not up,” said Mrs. Bindle
angrily.

“It’s all right, Lizzie,” reassured Bindle, “‘e can’t
see through—an’ ‘e ain’t that sort o’ cove neither,” he
added.

Mrs. Bindle murmured an angry retort.

Five minutes later Bindle, with trailing braces, left
the tent and joined the group of men and children[Pg 210]
gazing at a battered object that was strangely reminiscent
of Stevenson’s first steam-engine.

“That’s it,” said the man with the stubbly chin,
whose name was Barnes, known to his intimates as
“‘Arry,” turning to greet Bindle and jerking a dirt-grimed
thumb in the direction of the travelling field-kitchen.

Dubious heads were shaken. Many of the men had
already had practical experience of the temperament
possessed by an army field-kitchen.

“At Givenchy I see one of ’em cut in ‘alf by a
‘Crump,'” muttered a little dark-haired man, with
red-rimmed eyes that seemed to blink automatically.
“It wasn’t ‘alf a sight, neither,” he added.

“Who’s goin’ to stoke?” demanded Barnes,
rubbing his chin affectionately with the pad of his
right thumb.

“‘Im wot’s been the wickedest,” suggested Bindle.

They were in no mood for lightness, however. None
had yet breakfasted, and all had suffered the acute
inconvenience of camping under the supreme direction
of a benign but misguided cleric.

“Wot the ‘ell I come ‘ere for, I don’t know,” said
a man with a moist, dirty face. “Might a gone to
Southend with my brother-in-law, I might,” he added
reminiscently.

“You wasn’t ‘alf a mug, was you?” remarked a
wiry little man in a singlet and khaki trousers.

“You’re right there, mate,” was the response.
“Blinkin’ barmy I must a’ been.”

“I was goin’ to Yarmouth,” confided a third, “only[Pg 211]
my missis got this ruddy camp on the streamin’ brain.
Jawed about it till I was sick and give in for peace an’
quietness. Now, look at me.”

“It’s all the ruddy Government, a-startin’ these ‘ere
stutterin’ camps,” complained a red-headed man with
the face of a Bolshevist.

“They ‘as races at Yarmouth, too,” grumbled the
previous speaker.

“Not till September,” put in another.

“August,” said the first speaker aggressively, and
the two proceeded fiercely to discuss the date of the
Yarmouth Races.

When the argument had gone as far as it could
without blows, and had quieted all other conversation,
Bindle slipped away from the group and returned to
the tent to find Mrs. Bindle busy preparing breakfast.

He smacked his lips with the consciousness that of
all the campers he was the best fed.

“Gettin’ a move on,” he cried cheerily, and once
more he smacked his lips.

“Pity you can’t do something to help,” she
retorted, “instead of loafing about with that pack of
lazy scamps.”

Bindle retired to the interior of the tent and proceeded
with his toilet.

“That’s right, take no notice when I speak to you,”
she snapped.

“Oh, my Gawd!” he groaned. “It’s scratch
all night an’ scrap all day. It’s an ‘oliday all
right.”[Pg 212]

He strove to think of something tactful to say;
but at the moment nothing seemed to suggest itself,
and Mrs. Bindle viciously broke three eggs into the
frying-pan in which bacon was already sizzling, like
an energetic wireless-plant.

The savoury smell of the frying eggs and bacon
reached Bindle inside the tent, inspiring him with
feelings of benevolence and good-will.

“I’m sorry, Lizzie,” he said contritely, “but I
didn’t ‘ear you.”

“You heard well enough what I said,” was Mrs.
Bindle’s rejoinder, as she broke a fourth egg into the
pan.

“The kitchen’s come,” he said pleasantly.

“Oh, has it?” Mrs. Bindle did not raise her
eyes from the frying-pan she was holding over the
scout-fire.

For a minute or two Bindle preserved silence,
wondering what topic he possessed that would soothe
her obvious irritation.

“They say the big tent’s down at the station,” he
remarked, repeating a rumour he had heard when
engaged in examining the field-kitchen.

Mrs. Bindle vouchsafed no reply.

“Did you sleep well, Lizzie?” he enquired.

“Sleep!” she repeated scornfully. “How was I
to sleep on rough straw like that. I ache all over.”

He saw that he had made a false move in introducing
the subject of sleep.

“The milk hasn’t come,” she announced presently
with the air of one making a statement she knew[Pg 213]
would be unpopular. Bindle hated tea without
milk.

“You don’t say so,” he remarked. “I must ‘ave
a word with Daisy. She didn’t oughter be puttin’ on
‘er bloomin’ frills.”

“The paraffin’s got into the sugar,” was the next
bombshell.

“Well, well,” said Bindle. “I suppose you can’t
‘ave everythink as you would like it.”

“Another time, perhaps you’ll get up yourself and
help with the meals.”

“I ain’t much at them sort o’ things,” he replied,
conscious that Mrs. Bindle’s anger was rising.

“You leave me to do everything, as if I was your
slave instead of your wife.”

Bindle remained silent. He realized that there
were times when it was better to bow to the storm.

“Ain’t it done yet?” he enquired, looking anxiously
at the frying-pan.

“That’s all you care about, your stomach,” she cried,
her voice rising hysterically. “So long as you’ve got
plenty to eat, nothing else matters. I wonder I stand
it. I—I——”

Bindle’s eyes were still fixed anxiously upon the
frying-pan, which, in her excitement, Mrs. Bindle
was moving from side to side of the fire.

“Look out!” he cried, “you’ll upset it, an’ I’m as
‘ungry as an ‘awk.”

Suddenly the light of madness sprang into her eyes.

“Oh! you are, are you? Well, get somebody else
to cook your meals,” and with that she inverted the[Pg 214]
frying-pan, tipping the contents into the fire. As
Bindle sprang up from the box on which he had been
sitting, she rubbed the frying-pan into the ashes,
making a hideous mess of the burning-wood, eggs and
bacon.

With a scream that was half a sob, she fled to
the shelter of the tent, leaving Bindle to gaze down
upon the wreck of what had been intended for his
breakfast.

Picking up a stick, charred at one end, he began
to rake among the embers in the vague hope of being
able to disinter from the wreck something that was
eatable; but Mrs. Bindle’s action in rubbing the
frying-pan into the ashes had removed from the contents
all semblance of food. With a sigh he rose to
his feet to find the bishop gazing down at him.

“Had a mishap?” he asked pleasantly.

“You’ve ‘it it, sir,” grinned Bindle. “Twenty
years ago,” he added in a whisper.

“Twenty years ago!” murmured the bishop, a
puzzled expression on his face. “What was twenty
years ago?”

“The little mis’ap wot you was talkin’ about, sir,”
explained Bindle, still in a whisper. “I married
Mrs. B. then, an’ she gets a bit jumpy now and
again.”

“I see,” whispered the bishop, “she upset the
breakfast.”

“Well, sir, you can put it that way; but personally
myself, I think it was the breakfast wot upset ‘er.”

“And you’ve got nothing to eat?”[Pg 215]

“Not even a tin to lick out, sir.”

“Dear me, dear me!” cried the bishop, genuinely
distressed, and then, suddenly catching sight of Barnes’s
lugubrious form appearing from behind a neighbouring
tent, he hailed him.

Barnes approached with all the deliberation and
unconcern of a pronounced fatalist.

“Our friend here has had a mishap,” said the bishop,
indicating the fire. “Will you go round to my tent
and get some eggs and bacon. Hurry up, there’s a
good fellow.”

Barnes turned on a deliberate heel, whilst Bindle
and the bishop set themselves to the reconstruction
of the scout-fire.

A quarter of an hour later, when Mrs. Bindle peeped
out of the tent, she saw the bishop and Bindle engaged
in frying eggs and bacon; whilst Barnes stood gazing
down at them with impassive pessimism.

Rising to stretch his cramped legs, the bishop caught
sight of Mrs. Bindle.

“Good morning, Mrs. Bindle. I hope your headache
is better. Mr. Bindle has been telling me that
he has had a mishap with your breakfast, so I’m
helping him to cook it. I hope you won’t mind if
I join you in eating it.”

“Now that’s wot I call tack,” muttered Bindle
under his breath, “but my! ain’t ‘e a prize liar, ‘im
a parson too.”

Mrs. Bindle came forward, an expression on her face
that was generally kept for the Rev. Mr. MacFie, of
the Alton Road Chapel.[Pg 216]

“It’s very kind of you, sir. I’m sorry Bindle let
you help with the cooking.”

“But I’m going to help with the eating,” cried the
bishop gaily.

“But it’s not fit work for a——”

“I know what you’re going to say,” said the bishop,
“and I don’t want you to say it. Here we are all
friends, helping one another, and giving a meal when
the hungry appears. For this morning I’m going to
fill the rôle of the hungry. I wonder if you’ll make
the tea, Mrs. Bindle, Mr. Bindle tells me your tea is
wonderful.”

“Oh, my Gawd!” murmured Bindle, casting up
his eyes.

With what was almost a smile, Mrs. Bindle proceeded
to do the bishop’s bidding.

During the meal Bindle was silent, leaving the
conversation to Mrs. Bindle and the bishop. By the
time he had finished his third cup of tea, Mrs. Bindle
was almost gay.

The bishop talked household-management, touched
on religion and Christian charity, slid off again to
summer-camps, thence on to marriage, babies and
the hundred and one other things dear to a woman’s
heart.

When he finally rose to go, Bindle saw in Mrs. Bindle’s
eyes a smile that almost reached her lips.

“I hope that if ever you honour us again, sir, you
will let me know——”

“No, Mrs. Bindle, it’s the unexpected that delights
me, and I’m going to be selfish. Thank you for your[Pg 217]
hospitality and our pleasant chat,” and with that
he was gone.

“Well, I’m blowed!” muttered Bindle as he gazed
after the figure of the retreating bishop, “an’ me always
thinkin’ that you ‘ad to ‘ave an ‘ymn an’ a tin o’
salmon to make love to Mrs. B.”

“And now, I suppose, you’ll go off and leave me
to do all the washing-up. Butter wouldn’t melt in
your mouth when the bishop was here. You couldn’t
say a word before him,” she snapped, and she proceeded
to gather together the dishes.

“No,” muttered Bindle as he fetched some sticks
for the fire. “‘E can talk tack all right; but when
you wants it to last, it’s better to ‘ave a tin o’ salmon
to fall back on.”

That morning Daisy had a serious rival in the field-kitchen,
which like her was an unknown quantity,
capable alike of ministering to the happiness of
all, or of withholding that which was expected of
it.

It was soon obvious to the bishop that the field-kitchen
was going to prove as great a source of anxiety
as Daisy. No one manifested any marked inclination
to act as stoker. Apart from this, the bishop had
entirely forgotten the important item of fuel, having
omitted to order either coal or coke. In addition
there was a marked suspicion, on the part of the wives,
of what they regarded as a new-fangled way of cooking
a meal. Many of them had already heard of army
field-kitchens from their husbands, and were filled
with foreboding.[Pg 218]

It took all the bishop’s tact and enthusiasm to modify
their obvious antagonism.

“I ain’t a-goin’ to trust anythink o’ mine in a rusty
old thing like that,” said a fat woman with a grimy
skin and scanty hair.

“Same ‘ere, they didn’t ought to ‘ave let us come
down without making proper pervision,” complained
a second, seizing an opportunity when the bishop’s
head was in the stoke-hole to utter the heresy.

“Bless me!” he said, withdrawing his head, unconscious
that there was a black smudge on the right
episcopal cheek. “It will take a dreadful lot of fuel.
Now, who will volunteer to stoke?” turning his most
persuasive smile upon the group of men, who had been
keenly interested in his examination of the contrivance.

The men shuffled their feet, looked at one another,
as if each expected to find in another the spirit of
sacrifice lacking in himself.

Their disinclination was so marked that the bishop’s
face fell, until he suddenly caught sight of Bindle
approaching.

“Ah!” he cried. “Here’s the man I want. Now,
Bindle,” he called out, “you saved us from the bull,
how would you like to become stoker?”

“Surely I ain’t as bad as all that, sir,” grinned
Bindle.

“I’m not speaking professionally,” laughed the
bishop, who had already ingratiated himself with the
men because he did not “talk like a ruddy parson.”
“I want somebody to take charge of this field-kitchen,”
he continued. “I’d do it myself, only I’ve got such[Pg 219]
a lot of other things to see to. I’ll borrow some coal
from Mr. Timkins.”

Bindle gazed dubiously at the unattractive mass of
iron, dabbed with the weather-worn greens and browns
of camouflage and war.

“It’s quite simple,” said the bishop. “You light
the fire here, that’s the oven, and you boil things here,
and—we shall soon get it going.”

“I don’t mind stokin’, sir,” said Bindle at length;
“but I ain’t a-goin’ to take charge of ‘oo’s dinner’s wot.
If there’s goin’ to be any scrappin’ with the ladies,
well, I ain’t in it.”

Finally it was arranged that Bindle should start
the fire and get the field-kitchen into working order,
and that the putting-in the oven and taking-out again
of the various dishes should be left to the discretion
of the campers themselves, who were to be responsible
for the length of time required to cook their own
particular meals.

With astonishing energy, the bishop set the children
to collect wood, and soon Bindle, throwing himself into
the work with enthusiasm, had the fire well alight.
There had arrived from the farm a good supply of coal
and coke.

“You ain’t ‘alf ‘it it unlucky, mate,” said the man
with the bristly chin. “‘E ought to ‘ave ‘ired a cook,”
he added. “We come ‘ere to enjoy ourselves, not to
be blinkin’ stokers. That’s like them ruddy parsons,”
he added, “always wantin’ somethin’ for nuffin.”

“‘Ere, come along, cheerful,” cried Bindle, “give
me a ‘and with this coke,” and, a minute later, the[Pg 220]
lugubrious Barnes found himself sweating like a horse,
and shovelling fuel into the kitchen’s voracious maw.

“That’s not the way!”

The man straightened his back and, with one
hand on the spade, gazed at Mrs. Bindle, who had
approached unobserved. With the grubby thumb of
his other hand he rubbed his chin, giving to his unprepossessing
features a lopsided appearance.

“Wot ain’t the way, missis?” he asked with the
air of one quite prepared to listen to reason.

“The coke should be damped,” was the response,
“and you’re putting in too much.”

“But we want it to burn up,” he protested.

Mrs. Bindle ostentatiously turned upon him a narrow
back.

“You ought to know better, at least, Bindle,” she
snapped, and proceeded to give him instruction in the
art of encouraging a fire.

“You’d better take some out,” she said.

“‘Ere ole sport,” cried Bindle, “give us——” he
stopped suddenly. His assistant had disappeared.

“You mustn’t let anyone put anything in until the
oven’s hot,” continued Mrs. Bindle, “and you mustn’t
open the door too often. You’d better fix a time when
they can bring the food, say eleven o’clock.”

“Early doors threepence extra?” queried Bindle.

“We’re going to have sausage-toad-in-the-hole, and
mind you don’t burn it.”

“I’ll watch it as if it was my own cheeild,” vowed
Bindle.

“If the bishop knew you as I know you, he wouldn’t[Pg 221]
have trusted you with this,” said Mrs. Bindle, as she
walked away with indrawn lips and head in the air,
stepping with the self-consciousness of a bantam that
feels its spurs.

“Blowed if she don’t think I volunteered for the
bloomin’ job,” he muttered, as he ceased extracting
pieces of coke from the furnace. “Well, if their
dinner ain’t done it’s their fault, an’ if it’s overdone it
ain’t mine,” and with that he drew his pipe from his
pocket and filled it.

“No luck,” he cried, as a grey-haired old woman
with the dirt of other years on her face hobbled up
with a pie-dish. “Doors ain’t open yet.”

“But it’s an onion pie,” grumbled the old dame,
“and onions takes a lot o’ cookin’.”

“Can’t ‘elp it,” grinned Bindle. “Doors ain’t
open till eleven.”

“But——” began the woman.

“Nothin’, doin’ mother,” said the obstinate Bindle.
“You see this ‘ere is a religious kitchen. It’s
a different sort from an ordinary blasphemious
kitchen.”

On the stroke of eleven Mrs. Bindle appeared with
a large brown pie-dish, the sight of which made Bindle’s
mouth water.

“Now then,” he cried, “line up for the bakin’-queue.
Shillin’ a ‘ead an’ all bad nuts changed. Oh!
no, you don’t,” he cried, as one woman proffered a basin.
“I’m stoker, not cook. You shoves ’em in yourself,
an’ you fetches ’em when you wants ’em. If there’s
any scrappin’ to be done, I’ll be umpire.”[Pg 222]

One by one the dishes were inserted in the oven, and
one by one their owners retired, a feeling of greater
confidence in their hearts now that they could prepare
a proper dinner. The men went off to get a drink,
and soon Bindle was alone.

During the first half-hour Mrs. Bindle paid three
separate visits to the field-kitchen. To her it was a
new and puzzling contrivance, and she had no means
of gauging the heat of the oven. She regarded it
distrustfully and, on the occasion of the second visit,
gave a special word of warning to Bindle.

At 11.40 Barnes returned with a large black bottle,
which he held out to Bindle with an invitation to
“‘ave a drink.”

Bindle removed the cork and put the bottle to his
lips, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down
joyously.

“Ah!” he cried, as he at length lowered the bottle
and his head at the same time. “That’s the stuff
to give ’em,” and reluctantly he handed back the
bottle to its owner, who hastily withdrew at the sight
of Mrs. Bindle approaching.

When she had taken her departure, Bindle began to
feel drowsy. The sun was hot, the air was still, and
the world was very good to live in. Still, there was
the field-kitchen to be looked after.

For some time he struggled against the call of sleep;
but do what he would, his head continued to nod, and
his eyelids seemed weighted with lead.

Suddenly he had an inspiration. If he stoked-up
the field-kitchen, it would look after itself, and he[Pg 223]
could have just the “forty winks” his nature
craved.

With feverish energy he set to work with the shovel,
treating the two stacks of coal and coke with entire
impartiality. Then, when he had filled the furnace,
he closed the door with the air of the Roman sentry
relieving himself of responsibility by setting a burglar-alarm.
Getting well out of the radius of the heat
caused by the furnace, he composed himself to slumber
behind the heap of coke.

Suddenly he was aroused from a dream in which
he stood on the deck of a wrecked steamer, surrounded
by steam which was escaping with vicious hisses from
the damaged boilers.

He sat up and looked about him. The air seemed
white with vapour, in and out of which two figures
could be seen moving. He struggled to his feet and
looked about him.

A few yards away he saw Mrs. Bindle engaged in
throwing water at the field-kitchen, and then dashing
back quickly to escape the smother of steam that
resulted. The bishop, with a bucket and a pink-and-blue
jug, was dashing water on to the monster’s back.

Bindle gazed at the scene in astonishment, then,
making a detour, he approached from the opposite
side, to see what it was that had produced the crisis.
Just at that moment, the bishop decided that the pail
had been sufficiently lightened by the use of the pink-and-blue
jug to enable him to lift it.

A moment later Bindle was the centre of a cascade
of water and a mantle of spray.[Pg 224]

“‘Ere! wot the ‘ell?” he bawled.

The bishop dodged round to the other side and apologised
profusely, explaining how Mrs. Bindle had discovered
that the field-kitchen had become overheated
and that between them they were trying to lower its
temperature.

“Yes; but I ain’t over’eated,” protested Bindle.

“You put too much coal in, Bindle; the place would
have been red-hot in half an hour.”

“Well; but look at all them dinners that——”

“Don’t talk to him, my lord,” said Mrs. Bindle, who
from a fellow-camper had learned how a bishop should
be addressed. “He’s done it on purpose.”

“No, no, Mrs. Bindle,” said the bishop genially.
“I’m sure he didn’t mean to do it. It’s really my
fault.”

And Mrs. Bindle left it at that.

From that point, however, she took charge of the
operations, the bishop and Bindle working under her
direction. The news that the field-kitchen was on fire,
conveyed to their parents by the children, had brought
up the campers in full-force and at the double.

There had been a rush for the oven; but Mrs. Bindle
soon showed that she had the situation well in hand,
and the sight of the bishop doing her bidding had a
reassuring effect.

Under her supervision, each dish and basin was withdrawn,
and first aid administered to such as required
it. Those that were burnt, were tended with a skill
and expedition that commanded the admiration of
every housewife present. They were content to leave[Pg 225]
matters in hands that they recognised were more
capable than their own.

When the salvage work was ended, and the dishes
and basins replaced in an oven that had been reduced
to a suitable temperature, the bishop mopped his brow,
whilst Mrs. Bindle stood back and gazed at the field-kitchen
as St. George might have regarded the conquered
dragon.

Her face was flushed, and her hands were grimed;
but in her eyes was a keen satisfaction. For once in
her life she had occupied the centre of something larger
than a domestic stage.

“My friends,” cried the bishop, always ready to
say a few words or point the moral, “we are all under
a very great obligation to our capable friend Mrs.
Bindle, a veritable Martha among women;” he indicated
Mrs. Bindle with a motion of what was probably
the dirtiest episcopal hand in the history of the Church.
“She has saved the situation and, what is more, she
has saved our dinners. Now,” he cried boyishly, “I
call for three cheers for Mrs. Bindle.”

And they were given with a heartiness that caused
Mrs. Bindle a queer sensation at the back of her
throat.

The campers flocked round her and found that she
whom they had regarded as “uppish,” could be almost
gracious. Anyhow, she had saved their dinners.

It was Mrs. Bindle’s hour.

“Fancy ‘im a-callin’ ‘er Martha, when ‘er name’s
Lizzie,” muttered Bindle, as he strolled off. He had
taken no very prominent part in the proceedings[Pg 226]—he
was a little ashamed of the part he had played in
what had proved almost a tragedy.

That day the Tired Workers dined because of Mrs.
Bindle, and they knew it. Various were the remarks
exchanged among the groups collected outside the
tents.

“She didn’t ‘alf order the bishop about,” remarked
to his wife the man who should have gone to Yarmouth.

“Any way, if it ‘adn’t been for ‘er you’d ‘ave ‘ad
cinders instead o’ baked chops and onions for yer
dinner,” was the rejoinder, as his wife, a waspish
little woman, rubbed a piece of bread round her
plate. “She ain’t got much to learn about a
kitchen stove, I’ll say that for ‘er,” she added, with
the air of one who sees virtue in unaccustomed
places.

That afternoon when Bindle was lying down inside
the tent, endeavouring to digest some fifty per cent.
more sausage-toad-in-the-hole than he was licensed to
carry, he was aroused from a doze by the sound of voices
without.

“We brought ’em for you, missis.” It was the
man with the stubbly chin speaking.

“Must ‘ave made you a bit firsty, all that ‘eat,”
remarked another voice.

Bindle sat up. Events were becoming interesting.
He crept to the opening of the tent and slightly pulled
aside the flap.

“Best dinner we’ve ‘ad yet.” The speaker was
the man who had seen a field-kitchen dissected at[Pg 227]
Givenchy. He was just in the line of Bindle’s
vision.

Pulling the flap still further aside, he saw half-a-dozen
men standing awkwardly before Mrs. Bindle who,
with a bottle of Guinness’ stout in either hand, was
actually smiling.

“It’s very kind of you,” she said. “Thank you
very much.”

In his astonishment, Bindle dropped the flap, and
the picture was blotted out.

“Come an’ ‘ave a look at Daisy,” he heard the
man with the stubbly chin say. It was obviously
his conception of terminating an awkward interview.

“Good day,” he heard a voice mumble, to which
Mrs. Bindle replied with almost cordiality.

Bindle scrambled back to his mattress, just as Mrs.
Bindle pulled aside the flap of the tent and entered, a
bottle still in either hand. At the sight, Bindle became
aware of a thirst which until then had slumbered.

“I can do with a drop o’ Guinness,” he cried cheerily,
his eyes upon the bottles. “Nice o’ them coves to
think of us.”

“It was me, not you,” was Mrs. Bindle’s rejoinder,
as she stepped across to her mattress.

“But you don’t drink beer, Lizzie,” he protested.
“You’re temperance. I’ll drink ’em for you.”

“If you do, I’ll kill you, Bindle.” And the intensity
with which she uttered the threat decided him that
it would be better to leave the brace of Guinness
severely alone; but he was sorely puzzled.[Pg 228]

II

That evening, in the sanded tap-room of The Trowel
and Turtle, the male summer-campers expressed themselves
for the twentieth time uncompromisingly upon
the subject of bishops and summer-camps. They were
“fed up to the ruddy neck,” and would give not a
little to be back in London, where it was possible to find
a pub “without gettin’ a blinkin’ blister on your
stutterin’ ‘eel.”

It was true the field-kitchen had arrived, that
they had eaten their first decent meal, and there was
every reason to believe that the marquee was at the
station; still they were “sick of the whole streamin’
business.”

To add to their troubles the landlord of The Trowel
and Turtle expressed grave misgivings as to the
weather. The glass was dropping, and there was
every indication of rain.

“Rain’ll jest put the scarlet lid on this blinkin’
beano,” was the opinion expressed by one of the party
and endorsed by all, as, with the landlord’s advice to
see that everything was made snug for the night,
they trooped out of the comfortable tap-room and
turned their heads towards the Summer-Camp.

At the entrance of the meadow they were met by
Patrol-leader Smithers.

“You must slack the ropes of your tents,” he
announced, “there may be rain. Only just slack them[Pg 229]
a bit; don’t overdo it, or they’ll come down on the
top of you if the wind gets up.”

“Oh crikey!” moaned a long man with a straggling
moustache, as he watched Patrol-leader Smithers march
briskly down the lane.

For some moments the men gazed at one another in
consternation; each visualised the desperate state of
discomfort that would ensue as the result of wind and
rain.

“Let’s go an’ ‘ave a look at Daisy,” said Bindle
inconsequently.

His companions stared at him in surprise. A shrill
voice in the distance calling “‘Enery” seemed to lend
to them decision, particularly to ‘Enery himself.
They turned and strolled over to where Daisy was
engaged in preparing the morrow’s milk supply. She
had been milked and was content.

“Look ‘ere, mates,” began Bindle, having assured
himself that there were no eavesdroppers, “we’re all
fed up with Summer-Camps for tired workers—that
so?”

“Up to the blinkin’ neck,” said a big man
with a dirt-grimed skin, voicing the opinion of
all.

“There ain’t no pubs,” said a burly man with black
whiskers, “no pictures, can’t put a shillin’ on an ‘orse,
can’t do anythink——”

“But watch this ruddy cow,” broke in the man with
the stubbly chin.

“Well, well, p’raps you’re right, only I couldn’t
‘ave said it ‘alf as politely,” said Bindle, with a grin.[Pg 230]
“We’re all for good ole Fulham where a cove can lay
the dust. Ain’t that so, mates?”

The men expressed their agreement according to
the intensity of their feelings.

“Well, listen,” said Bindle, “an’ I’ll tell you.”
They drew nearer and listened.

Twenty minutes later, when the voice demanding
‘Enery became too insistent to be denied, the party
broke up, and there was in the eyes of all that which
spoke of hope.

III

That night, as Patrol-leader Smithers had foretold,
there arose a great wind which smote vigorously the
tents of the Surrey Summer-Camp for Tired Workers.
For a time the tents withstood the fury of the blast;
they swayed and bent before it, putting up a vigorous
defence however. Presently a shriek told of the first
catastrophe; then followed another and yet another,
and soon the darkness was rent by cries, shrieks, and
lamentations, whilst somewhere near the Bindles’
tent rose the voice of one crying from a wilderness of
canvas for ‘Enery.

Mrs. Bindle was awakened by the loud slatting of
the tent-flap. Pandemonium seemed to have broken
loose. The wind howled and whistled through the
tent-ropes, the rain swept against the canvas sides with
an ominous “swish,” the pole bent as the tent swayed
from side to side.[Pg 231]

“Bindle,” she cried, “get up!”

“‘Ullo!” he responded sleepily. He had taken
the precaution of not removing his trousers, a circumstance
that was subsequently used as evidence against
him.

“The tent’s coming down,” she cried. “Get up
and hold the prop.”

As she spoke, she scrambled from beneath the
blankets and seized the brown mackintosh, which she
kept ready to hand in case of accidents. Wrapping
this about her, she clutched at the bending pole,
whilst Bindle struggled out from among the bedclothes.

Scrambling to his feet, he tripped over the tin-bath.
Clutching wildly as he fell, he got Mrs. Bindle just
above the knees in approved rugger style.

With a scream she relinquished the pole to free her
legs from Bindle’s frenzied clutch and, losing her
footing, she came down on top of him.

“Leave go,” she cried.

“Get up orf my stomach then,” he gasped.

At that moment, the wind gave a tremendous lift
to the tent. Mrs. Bindle was clutching wildly at the
base of the pole, Bindle was striving to wriggle from
beneath her. The combination of forces caused the
tent to sway wildly. A moment later, it seemed to
start angrily from the ground, and she fell over backwards,
whilst a mass of sopping canvas descended,
stifling alike her screams and Bindle’s protests that he
was being killed.

It took Bindle nearly five minutes to find his way[Pg 232]
out from the heavy folds of wet canvas. Then he had
to go back into the darkness to fetch Mrs. Bindle. In
order to effect his own escape, Bindle had cut the tent-ropes.
Just as he had found Mrs. Bindle, a wild gust
of wind entered behind him, lifted the tent bodily
and bore it off.

The suddenness of the catastrophe seemed to strike
Mrs. Bindle dumb. To be sitting in the middle of a
meadow at dead of night, clothed only in a nightdress
and a mackintosh, with the rain drenching down,
seemed to her to border upon the indecent.

“You there, Lizzie?” came the voice of Bindle,
like the shout of one hailing a drowning person.

“Where’s the tent?” demanded Mrs. Bindle inconsequently.

“Gawd knows!” he shouted back. “Probably it’s
at Yarmouth by now. ‘Oly ointment,” he yelled.

“What’s the matter?”

“I trodden on the marjarine.”

“It’s all we’ve got,” she cried, her housewifely fears
triumphing over even the stress of wind and rain and
her own intolerable situation.

From the surrounding darkness came shouts and
enquiries as disaster followed disaster. Heaving
masses of canvas laboured and, one by one, produced
figures scanty of garment and full of protest; but
mercifully unseen.

Women cried, children shrieked, and men swore
volubly.

“I’m sittin’ in somethink sticky,” cried Bindle
presently.[Pg 233]

“You’ve upset the marmalade. Why can’t you
keep still?”

Keep still! Bindle was searching for the two bottles
of Guinness’ stout he knew to be somewhere among the
débris, unconscious that Mrs. Bindle had packed them
away in the tin-bath.

As the other tents disgorged their human contents,
the pandemonium increased. In every key, appeals
were being made for news of lost units.

By the side of the tin-bath Mrs. Bindle was praying
for succour and the lost bell-tent, which had sped
towards the east as if in search of the wise men, leaving
all beneath it naked to the few stars that peeped from
the scudding clouds above, only to hide their faces
a moment later as if shocked at what they had
seen.

Suddenly a brilliant light flashed across the meadow
and began to bob about like a hundred candle power
will-o’-the-wisp. It dodged restlessly from place to
place, as if in search of something.

Behind a large acetylene motor-lamp, walked Patrol-leader
Smithers, searching for one single erect bell-tent—there
was none.

Shrieks that had been of terror now became cries of
alarm. Forms that had struggled valiantly to escape
from the billowing canvas, now began desperately to
wriggle back again to the seclusion that modesty
demanded. With heads still protruding they regarded
the scene, praying that the rudeness of the wind would
not betray them.

Taking immediate charge, Patrol-leader Smithers[Pg 234]
collected the men and gave his orders in a high treble,
and his orders were obeyed.

By the time the dawn had begun nervously to finger
the east, sufficient tents to shelter the women and
children had been re-erected, the cause of the trouble
discovered, and the men rebuked for an injudicious
slacking of the ropes.

“I ought to have seen to it myself,” remarked
Patrol-leader Smithers with the air of one who knows
he has to deal with fools. “You’ll be all right now,”
he added reassuringly.

“All right now,” growled the man with the stubbly
chin as he looked up at the grey scudding clouds and
then down at the rain-soaked grass. “We would if
we was ducks, or ruddy boy scouts; but we’re men,
we are—on ‘oliday,” he added with inspiration, and
he withdrew to his tent, conscious that he had voiced
the opinion of all.

V

Later that morning three carts, laden with luggage,
rumbled their way up to West Boxton railway-station,
followed by a straggling stream of men, women, and
children. Overhead heavy rainclouds swung threateningly
across the sky. Men were smoking their pipes
contentedly, for theirs was the peace which comes of
full knowledge. Behind them they had left a litter
of bell-tents and the conviction that Daisy in all[Pg 235]
probability would explode before dinner-time. What
cared they? A few hours hence they would be once
more in their known and understood Fulham.

As they reached the station they saw two men
struggling with a grey mass that looked like a deflated
balloon.

The men hailed the party and appealed for help.

“It’s the ruddy marquee,” cried a voice.

“The blinkin’ tent,” cried another, not to be outdone
in speculative intelligence.

“You can take it back with you,” cried one of the
men from the truck.

“We’re demobbed, ole son,” said Bindle cheerily.
“We’ve struck.”

“No more blinkin’ camps for me,” said the man
with the stubbly chin.

“‘Ear, ‘ear,” came from a number of voices.

“Are we down-hearted?” enquired a voice.

“Nooooooooo!”

And the voices of women and children were heard in
the response.

Some half an hour later, as the train steamed out of
the station, Bindle called out to the porters:

“Tell the bishop not to forget to milk Daisy.”

“Well, Mrs. B.,” said Bindle that evening as he
lighted his pipe after an excellent supper of sausages,
fried onions, and mashed potatoes, “you ‘ad yer
‘oliday.”

“I believe you was at the bottom of those tents
coming down, Bindle,” she cried with conviction.[Pg 236]

“Well, you was underneath, wasn’t you?” was
the response, and Bindle winked knowingly at
the white jug with the pink butterfly on the
spout.[Pg 237]

CHAPTER XI

MRS. BINDLE TAKES A CHILL

I

“Your dinner’s in the large black saucepan and the potatoes in the
blue one. Empty the stewed steak into the yellow pie-dish and the
potatoes into the blue vegetable dish and pour water into the
saucepans afterwards I’ve gone to bed—I am feeling ill.

“E. B.

“Don’t forget to put water into the empty saucepans or they will
burn.”

Bindle glanced across at the stove as if to verify
Mrs. Bindle’s statement, then, with lined forehead,
stood gazing at the table, neatly laid for
one.

“I never known Lizzie give in before,” he muttered,
and he walked over to the sink and proceeded to have
his evening “rinse,” an affair involving a considerable
expenditure of soap and much blowing and
splashing.

Having wiped his face and hands upon the roller-towel,
he walked softly across the kitchen, opened the[Pg 238]
door, listened, stepped out into the passage and,
finally, proceeded to tiptoe upstairs.

Outside the bedroom door he paused and listened
again, his ear pressed against the panel. There was no
sound.

With the stealth of a burglar he turned the handle,
pushed open the door some eighteen inches and put
his head round the corner.

Mrs. Bindle was lying in bed on her back, her face
void of all expression, whilst with each indrawn breath
there was a hard, metallic sound.

Bindle wriggled the rest of his body round the door-post,
closing the door behind him. With ostentatious
care, still tiptoeing, he crossed the room and stood by
the bedside.

“Ain’t you feelin’ well, Lizzie?” he asked in a
hoarse whisper, sufficient in itself to remind an invalid
of death.

“Did you put water in the saucepans?” She asked
the question without turning her head, and with the
air of one who has something on her mind. The
harsh rasp of her voice alarmed Bindle.

“I ain’t ‘ad supper yet,” he said. “Is there anythink
you’d like?” he enquired solicitously, still
in the same depressing whisper.

“No; just leave me alone,” she murmured.
“Don’t forget the water in the saucepans,” she added
a moment later.

For some seconds Bindle stood irresolute. He was
convinced that something ought to be done; but just
what he did not know.[Pg 239]

“Wouldn’t you like a bit o’ fried fish, or—or a pork
chop?” he named at a venture two of his favourite
supper dishes. The fish he could buy ready fried,
the chop he felt equal to cooking himself.

“Leave me alone.” She turned her head aside with
a feeble shudder.

“Where are you ill, Lizzie?” he enquired at length.

“Go away,” she moaned, and Bindle turned, tip-toed
across to the door and passed out of the room.
He was conscious that the situation was beyond
him.

That evening he ate his food without relish. His
mind was occupied with the invalid upstairs and the
problem of what he should do. He was unaccustomed
to illness, either in himself or in others. His instinct
was to fetch a doctor; but would she like it? It
was always a little difficult to anticipate Mrs. Bindle’s
view of any particular action, no matter how well-intentioned.

At the conclusion of the meal, he drew his pipe from
his pocket and proceeded to smoke with a view to
inspiration.

Suddenly he was roused by a loud pounding overhead.

“‘Oly ointment, she’s fallen out!” he muttered, as
he made for the door and dashed up the stairs two at
a time.

As he opened the door, he found Mrs. Bindle sitting
up in bed, a red flannel petticoat round her shoulders,
sniffing the air like a hungry hound.

“You’re burning my best saucepan,” she croaked.[Pg 240]

“I ain’t, Lizzie, reelly I ain’t——” Then memory
came to him. He had forgotten to put water in either
of the saucepans.

“I can smell burning,” she persisted, “you——”

“I spilt some stoo on the stove,” he lied, feeling
secure in the knowledge that she could not disprove
the statement.

With a groan she sank back on to her pillow.

“The place is like a pigsty. I know it,” she moaned
with tragic conviction.

“No, it ain’t, Lizzie. I’m jest goin’ to ‘ave a clean-up.
Wouldn’t you like somethink to eat?” he enquired
again, then with inspiration added, “Wot about a tin
o’ salmon, it’ll do your breath good. I’ll nip round and
get one in two ticks.”

But Mrs. Bindle shook her head.

For nearly a minute there was silence, during which
Bindle gazed down at her helplessly.

“I’m a-goin’ to fetch a doctor,” he announced at
length.

“Don’t you dare to fetch a doctor to me.”

“But if you ain’t well——” he began.

“I tell you I won’t have a doctor. Look——” She
was interrupted by a fit of coughing which seemed
almost to suffocate her. “Look at the state of the
bedroom,” she gasped at length.

“But wot’s goin’ to ‘appen?” asked Bindle. “You
can’t——”

“It won’t matter,” she moaned. “If I die you’ll
be glad,” she added, as if to leave no doubt in Bindle’s
mind as to her own opinion on the matter.[Pg 241]

“No, I shouldn’t. ‘Ow could I get on without
you?”

“Thinking of yourself as usual,” was the retort.

Then, suddenly, she half-lifted herself in bed and,
once more raising her head, sniffed the air suspiciously.

“I know that saucepan’s burning,” she said with
conviction; but she sank back again, panting. The
burning of a saucepan seemed a thing of ever-lessening
importance.

“No, it ain’t, Lizzie, reelly it ain’t. I filled it right
up to the brim. It’s that bit o’ stoo I spilt on the stove.
Stinks like billy-o, don’t it?” His sense of guilt
made him garrulous. “I’ll go an’ scrape it orf,” he
added, and with that he was gone.

“Oh, my Gawd!” he muttered as he opened the
kitchen door, and was greeted by a volume of bluish
smoke that seemed to catch at his throat.

He made a wild dash for the stove, seized the saucepan
and, taking it over to the sink, turned on the
tap.

A moment later he dropped the saucepan into the
sink and started back, blinded by a volume of steam
that issued from its interior.

Swiftly and quietly he opened the window and the
outer door.

“You ain’t no cook, J.B.,” he muttered, as he
unhitched the roller-towel and proceeded to use it as
a fan, with the object of driving the smell out of the
window and scullery-door.

When the air was clearer, he returned to the sink and,[Pg 242]
this time, filled both the saucepans with water and
replaced them on the stove.

“I wonder wot I better do,” he muttered, and he
looked about him helplessly.

Then, with sudden inspiration, he remembered Mrs.
Hearty.

Creeping softly upstairs, he put his head round the
bedroom door and announced that he was going
out to buy a paper. Without waiting for either
criticism or comment, he quickly closed the door
again.

Ten minutes later, he was opening the glass-panelled
door, with the white curtains and blue tie-ups, that
led from Mr. Hearty’s Fulham shop to the parlour
behind.

Mrs. Hearty was sitting at the table, a glass half-full
of Guinness’ stout before her.

At the sight of Bindle, she began to laugh, and
laughter always reduced her to a state that was half-anguish,
half-ecstasy.

“Oh, Joe!” she wheezed, and then began to heave
and undulate with mirth.

At the sight of the anxious look on his face she
stopped suddenly, and with her clenched fist began to
pound her chest.

“It’s my breath, Joe,” she wheezed. “It don’t
seem to get no better. ‘Ave a drop,” she gasped,
pointing to the Guinness bottle on the table. “There’s
a glass on the dresser,” she added; but Bindle shook
an anxious head.

“It’s Lizzie,” he said.[Pg 243]

“Lizzie!” wheezed Mrs. Hearty. “What she been
doin’ now?”

Mrs. Hearty possessed no illusions about her sister’s
capacity to contrive any man’s domestic happiness.
Her own philosophy was, “If things must happen,
let ’em,” whereas she was well aware that Mrs.
Bindle strove to control the wheels of destiny.

“When you’re my size,” she would say, “you won’t
want to worry about anything; it’s the lean ‘uns as
grizzles.”

“She’s ill in bed,” he explained, “an’ I don’t
know wot to do. Says she won’t see a doctor,
an’ she’s sort o’ fidgetty because she thinks I’m
burnin’ the bloomin’ saucepans—an’ I ‘ave burned
’em, Martha,” he added confidentially. “Such a
stink.”

Whereat Mrs. Hearty began to heave, and strange
movements rippled down her manifold chins. She was
laughing.

There was, however, no corresponding light of
humour in Bindle’s eyes, and she quickly recovered
herself. “What’s the matter with ‘er, Joe?” she
gasped.

“She won’t say where it is,” he replied. “I think
it’s ‘er chest.”

“All right, I’ll come round,” and she proceeded to
make a series of strange heaving movements until,
eventually, she acquired sufficient bounce to bring her
to her feet. “You go back, Joe,” she added.

“Righto, Martha! You always was a sport,” and
Bindle walked towards the door. As he opened it[Pg 244]
he turned. “You won’t say anythink about them
saucepans,” he said anxiously.

“Oh! go hon, do,” wheezed Mrs. Hearty, beginning
to undulate once more.

With her brother-in-law, Mrs. Hearty was never
able to distinguish between the sacred and the profane.

Half an hour later, Mrs. Hearty and Bindle were
standing one on either side of Mrs. Bindle’s bed. Mrs.
Hearty was wearing a much-worn silk plush cape and
an old, pale-blue tam-o-shanter, originally belonging to
her daughter, which gave her a rakish appearance.

“What’s the matter, Lizzie?” she asked, puffing
like a collie in the Dog Days.

“I’m ill. Leave me alone!” moaned Mrs. Bindle
in a husky voice.

Bindle looked across at Mrs. Hearty, in a way that
seemed to say, “I told you she was bad.”

“Don’t be a fool, Lizzie,” was her sister’s uncompromising
comment. “You go for a doctor, Joe.”

“I won’t have——” began Mrs. Bindle, then she
stopped suddenly, a harsh, bronchial cough cutting off
the rest of her sentence.

“You’ve got bronchitis,” said Mrs. Hearty with
conviction. “Put the kettle on before you go out,
Joe.”

“Leave me alone,” moaned Mrs. Bindle. “Oh!
I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die.”

“You ain’t goin’ to die, Lizzie,” said Bindle, bending
over her, anxiety in his face. “You’re goin’ to live
to be a ‘undred.”

“You go an’ fetch a doctor, Joe. I’ll see to ‘er,”[Pg 245]
and Mrs. Hearty proceeded to remove her elaborate
black plush cape.

“I don’t want a doctor,” moaned Mrs. Bindle. In
her heart was a great fear lest he should confirm her
own fears that death was at hand; but Bindle had
disappeared on his errand of mercy, and Mrs. Hearty
was wheezing and groaning as, with arms above her
head, she strove to discover the single hat-pin with which
she had fixed the tam-o-shanter to her scanty hair.

“There’s two rashers of bacon and an egg on the top
shelf of the larder for Joe’s breakfast,” murmured Mrs.
Bindle hoarsely.

Mrs. Hearty nodded as she passed out of the door.

In spite of her weight and the shortness of her breath,
she descended to the kitchen. When Bindle returned,
he found the bedroom reeking with the smell of vinegar.
Mrs. Bindle was sitting up in bed, a towel enveloping
her head, so that the fumes of the boiling vinegar should
escape from the basin only by way of her bronchial
tubes.

“‘Ow is she?” he asked anxiously.

“She’s all right,” gasped Mrs. Hearty. “Is ‘e
coming?”

“Be ‘ere in two ticks,” was the response. “Two of
’em was out, this was the third.”

He stood regarding with an air of relief the strange
outline of Mrs. Bindle’s head enveloped in the towel.
Someone had at last done something.

“She ain’t a-goin’ to die, Martha, is she?” he
enquired of Mrs. Hearty, his brow lined with
anxiety.[Pg 246]

“Not ‘er,” breathed Mrs. Hearty reassuringly.
“It’s bronchitis. You just light a fire, Joe.”

Almost before the words were out of her mouth,
Bindle had tip-toed to the door and was taking the
stairs three at a time. Action was the one thing he
desired. He determined that, the fire once laid, he
would set to work to clean out the saucepan he had
burned. Somehow that saucepan seemed to bite deep
into his conscience.

The doctor came, saw, and confirmed Mrs. Hearty’s
diagnosis. Having prescribed a steam-kettle, inhalations
of eucalyptus, slop food, warmth and air, he left,
promising to look in again on the morrow.

At the bottom of the stairs, he was waylaid by Bindle.

“It ain’t——” he began eagerly, then paused.

The doctor, a young, fair man, looked down
from his six feet one, at Bindle’s anxious enquiring
face.

“Nothing to be alarmed about,” he said cheerfully.
“I’ll run in again to-morrow, and we’ll soon have her
about again.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Bindle, drawing a sigh of
obvious relief. “Funny thing,” he muttered as he
closed the door on the doctor, “that you never seems
to think o’ dyin’ till somebody gets ill. I’m glad ‘e’s
a big ‘un,” he added inconsequently. “Mrs. B. likes
’em big,” and he returned to the kitchen, where he
proceeded to scrape the stove and scour the saucepan,
whilst Mrs. Hearty continued to minister to her
afflicted sister.

Mrs. Bindle’s thoughts seemed to be preoccupied[Pg 247]
with her domestic responsibilities. From time to time
she issued her instructions.

“Make Joe up a bed on the couch in the parlour,”
she murmured hoarsely. “I’d keep him awake if he
slept here.”

“Try an’ get Mrs. Coppen to come in to get Joe’s
dinner,” she said, a few minutes later.

And yet again she requested her sister to watch the
bread-pan to see that the supply was kept up. “Joe
eats a lot of bread,” she added.

To all these remarks, Mrs. Hearty returned the same
reply. “Don’t you worry, Lizzie. You just get to
sleep.”

That night Bindle worked long and earnestly that
things might be as Mrs. Bindle had left them; but
fate was against him. Nothing he was able to do could
remove from the inside of the saucepan the damning
evidences of his guilt. The stove, however, was an
easier matter; but even that presented difficulties;
for, as soon as he applied the moist blacklead, it dried
with a hiss and the polishing brush, with the semi-circle
of bristles at the end that reminded him of
“‘Earty’s whiskers,” instead of producing a polish,
merely succeeded in getting burned. Furthermore, he
had the misfortune to break a plate and a pie-dish.

At the second smash, there was a tapping from the
room above, and, on going to the door, he heard Mrs.
Hearty wheezing an enquiry as to what it was that
was broken.

“Only an old galley-pot, Martha,” he lied, and
returned to gather up the pieces. These he wrapped in[Pg 248]
a newspaper and placed in the dresser-drawer, determined
to carry them off next day. He was convinced
that if Mrs. Bindle were about again before the merciful
arrival of the dustman, she would inevitably subject
the dust-bin to a rigorous examination.

At ten o’clock, Mrs. Hearty heavily descended the
stairs and, as well as her breath would permit, she
instructed him what to do during the watches of the
night. Bindle listened earnestly. Never in his life
had he made a linseed poultice, and the management of
a steam-kettle was to him a new activity.

When he heard about the bed on the couch, he
looked the surprise he felt. Mrs. Bindle never allowed
him even to sit on it. He resolutely vetoed the bed,
however. He was going to sit up and “try an’ bring
‘er round,” as he expressed it.

“Is she goin’ to die, Martha?” he interrogated
anxiously. That question seemed to obsess his
thoughts.

Mrs. Hearty shook her head and beat her breast.
She lacked the necessary oxygen to reply more
explicitly.

Having conducted Mrs. Hearty to the garden gate,
he returned, closed and bolted the door, and proceeded
upstairs. As he entered the bedroom, he was greeted
by a harsh, bronchial cough that terrified him.

“Feelin’ better, Lizzie?” he enquired, with all the
forced optimism of a man obviously anxious.

Mrs. Bindle opened her eyes, looked at him for a
moment, then, closing them again, shook her head.

“‘As ‘e sent you any physic?” he enquired.[Pg 249]

Again Mrs. Bindle shook her head, this time without
opening her eyes.

Bindle’s heart sank. If the doctor didn’t see the
necessity for medicine, the case must indeed be desperate.

“What did he say, Joe?” she enquired in a hoarse
voice.

In spite of himself Bindle started slightly at the
name. He had not heard it for many years.

“‘E said you’re a-gettin’ on fine,” he lied.

“Am I very ill? Is it——”

“You ain’t got nothink much the matter with you,
Lizzie,” he replied lightly, in his anxiety to comfort,
conveying the impression that she was in extreme
danger. “Jest a bit of a chill.”

“Am I dying, Joe?”

In spite of its repetition, the name still seemed
unfamiliar to him.

“I shall be dead-meat long before you, Lizzie,” he
said, and his failure to answer her question directly,
confirmed Mrs. Bindle in her view that the end was
very near.

“I’m goin’ to make you some arrowroot, now,” he
said, with an assurance in his voice that he was far
from feeling. Ever since Mrs. Hearty had explained
to him the mysteries of arrowroot-making,
he had felt how absolutely unequal he was to the
task.

Through Mrs. Bindle’s mind flashed a vision of milk
allowed to boil over; but she felt herself too near the
End to put her thoughts into words.[Pg 250]

With uncertainty in his heart and anxiety in his eyes,
Bindle descended to the kitchen. Selecting a small
saucepan, which Mrs. Bindle kept for onions, he poured
into it, as instructed by Mrs. Hearty, a breakfast-cupful
of milk. This he placed upon the stove, which
in one spot was manifesting a dull red tint. Bindle
was thorough in all things, especially in the matter of
stoking.

He then opened the packet of arrowroot and poured
it into a white pudding-basin. At the point where Mrs.
Hearty was to have indicated the quantity of arrowroot
to be used, she had been more than usually short
of breath, with the result that Bindle did not catch the
“two-tablespoonfuls” she had mentioned.

He then turned to the stove to watch the milk, forgetting
that Mrs. Hearty had warned him to mix the
arrowroot into a thin paste with cold milk before
pouring on to it the hot.

As the milk manifested no particular excitement,
Bindle drew from his pocket the evening paper which,
up to now, he had forgotten. He promptly became
absorbed in a story of the finding at Enfield of a girl’s
body bearing evidences of foul play.

He was roused from his absorption by a violent hiss
from the stove and, a moment later, he was holding
aloft the saucepan, from which a Niagara of white
foam streamed over the sides on to the angry stove
beneath.

“Wot a stink,” he muttered, as he stepped back and
turned towards the kitchen table. “Only jest in
time, though,” he added as, with spoon in one hand,[Pg 251]
he proceeded to pour the boiling milk on to the arrowroot,
assiduously stirring the while.

“Well, I’m blowed,” he muttered as, at the end of
some five minutes, he stood regarding a peculiarly
stodgy mass composed of a glutinous substance in
which were white bubbles containing a fine powder.

For several minutes he stood regarding it doubtfully,
and then, with the air of a man who desires to make
assurance doubly sure, he spooned the mass out on to
a plate and once more stood regarding it.

“Looks as if it wants a few currants,” he murmured
dubiously, as he lifted the plate from the table, preparatory
to taking it up to Mrs. Bindle.

“I brought you somethink to eat, Lizzie,” he
announced, as he closed the door behind him.

Mrs. Bindle shook her head, then opening her eyes,
fixed them upon the strange viscid mass that Bindle
extended to her.

“What is that smell?” she murmured wearily.

“Smell,” said Bindle, sniffing the air like a cat when
fish is boiling. “I don’t smell nothink, Lizzie.”

“You’ve burned something,” she moaned feebly.

“‘Ere, eat this,” he said with forced cheerfulness,
“then you’ll feel better.”

Once more Mrs. Bindle opened her eyes, gazed at
the mass, then shaking her head, turned her face to
the wall.

For five minutes, Bindle strove to persuade her.
Finally, recognising defeat, he placed the plate on a
chair by the bedside and, seating himself on a little
green-painted box, worn at the edges so that the[Pg 252]
original white wood showed through, he proceeded
to look the helplessness he felt.

“Feelin’ better, Lizzie?” he enquired at length,
holding his breath eagerly as he waited for the reply.

Mrs. Bindle shook her head drearily, and his heart
sank.

Suddenly, he remembered Mrs. Hearty’s earnest
exhortation to keep the steam-kettle in operation.
Once more he descended to the kitchen and, whilst
the kettle was boiling, he occupied himself with scraping
the heat-flaked milk from the top of the stove.

Throughout that night he laboured at the steam-kettle,
or sat gazing helplessly at Mrs. Bindle, despair
clutching at his heart, impotence dogging his footsteps.
From time to time he would offer her the now cold slab
of arrowroot, or else enquire if she were feeling
better; but Mrs. Bindle refused the one and denied
the other.

With the dawn came inspiration.

“Would you like a kipper for breakfast, Lizzie?” he
enquired, hope shining in his eyes.

This time Mrs. Bindle not only shook her head, but
manifested by her expression such a repugnance that
he felt repulsed. The very thought of kippers made
his own mouth water and, recalling that Mrs. Bindle
was particularly partial to them, he realised that her
condition must be extremely grave.

Soon after nine, Mrs. Hearty arrived and insisted
on preparing breakfast for Bindle. Having despatched
him to his work she proceeded to tidy-up.

After the doctor had called, Mrs. Bindle once more[Pg 253]
sought news as to her condition. This time Mrs.
Hearty, obviously keen on reassuring the invalid,
succeeded also in confirming her morbid convictions.

At the sight of the plate containing Bindle’s conception
of arrowroot for an invalid, Mrs. Hearty had at
first manifested curiosity, then, on discovering the
constituent parts of the unsavoury-looking mess, she
had collapsed upon the green-painted box, wheezing
and heaving until her gasps for breath caused Mrs.
Bindle to open her eyes.

For nearly a week, Bindle and Mrs. Hearty devoted
themselves to the sick woman. Every morning Bindle
was late for work, and when he could get home he
spent more than half of his dinner-hour by Mrs.
Bindle’s bedside, asking the inevitable question as
to whether she were feeling better.

In the evening, he got home as fast as bus, train or
tram could take him, and not once did he go to bed.

During the whole period, Mrs. Bindle was as docile
and amenable to reason as a poor relation. Never
had she been so subdued. From Mrs. Hearty she took
the food that was prepared for her, and acquiesced
in the remedies administered. Amidst a perfect
tornado of wheezes and gaspings, Mrs. Hearty had
confided to Bindle that he had better refrain from
invalid cookery.

Nothing that either the doctor or Mrs. Hearty could
say would convince Mrs. Bindle that she was long for
this world. The very cheerfulness of those around
her seemed proof positive that they were striving to
inspire her with a hope they were far from feeling.[Pg 254]

In her contemplation of Eternity, Mrs. Bindle forgot
her kitchen, and the probable desolation Bindle was
wreaking. Smells of burning, no matter how pungent,
left her unmoved, and Bindle, finding that for the
first time in his life immunity surrounded him, proceeded
from one gastronomic triumph to another.
He burned sausages in the frying-pan, boiled dried
haddock in a porcelain-lined milk-saucepan and, not
daring to confuse the flavour of sausages and fish, had
hit upon the novel plan of cooking a brace of bloaters
upon the top of the stove itself.

Culinary enthusiasm seized him, and he invented
several little dishes of his own. Some were undoubted
successes, notably one made up of tomatoes, fried
onions and little strips of bacon; but he met his
Waterloo in a dish composed of fried onions and eggs.
The eggs were much quicker off the mark than the
onions, and won in a canter. He quickly realised
that swift decision was essential. It was a case either
of raw onions and cooked eggs, or cooked onions and
cindered eggs.

Never had such scents risen from Mrs. Bindle’s stove
to the receptive nostrils of the gods; yet through
it all Mrs. Bindle made neither protest nor enquiry.

Even Mrs. Hearty was appalled by the state in which
she found the kitchen each morning.

“My word, Joe!” she would wheeze. “You don’t
‘alf make a mess,” and she would gaze from the stove
to the table, and from the table to the sink, all of
which bore manifest evidence of Bindle’s culinary
activities.[Pg 255]

Mrs. Bindle, however, seemed oblivious of the cares
of this world in her anxiety not to make the journey
to the next. As her breath became more constricted,
so her alarm increased.

In her eyes there was a mute appeal that Bindle,
for one, found it impossible to ignore. Instinctively
he sensed what was troubling her, and he lost no
opportunity of striving to reassure her by saying that
she would be out and about again before she could say
“Jack Robinson.”