"I don't 'old with ruddy waiters, like 'im," he remarked.
"All right, Ging, never you mind about Dicky Bird, you get on with your work."
Bindle picked up Wilkes's hat – a battered fawn bowler with a mourning band – and placed it upon the head of the late Sir Benjamin Biggs, Lady Knob-Kerrick's father, whose bust stood on an elaborate pedestal near the window.
"'E's on the bust now all right!" grinned Bindle as he regarded his handiwork.
In the space of twenty minutes the room was bare, but for an enormous pile of furniture in one corner. Soon sections of small japanned-bedsteads and bundles of bedding appeared mysteriously at the window, and were hauled in by Bindle and Ginger. After the bedsteads and bedding, there appeared four baths; these were immediately followed by four tin wash-handstands and basins, a long table, two looking-glasses, half a dozen towel-horses, and various other articles necessary to a well-ordered dormitory.
Throughout the proceedings Wilkes's cough could be heard as a sort of accompaniment from without.
"There's one thing, Ging," remarked Bindle, "there ain't much chance o' mislayin' pore ole Wilkie. That cough of 'is is as good as a bell round 'is neck."
At twelve o'clock, work was knocked off. Wilkes entered through the window carrying a frying-pan, and Huggles with a parcel wrapped in newspaper. Ginger and Bindle both went down the ladder, the first-named returning a minute later with a parcel, also wrapped in newspaper.
From his parcel Huggles produced a small piece of steak, which he proceeded to fry at the fire. Ginger in turn unfolded from its manifold wrappings a red-herring. Sticking this on the end of his knife he held it before the bars. Soon the room was flooded with a smell of burning red-herring and frying steak.
When Bindle entered a minute later he sniffed at the air in astonishment.
"Wot the 'ell are you up to?" he cried. "'Ere, Ginger, chuck that thing on the fire. As for you, 'Uggles, you ought to be ashamed o' yourself. Ain't you never been in a drawin'-room before? I'm surprised at 'im an' you, 'Uggles, that I am. Ginger, chuck that thing on the fire," he commanded.
Huggles muttered something about it being his dinner hour.
"I don't 'old wiv wastin' food," began Ginger.
"I don't care wot you 'old with, Ging, you got to chuck that sojer on the fire."
"It's only an 'erring," began Ginger.
"Yes; but it's got the stink of a whale," cried Bindle.
Reluctantly Ginger removed the sizzling morsel from the end of his knife and threw it on the fire, just as Mrs. Marlings entered. She gave a little cry as the pungent smell of Huggles' and Ginger's dinners smote her nostrils.
"Oh!" she cried, starting back, "whathever 'as 'appened? What a dreadful smell! Where can it – "
"It's Ginger forgot 'isself, mum," explained Bindle, with a withering glance in the direction of his subordinate. "'E thought 'e was in an 'Un dug-out. You see, mum, Ginger ain't 'appy in 'is 'ome life."
"But – but – look, it's hon the fire," cried Mrs. Marlings, pointing to Ginger's dinner, at which he was gazing with an expression that was a tragedy of regret.
When excited Mrs. Marlings had some difficulty with her aspirates. "Oh! Mr. Wilton," she cried to the butler, who entered at that moment, and stood regarding the scene as Achilles might have viewed the reverses of the Greeks. "Oh! Mr. Wilton! take hit away, please, hit will poison us."
With his head held well in the air Mr. Wilton beckoned to John, who walked to the fireplace. With a majestic motion of his hand Mr. Wilton indicated to the footman that Ginger's offending dinner was to be removed. Gravely John took up the tongs, deliberately gripping the herring amidships, and turned towards the door, holding it aloft as if it were some sacred symbol.
Ginger's eyes were glued to the blackened shape.
"It ain't every red 'errin' wot 'as a funeral like that," remarked Bindle to Ginger.
Mr. Wilton threw open the door. Suddenly John started back and retreated, the herring still held before him, all smell and blue smoke.
"'Old me, 'Orace!" murmured Bindle, who was in a direct line with the door, "if it ain't the Ole Bird!"
Lady Knob-Kerrick entered, followed by Miss Strint, her companion and echo. Casting one annihilating look at the speechless John, she gazed with amazement at the disorder about her. Miss Strint gave vent to a spasmodic giggle, which Lady Knob-Kerrick did not even notice. Her gaze roved round the room as if she had found herself in unexpected surroundings. Finally her eyes fixed themselves on Mr. Wilton.
"Wilton, what is that John is holding?" Lady Knob-Kerrick prided herself on her self-control.
All eyes were immediately turned upon John, who shivered slightly.
"It is what they call a herring, a red-herring, my lady," responded Wilton. "Poor people eat them, I believe."
"And what is it doing in my drawing-room?" demanded Lady Knob-Kerrick with ominous calm.
"It was smellin', mum," broke in Bindle, "an' we was gettin' Calves to take it out. It's all through Ginger, 'e likes tasty food; but 'e ain't 'appy – "
"Hold your tongue!" said Lady Knob-Kerrick, turning to Bindle and withering him through her lorgnettes.
She turned once more to her major-domo.
"Wilton," she demanded, "what is the meaning of this outrage?"
"It's the billets, my lady."
"The what?"
"The billets, my lady."
"I haven't ordered any billets. What are billets?"
Suddenly her eye caught sight of the bust of the late Sir Benjamin Biggs.
"Who did that?" Rage had triumphed over self-control.
All eyes turned to the marble lineaments of the late Sir Benjamin's features. Never had that worthy knight presented so disreputable an appearance as he did with Huggles' hat stuck upon his head at a rakish angle.
"It must have been one of the workmen, my lady." Mr. Wilton tiptoed over to the bust and removed the offending headgear, placing it on a bundle of bedding.
"One of the workmen!" stormed Lady Knob-Kerrick. "Is everybody mad? What is being done with my drawing-room?"
Bindle stepped forward.
"We come from 'Arridges, mum, with the beds an' things for the soldiers."
"For the what?" demanded her ladyship.
"For the soldiers' billets, mum," explained Bindle. "You're goin' to billet sixteen soldiers 'ere."
"Billet sixteen soldiers!" almost screamed her ladyship, red in the face.
With great deliberation Bindle pulled out the delivery-note from behind his green baize apron, and read solemnly: "'Lady Knob-Kerrick, The Poplars, Putney 'Ill.' That's you, mum, ain't it?"
Lady Knob-Kerrick continued to stare at him stonily.
"'Sixteen bedsteads, bedding, four baths, four washin' stands, etcetera.' There's a rare lot of etceteras, mum. 'Fit up bedsteads in drawin'-room for billetin' soldiers, carefully storin' at one end of room existin' furniture.' There ain't no mistake," said Bindle solemnly. "It's all on this 'ere paper, which was 'anded to me by the foreman this mornin'. There ain't no mistake, mum, really."
"But I tell you there is a mistake," cried Lady Knob-Kerrick angrily. "I have no intention of billeting soldiers in my drawing-room."
"Well, mum," said Bindle, shaking his head as if it were useless to fight against destiny, "it's all down 'ere on this 'ere paper, and if you're Lady Knob-Kerrick" – he referred to the paper again – "of The Poplars, Putney 'Ill, then you want these soldiers, sure as eggs. P'raps you forgotten," he added with illumination.
"Forgotten what?" demanded Lady Knob-Kerrick.
"Forgotten that you want sixteen soldiers, mum."
"Halt!"
A sharp snapping sound from without. Everybody turned to the window. The situation had become intensely dramatic. Bindle walked over, and looked out. Then turning to Lady Knob-Kerrick he said triumphantly:
"'Ere's the sixteen soldiers, mum, so there ain't no mistake."
"The what?" demanded Lady Knob-Kerrick looking about her helplessly.
"The sixteen soldiers with all their kit," said Bindle. "I counted 'em," he added, as if to remove any glimmer of doubt that might still exist in Lady Knob-Kerrick's mind.
"Is everybody mad?" Lady Knob-Kerrick fixed her eyes upon Wilton. Wilton looked towards the door, which opened to admit John, who had seized the occasion of the diversion to slip out with Ginger's dinner.
"The soldiers, my lady," he announced.
There was a tremendous tramping on the stairs, and a moment afterwards fifteen soldiers in the charge of a sergeant streamed in, each bearing his kit-bag, rifle, etc.
The men gazed about them curiously.
The sergeant looked bewildered at so many people being grouped to receive them. After a hasty glance round he saluted Lady Knob-Kerrick, then he removed his cap, the men one by one sheepishly following suit.
"I hope we haven't come too soon, your ladyship?"
Lady Knob-Kerrick continued to stare at him through her lorgnettes. Wilton stepped forward.
"There has been a mistake. Her Ladyship cannot billet soldiers."
The sergeant looked puzzled. He drew a paper from his pocket, and read the address aloud: "'Lady Knob-Kerrick, The Poplars, Putney Hill, will billet sixteen soldiers in her drawing-room, she will also cater for them.'"
"Cater for them!" almost shrieked Lady Knob-Kerrick. "Cater for sixteen soldiers! I haven't ordered sixteen soldiers."
"I'm very sorry," said the sergeant, "but it's – it's – " The man looked at the paper he held in his hand.
"I don't care what you've got there," said Lady Knob-Kerrick rudely. "Strint!"
Lady Knob-Kerrick had suddenly caught sight of Miss Strint.
"Yes, my lady?" responded Miss Strint.
"Did I order sixteen soldiers?" demanded Lady Knob-Kerrick in a tone she always adopted with servants when she wanted confirmation.
"No, my lady, not as far as I know."
Lady Knob-Kerrick turned triumphantly to the sergeant, and stared at him through her lorgnettes.
"You hear?" she demanded.
"Yes, my lady, I hear," said the sergeant, respectful, but puzzled.
"Don't you think, mum, you could let 'em stay," insinuated Bindle, "seein' that all the stuff's 'ere."
"Let them stay!" Lady Knob-Kerrick regarded Bindle in amazement. "Let them stay in my drawing-room!" She pronounced the last four words as if Bindle's remark had outraged her sense of delicacy.
"They wouldn't be doin' no 'arm, mum, if – "
"No harm!" cried Lady Knob-Kerrick, gazing indignantly at Bindle through her lorgnettes. "Soldiers in my drawing-room!"
"If it wasn't for them, mum," said Bindle dryly, "you'd be 'avin' soldiers in your bedroom – 'Uns," he added significantly.
Lady Knob-Kerrick hesitated. She was conscious of having been forced upon rather delicate ground, and she prided herself upon her patriotism. Suddenly inspiration seized her. She turned on Bindle fiercely.
"Why are you not in the army?" she demanded, with the air of a cross-examining counsel about to draw from a witness a damning admission.
Bindle scratched his head through his cricket-cap. He was conscious that all eyes were turned upon him.
"Answer me!" commanded Lady Knob-Kerrick triumphantly. "Why are you not in the army?"
Bindle looked up innocently at his antagonist.
"You got 'various' veins in your legs, mum?" He lowered his eyes to Lady Knob-Kerrick's boots.
"How – how dare you!" gasped Lady Knob-Kerrick, aware that the soldiers were broadly grinning, and that every eye in the room had followed the direction of Bindle's gaze.
"Because," continued Bindle quietly, "when you 'ave 'various' veins in your legs you ain't no good for the army. I went on tryin' till they said they'd run me in for wastin' time."
"I seen 'im!"
The remark came from Ginger, who, finding that he had centred upon himself everybody's attention, looked extremly ill-at-ease. Bindle looked across at him in surprise. Impulse with Ginger was rare.
With flaming face and murderous eyes Lady Knob-Kerrick turned to the sergeant.
"You will remove your sixteen soldiers and take them back and say that they were not ordered. As for you," she turned to Bindle, "you had better take all these things back again and tell Harridge's that I shall close my account, and I shall sue them for damages to my drawing-room"; and with that she marched out of the room.
At a word from the sergeant the men trooped out, putting on their caps and grinning broadly. Bindle scratched his head, took out his pipe and proceeded to fill it, signing to his colleagues to get the beds and bedding down to the van.
"Quick march!" The short sharp order from below was followed by a crunch of gravel, and then the men broke out into a song, "Here we are, here we are, here we are again." Bindle went to the window and looked out. As the sound died away in the distance, the question "Are we downhearted?" was heard, followed immediately by the chorused reply:
"Noooooooo!"
"My! ain't them boys jest 'It,'" muttered Bindle as he withdrew his head and proceeded with the work of reloading the van.
Two hours later the van was grinding down Putney Hill with the skid-pan adjusted. Ginger had gone home, Wilkes was on top, and Bindle sat on the tail-board smoking.
"Well, 'e got 'ome all right on the Ole Bird to-day," remarked Bindle contentedly. "My! ain't 'e a knock-out for 'is little joke. Beats me does Mr. Little, an' I takes a bit o' beatin'."
CHAPTER XVI
MILLIE'S WEDDING
"It don't seem right, some'ow," muttered Bindle, as he stood before the oval mirror of what a misguided Fulham tradesman had catalogued as "an elegant duchesse dressing-table in walnut substitute." "A concertina-'at don't seem jest right for a weddin'!"
Bindle readjusted the crush-hat that had come to him as part of the properties belonging to the Oxford Adventure. He tried it on the back of his head, over his eyes and at the Sir David Beatty Angle.
"Oh, get out of the way, do! We shall be late." Mrs. Bindle, in petticoat and camisole, pushed Bindle aside and took her place in front of the mirror. "Anybody would think you was a woman, standing looking at yourself in front of the glass. What'll Mr. Hearty say if we're late?"
"You need never be afraid of what 'Earty'll say," remarked Bindle philosophically, "because 'e'll never say anythink wot can't be printed in a parish magazine."
Mrs. Bindle sniffed and continued patting her hair with the palm of her hand. Bindle still stood regarding his crush-hat regretfully.
"You can't wear a hat like that at a wedding," snapped Mrs. Bindle; "that's for a dress-suit."
Bindle heaved a sigh.
"I'd a liked to 'ave worn a top 'at at Millikins' weddin'," he remarked with genuine regret; "but as you'd say, Mrs. B.," he remarked, regaining his good-humour, "Gawd 'as ordained otherwise, so it's a 'ard 'at for J.B. to-day."
"Remember you're going to chapel, Bindle," remarked Mrs. Bindle, "and it's a sin to enter the House of God with blasphemy upon your lips."
"Is it really?" was Bindle's only comment, as he produced the hard hat and began to brush it with the sleeve of his coat. This done he took up a position behind Mrs. Bindle, bent his knees and proceeded to fix it on his head, appropriating to his own use such portion of the mirror as could be seen beneath Mrs. Bindle's left arm.
"Oh, get away, do!" Mrs. Bindle turned on him angrily; but Bindle had achieved his object, and had adjusted his hat at what he felt was the correct angle for weddings. He next turned his attention to a large white rose, which he proceeded to force into his buttonhole. This time he took up a position on Mrs. Bindle's right and, going through the same process, managed to get the complete effect of the buttonhole plus the hat. He next proceeded to draw on a pair of canary-coloured wash-leather gloves. This done he picked up a light cane, heavily adorned with yellow metal and, Mrs. Bindle having temporarily left the mirror, he placed himself before it.
"Personally myself," he remarked, "I don't see that Charlie'll 'ave a sportin' chance to-day. Lord! I pays for dressin'," he remarked, popping quickly aside as Mrs. Bindle bore down upon him. "You ought to be a proud woman to-day, Mrs. B.," he continued. "There's many a fair 'eart wot'll flutter as I walks up the aisle." Mrs. Bindle's head, however, was enveloped in the folds of her skirt, which she was endeavouring to assume without rumpling her hair.
"Ah! Mrs. B.," Bindle said reprovingly, "late again, late again!" He proceeded to bite off the end of a cigar which he lit.
"Don't smoke that cigar," snapped Mrs. Bindle.
"Not smoke a cigar at a weddin'!" exclaimed Bindle incredulously. "Then if you can't smoke a cigar at a weddin', when the 'ell can you smoke one."
"Don't you use those words at me," retorted Mrs. Bindle. "If you smoke you'll smell of smoke in the chapel."
"The only smell I ever smelt in that chapel is its own smell, and that ain't a pleasant one. Any'ow, I'll put it out before I gets to the door. I'm jest goin' to 'op round to see Millikins."
"You'll do nothing of the kind," cried Mrs. Bindle with decision. "You mustn't see a bride before she appears at the chapel."
Bindle stopped dead on his way to the door and, turning round, exclaimed, "Mustn't wot?"
"You mustn't see a bride before she appears at the chapel or church. It isn't proper."
"Well, I'm blowed!" cried Bindle. "You mean to tell me that Charlie Dixon ain't goin' to nip round and 'ave a look at 'er this mornin'?"
"Certainly not," said Mrs. Bindle.
"But why?" persisted Bindle.
"Because it's not proper; it's not the right thing to do," replied Mrs. Bindle, as she struggled into her bodice.
"Now ain't that funny," said Bindle. "I suppose it all come about because they was afraid the chap might sort o' funk it and do a bunk, not likin' the looks o' the gal. Any'ow that ain't likely to 'appen with Millikins. The cove wot gets 'er, 'as got a winner."
"Thought you didn't believe in marriage," said Mrs. Bindle acidly.
"I don't, Mrs. B.," replied Bindle. "Leastways the marriages wot are made in the place where they don't play billiards; but this little one was made in the Putney Cinema Pavilion. I made it myself, and when J.B. takes a thing in 'and, it's goin' to be top 'ole. Then," he proceeded after a pause, "Millikins 'as got me to look after 'er. If 'er man didn't make 'er 'appy, I'd skin 'im; yes, and rub salt in afterwards."
There was a grimness in Bindle's voice that caused Mrs. Bindle to pause in the process of pinning a brooch in her bodice.
"Yes, Mrs. B.," continued Bindle, "that little gal means an 'ell of a lot to me, I – "
Mrs. Bindle looked round, a little startled at a huskiness in Bindle's voice. She was just in time to see him disappear through the bedroom-door. When she returned to the looking-glass, the face that was reflected back to her was that of a woman in whose eyes there was something of disappointment and cheated longing.
Mrs. Bindle proceeded with her toilet. Everything seemed to go wrong, and each article she required appeared to have hidden itself away. Finally she assumed her bonnet, a study in two tints of green, constructed according to the inevitable plan upon which all her bonnets were built, narrow of gauge with a lofty superstructure. She gave a final glance at herself in the glass, and sighed her satisfaction at the sight of the maroon-coloured dress with the bright green bonnet.
When Mrs. Bindle emerged into Fenton Street, working on her white kid gloves with feverish movement, she found Bindle engaged in chatting with a group of neighbours.
"'Ere comes my little beetroot," remarked Bindle; at which Mrs. Rogers went off into a shriek of laughter and told him to "Go hon, do!"
Mrs. Bindle acknowledged the salutations of her neighbours with a frigid inclination of her head. She strongly objected to Bindle's "holding any truck" with the occupants of other houses in Fenton Street.
"Well, well, s'long, all of you!" said Bindle. "It ain't my weddin', that's one thing."
There were cheery responses to Bindle's remarks, and sotto voce references to Mrs. Bindle as "a stuck-up cat."
"Mind you throw that cigar away before we get to the chapel," said Mrs. Bindle, still working at her gloves.
"Right-o!" said Bindle, as they turned into the New King's Road. He waved the hand containing the cigar in salutation to the driver of a passing motor-bus with whom he was acquainted.
"I wish you wouldn't do that," said Mrs. Bindle snappishly.
"Wouldn't do wot?" enquired Bindle innocently.
"Recognising common people when you're with me," was the response.
"But that was 'Arry Sales," said Bindle, puzzled at Mrs. Bindle's attitude. "'E ain't common, 'e drives a motor-bus."
"What will people think?" demanded Mrs. Bindle.
"Oh! they're used to 'Arry drivin' a bus," replied Bindle. "They might think it funny if he was to drive an 'earse."
"You know what I mean," said Mrs. Bindle. "Why can't you remember that you're goin' to a wedding."
"Nobody wouldn't know it from your looks, Mrs. B.," commented Bindle. "You look about as 'appy as 'Earty does when 'e 'ears there's goin' to be an air-raid."
"Oh, don't talk to me!" snapped Mrs. Bindle; and they continued on their way in silence. When about a hundred yards from the Alton Road Chapel, Mrs. Bindle demanded of Bindle that he throw away his cigar, which he did with great reluctance.
There was a small collection of women and children outside the chapel doors.
"There!" exclaimed Mrs. Bindle suddenly.
"Where?" enquired Bindle, looking first to the right and left, then on the ground and finally up at the sky.
"I knew we should be late," said Mrs. Bindle. "There's the carriage."
At that moment a two-horse carriage bearing Mr. Hearty and Millie passed by, and drew up at the entrance to the chapel. Mr. Hearty's white kid-gloved hand appeared out of the window, fumbling with the handle of the carriage. A moment later his silk hat, adorned with a deep black band, appeared; still the carriage-door refused to open. Suddenly as if out of sheer mischief it gave way, and Mr. Hearty lurched forward, his hat fell off and rolled under the carriage. A stray dog, that had been watching the proceedings, dashed for the hat, just at the moment that Mr. Hearty hurriedly stepped out to retrieve his headgear. Mr. Hearty's foot came down upon the dog's paw. The animal gave a heart-rending howl, Mr. Hearty jumped, the people laughed, and the dog continued to howl, holding up its wounded paw.
Mr. Hearty, however, was intent upon the recapture of his hat. With his silver-mounted umbrella, he started poking beneath the carriage to try and coax it towards him. An elderly gentleman, seeing the mishap, had approached from the other side of the carriage and, with his stick, was endeavouring to achieve the same object. The result was that, as soon as one drew the hat towards him, the other immediately snatched it away again.
"It's like a game of 'ockey," said Bindle who had come up at this moment. "Go it, 'Earty, you got it!"
Mrs. Bindle tore at Bindle's arm, just as the benevolent gentleman succeeded in securing Mr. Hearty's hat. Mr. Hearty dashed round to the other side of the carriage, snatched his damaged headgear from the hands of the stranger, and stood brushing it upon the sleeve of his coat.
"Excuse me, sir!" said the stranger.
"But it's my hat," said Mr. Hearty, endeavouring to restore something of its lost glossiness.
Mr. Hearty had apparently forgotten all about the bride, and it was Bindle who helped Millie from the carriage, and led her into the chapel. Mrs. Bindle reminded Mr. Hearty of his duty. Putting his hat on his head, he entered the chapel door. It was Mrs. Bindle also who reminded him of his mistake.
"It's a good omen, Uncle Joe," whispered Millie as she clung to Bindle's arm.
"Wot's a good omen, Millikins?" enquired Bindle.
"That you should take me in instead of father," she whispered just as Mr. Hearty bustled up and relieved Bindle.
There was a craning of necks and a hum of voices as Mr. Hearty, intensely nervous, led his daughter up to the altar. Bindle followed, carrying Mr. Hearty's hat and umbrella.
"My! don't 'is Nibs look smart," Bindle muttered to himself, as he caught sight of Charlie Dixon standing at the further end of the chapel.
The Rev. Mr. Sopley had come up from Eastbourne specially for the occasion, Millie refusing to be married by Mr. MacFie. The ceremony dragged its mournful course to the point where Millie and Charlie Dixon had become man and wife. Mr. Sopley then plunged into a lugubrious address full of dreary foreboding. He spoke of orphans, widowhood, plague and famine, the uncertainty of human life and the persistent quality of sin.
"'E ain't much at marrying," whispered Bindle to Mr. Hearty; "but 'e ought to be worth a rare lot for funerals." Mr. Hearty turned and gazed at Bindle uncomprehendingly.
It was Bindle who snatched the first kiss from the bride, and it was he who, in the vestry, lightened the depressing atmosphere by his cheerfulness. Mrs. Hearty in mauve and violet dabbed her eyes and beat her breast with rigid impartiality. Mr. Hearty strove to brush his hat into respectability.
Millie, clinging to her soldier-husband, stood with downcast eyes. Bindle looked at her with interest, as she stood a meek and charming figure in a coat and skirt of puritan grey, with a toque of the same shade.
Mr. Sopley shook hands mechanically with everybody, casting his eyes up to heaven as if mournfully presaging the worst.
"About the gloomiest ole cove I ever come across," whispered Bindle to Mrs. Hearty, whereat she collapsed upon a seat and heaved with silent laughter.
It was Bindle who broke up the proceedings.
"Now then, Charlie, 'op it, I'm 'ungry!" he said; and Charlie Dixon, who had seemed paralysed, moved towards the vestry door.
It was Bindle who held on Mr. Hearty's hat when he entered his carriage, and it was Bindle who heaved and pushed Mrs. Hearty until she was able to take her place beside her lawful spouse.
It was Bindle who went back and captured the vague and indeterminate Mr. Sopley, and brought him in the last carriage, that he might participate in the wedding-breakfast.
"Come along, sir," he said to the pastor. "Never mind about 'eaven, let's come and cut ole 'Earty's pineapple, that'll make 'im ratty."
During the journey Bindle went on to explain that Mr. Hearty never expected a guest to have the temerity to cut a pineapple when placed upon his hospitable board.
"Is that so?" remarked Mr. Sopley, not in the least understanding what Bindle was saying.
"It is," said Bindle solemnly; "you see, they goes back into stock."
"Ah-h-h-h!" remarked Mr. Sopley, gazing at the roof of the carriage.
"Clever ole bird this," muttered Bindle. "About as brainy as a cock-sparrow wot's 'ad the wind knocked out of 'im."
When Bindle entered the Heartys' dining-room he found the atmosphere one of unrelieved gloom. Mrs. Hearty was crying, Mr. Hearty looked nervously solemn, Mrs. Bindle was uncompromisingly severe, and the other guests all seemed intensely self-conscious. The men gazed about them for some place to put their hats and umbrellas, the women wondered what they should do with their hands. At the further end of the room stood Millie and Charlie Dixon, Millie's hand still tucked through her husband's arm. Never was there such joylessness as in Mr. Hearty's dining-room that morning.
"'Ullo, 'ullo!" cried Bindle as he entered with Mr. Sopley. "Ain't this a jolly little crowd!"
Millie brightened-up instantaneously, Charlie Dixon looked relieved. Mr. Hearty dashed forward to welcome Mr. Sopley, tripped over Bindle's cane, which he was holding awkwardly, and landed literally on Mr. Sopley's bosom.
Mr. Sopley stepped back and struck his head against the edge of the door.
"Look at 'earty tryin' to kiss ole Woe-and-Whiskers," remarked Bindle audibly. Millie giggled, Charlie Dixon smiled, Mrs. Bindle glared, and the rest of the guests looked either disapprovingly at Bindle, or sympathetically at Mr. Hearty and Mr. Sopley. Mrs. Hearty collapsed into a chair and began to undulate with mirth.
"Couldn't we 'ave an 'ymn?" suggested Bindle.
Mr. Hearty looked round from abjectly apologising to Mr. Sopley. He hesitated a moment and glanced towards the harmonium.
"Uncle Joe is only joking, father," said Millie.
Mr. Hearty looked at Bindle reproachfully.
"Now then, let's set down," said Bindle.
After much effort and a considerable expenditure of physical force, he managed to get the guests seated at the table.
At a sign from Mr. Hearty, Mr. Sopley rose to say grace.
Every one but Bindle was watching for the movement, and a sudden silence fell on the assembly from which Bindle's remark stood out with clear-cut emphasis.
"Ole 'Earty playing 'ockey with 'is top 'at under – " Then Bindle stopped, looking about him with a grin.
Gravely and ponderously Mr. Sopley besought the Lord to make the assembly grateful for what they were about to receive, and amidst a chorus of "amens" the guests resumed their seats.
The wedding party was a small one. For once Mr. Hearty had found that patriotism was not at issue with economy. The guests consisted of the bridegroom's mother, a gentle, sweet-faced woman with white hair and a sunny smile, her brother-in-law, Mr. John Dixon, a red-faced, hurly-burly type of man, a genial, loud-voiced John Bull, hearty of manner and heavy of hand, and half a dozen friends and relatives of the Heartys.
At the head of the table sat Millie and Charlie Dixon, at the foot was Mr. Sopley. The other guests were distributed without thought or consideration as to precedence. Bindle found himself between Mrs. Dixon and Mrs. Hearty. Mrs. Bindle was opposite, where she had planted herself to keep watch. Mr. Hearty sat next to Mrs. Dixon, facing Mr. Dixon, whose uncompromising stare Mr. Hearty found it difficult to meet with composure.
Alice, the maid-servant, reinforced by her sister Bertha, heavy of face and flat of foot, attended to the wants of the guests.
The meal began in constrained silence. The first episode resulted from Alice's whispered enquiry if Mr. Dixon would have lime-juice or lemonade.
"Beer!" cried Mr. Dixon in a loud voice.
Alice looked across at Mr. Hearty, who, being quite unequal to the situation, looked at Alice, and then directed his gaze towards Mr. Sopley.