"We are all deeply honoured by your Leddyship's presence this evening," said Mr. MacFie, throwing himself into the breach. "It is – "
"Get me a chair," demanded Lady Knob-Kerrick, still glaring in the direction of the glee-singers.
Bindle rushed at her with a frail-looking hemp-seated chair, which he proceeded to flick with his red silk pocket-handkerchief.
"One be enough, mum?" he enquired solicitously.
Lady Knob-Kerrick regarded him through her lorgnettes.
Mr. Sopley had been detached from his contemplation of the ceiling, and was now led up to Lady Knob-Kerrick.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, "we are indeed greatly honoured."
"'Ere, 'ere!" broke in Bindle, attracting to himself the attention of the whole assembly.
"Will your Ladyship make the presentation now?" enquired Mr. Hearty, "or – "
"Now!" was Lady Knob-Kerrick's uncompromising reply, as she seated herself. "Fetch a table, please," she added, indicating, with an inclination of her head, her footman, who stood with what Bindle called "the prizes."
Mr. Hearty and Mr. Gash trotted off to fetch a small table from the corner of the room. This was placed in front of Lady Knob-Kerrick, and on it John deposited the illuminated address, the bag containing the notes, and the silver-mounted hot-water bottle.
A hush of expectancy fell upon the assembly. Lady Knob-Kerrick rose and was greeted by respectful applause. Her manner was that of a peacock deigning to acknowledge the existence of a group of sparrows. From a dorothy-bag she drew a typewritten paper, which she proceeded to read.
"I have been asked to present to the Rev. James Sopley, as a mark of the esteem in which he is held by his flock, an illuminated address, a purse of fifty pounds, and a silver-mounted hot-water bottle" – she paused for a moment – "a trifle that shall remind him of the loving hearts he has left behind. (Murmurs of respectful appreciation.)
"Mr. Sopley has fought the good fight in Fulham for upwards of twenty-five years, and he is now about to retire to enjoy the rest that he has so well and thoroughly earned. ("'Ere, 'ere!" from Bindle.) I trust and hope that the Lord will spare him for many years to come. ("I'm sure I would if I was Gawd," whispered Bindle to Mr. Tuddenham, who only glared at him.)
"We have now among us," continued Lady Knob-Kerrick, "a new pastor, a man of sterling worth and sound religious principles. ("That's you!" said Bindle in a hoarse whisper, nudging Mr. MacFie who stood next to him.) I have," proceeded Lady Knob-Kerrick, "sat under him ("Oh, naughty! naughty!" whispered Bindle. Lady Knob-Kerrick glared at him), – sat – sat under him for a number of years at Barton Bridge, where he will always be remembered as a man devoted to" ("Temperance fêtes!" interpolated Bindle.)
The result of the interruption was electrical. Lady Knob-Kerrick dropped her lorgnettes and lost her place. Mr. MacFie's "adam's apple" moved up and down with alarming rapidity, testifying to the great emotional ordeal through which he was passing. Mr. Hearty looked at Mrs. Bindle, Mrs. Bindle looked at Bindle, everybody looked at everybody else, because everyone had heard of the Temperance Fête fiasco. Lady Knob-Kerrick resumed her seat suddenly.
Then it was that Mr. Hearty had an inspiration. With a swift movement which precipitated him on the foot of Miss Torkington (whose anguished expression caused Bindle to mutter, "Fancy 'er bein' able to do that with 'er face!"), he landed beside Mr. Sopley. He managed to detach his eyes from their contemplation of the ceiling and impress on him that he had better make a reply. As he walked the few steps necessary to reach the table, Bindle once more started clapping vigorously, a greeting that was taken up by several of the other guests, but in a more modified manner.
In a mournful and foreboding voice, thoroughly appropriate to an hour of national disaster, Mr. Sopley thanked Lady Knob-Kerrick for her words, and the others for their notes. He referred to the shepherd, dragged in the sheep, scooped up the righteous, cast out the sinners; in short he said all the most obvious things in the most obvious manner. He promised the Alton Roaders harps and halos, and threw the rest of Fulham into the bottomless pit. With some dexterity he linked-up sin and the taxi-cab, saw in the motor-omnibus the cause of the weakening moral-fibre of the working-classes, expressed it as his conviction that Europe was being drenched in blood because Fulham thought less of faith than of football.
He was frankly pessimistic about the future of the district, an attitude of mind that appeared to have been induced by the garments of the local maidens. Fire and flood he promised Fulham, but made no mention of Hammersmith or Putney. In a voice that throbbed with emotion he took his official leave, having convinced everybody that only his intercessionary powers with heaven had stalled off for so long the impending fate he outlined.
Taking up from the table the bag of fifty pounds, he put it in his pocket and with bowed head walked towards the nearest chair.
"'Ere, you've forgotten your bed-feller, sir!" cried Bindle, picking up the silver-mounted hot-water bottle and the framed address and carrying them over to Mr. Sopley.
Mr. MacFie prepared himself for the ordeal before him. Standing in front of Lady Knob-Kerrick as if she had been an altar, he bowed low before her.
"Your Leddyship." A pause of veneration. "Ma Freends," he continued. "Few meenisters of the Gospel have the preevilege that has been extended to me this evening. It is the will of the Almighty that I succeed a most saintly man (murmurs of approval) in the person of Mr. Sopley. It will be a deefecult poseetion for me to fill. (Mr. Sopley wagged his head from side to side.) In her breeliant oration her Leddyship has emphasised some of the attreebutes of a man whose godliness ye can all testify – "
"You shan't keep me out, you baggage. Can't I hear his dear voice! My Andrew! Oh, Andy! Andy! and they want to keep me away from you."
The interruption came from the door, where Alice was vainly endeavouring to keep out a dishevelled-looking creature, who finally broke through and walked unsteadily towards the table.
Lady Knob-Kerrick turned and stared at the apparition through her lorgnettes.
Mr. MacFie's jaw dropped.
Mr. Sopley for the first time that evening seemed to forget heaven, and devoted himself to terrestrial things. Everybody was gazing with wide-eyed wonder at the cause of the interruption.
"Oh! my Andrew, my little Andy!" cried the woman in hoarse maudlin tones. Her hair, to which was attached a black toque with a brilliant oval of embroidery in front, hung over her left ear. Her clothes, ill-fitting and much stained, hung upon her as if they had been thrown – rather than put on. Her face, intended by Providence to be pretty, was tear-stained and dirty. Her blouse was open at the neck and her boots mud-stained and shapeless.
"What – what is the meaning of this?" demanded Lady Knob-Kerrick of Mr. MacFie, as she rose from her chair, a veritable Rhadamanthus.
The girl, who was now hanging on to Mr. MacFie's arm, turned and regarded Lady Knob-Kerrick over her shoulder.
"He's my boooy," she spluttered; then closing her eyes her head wobbled from side to side, as if her neck were unable to support it.
"Your what?" thundered Lady Knob-Kerrick.
"My – my boooy," drawled the girl, "husband. Oh! Andy, Andy!" and she clung to Mr. MacFie the more closely in spite of his frantic efforts to shake himself free.
"Mr. MacFie, what is the meaning of this?" demanded Lady Knob-Kerrick.
"I've – I've never seen her before," stammered Mr. MacFie, looking as if he had been grabbed by an octopus. "On ma oath, your Leddyship. Before ma God!"
"Andy, Andy! don't say such awful things," protested the girl. "You know you married me secret because you said Helen wouldn't let you;" and she sagged away again, half supporting herself on Mr. MacFie's arm.
"Do you know anything of this woman?" demanded Lady Knob-Kerrick of Miss MacFie.
Miss MacFie shook her head as if the question were an insult.
"Then it was a secret marriage." Lady Knob-Kerrick remembered what she had heard of Mr. MacFie's conduct at the temperance fête. "Mr. MacFie, you have – you have disgraced – "
"Your Leddyship, on ma honour, I sweear – !"
"Don't, Andy, don't!" said the girl, striving to put her hand over his mouth. "Don't! God may strike you dead. He did it once, didn't He? Oh! I've learnt the Bible," she added in a maudlin tone. "I can sing hymns, I can." She began to croon something in a wheezy voice.
Mr. MacFie made a desperate effort to free himself from her clutches, but succeeded only in bringing her to her knees.
"Look at 'im! Look at 'im!" shrieked the girl, "knocking me about, what he swore to love, honour and obey. Oh, you devil, Andy! How you used to behave, and now – and now – "
"I swear it's all a damned lee! It's ma enemy – ma enemy. Woman, I know thee not! Thou art the scarlet woman of Babylon! Get thee from me, I curse thee!" Mr. MacFie's Gaelic blood was up.
"Go it, sir!" said Bindle. "Go it!"
"Ye have come as the ravening wolf upon the sheep-fold at night to destroy the lamb." Mr. MacFie waved his disengaged arm.
"You bein' the lamb, sir, go it!" said Bindle.
"I'll hae the law on ye, woman, I'll hae the law on ye! Ye impostor! Ye harlot!! Ye daughter of Belial!!!" He flung his arm about, and his eyes rolled with almost maniacal fury. "Ma God! ma God! Why persecuteth Thou me?" he cried, lifting his eyes to the ceiling.
Then with a sudden drop to earthly things he appealed to Lady Knob-Kerrick.
"Your Leddyship, your Leddyship, do not believe this woman. She lies! She would ruin me!! I will have her arrested!!! Fetch the police!!!! I demand the police!!!!!"
Lady Knob-Kerrick turned towards the door at the entrance of which stood her footman.
"John, blow your police-whistle," she ordered, practical in all things.
John disappeared. A moment later the raucous sound of a police-whistle was heard in continuous blast.
"That's right!" shouted the woman, "that's right! Blow your police-whistle! Blow your pinkish brains out!" Then with a sudden change she turned to Mr. MacFie. "Oh, Andy, Andy! You never was the same man after you 'ad that drink in you down in the country at the temperance fête. Don't you remember how you laughed with me about that Old Bird being washed out of her carriage?"
"It's a lee! It's a lee! A damnable lee!" shrieked Mr. MacFie.
Mr. MacFie was interrupted in his protestations by a sudden rush of feet, and the hall began to fill with a wild-eyed, dishevelled crowd. Mothers carrying their babies, or pulling along little children. Everyone inviting everyone else to come in. One woman was in hysterics. Lady Knob-Kerrick stared at them in wonder.
"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded of no one in particular.
"It's a raid, mum, a raid; it's a raid," sobbed a woman, leading two little children with the hand and holding a baby in her disengaged arm.
Lady Knob-Kerrick paled. "A raid!" she faltered.
"Yes, mum, can't you 'ear the police-whistles?"
"Well, I'm damned!" broke in Bindle, slapping his leg in ecstasy; then a moment after, seeing the terror on the women's faces, he cried out:
"It's all right, there ain't no raid. Don't be frightened. It's ole Calves with that bloomin' police-whistle."
"Tell that fool to stop," cried Lady Knob-Kerrick. A special constable pushed his way through the crowd.
"What is all this about, please?" he demanded.
"There's a raid, sir," cried several voices.
"I give this woman in charge," cried Mr. MacFie, dramatically pointing at her who claimed to be his wife.
With alacrity the special pulled his note-book out of his pocket.
"The charge, sir?" he enquired.
"She says she's ma wife."
The special looked up from his note-book. "That is not an indictable offence, sir, I'm afraid."
"But she's na ma wife," protested Mr. MacFie.
Another rush of people seeking shelter swept the constable on one side, and when he once more strove to take up the thread, the woman had disappeared.
The results of John's vigour with the police-whistle were far-reaching. Omnibuses had drawn up to the kerb and had been promptly deserted by passengers and crew. The trains on the District Railway were plunged in darkness and the authorities at Putney Bridge Station and East Putney telephoned through that there was a big air-raid. Although nothing had been heard at head-quarters, it was deemed advisable to take precautions. Special constables, nurses and ambulances were called out, anti-aircraft stations warned, and tens of thousands of people sent scuttling home.
Bindle was one of the first to leave the School-room, and he made his way over to Dick Little's flat at Chelsea.
"Ah!" cried Dick Little as he opened the door, "Nancy's back. This way," he added, walking towards his bedroom.
In front of the dressing-table stood Private "Nancy" Dane, the far-famed Pierrette of the Passchendaele Pierrots. He was in the act of removing from his closely-cropped head a dark wig to which was attached a black toque with an oval of vivid-coloured embroidery.
"Well, that's that!" he remarked as he laid it on the table. "Hullo, Bindle!" he cried. "All Clear?"
"All Clear!" replied Bindle as he seated himself upon a chair and proceeded to light the big cigar that Dick Little handed him. Dick Little threw himself upon the bed.
"You done it fine," remarked Bindle approvingly, as he watched Dane slowly transform himself into a private of the line. "Pore ole Mac," he added, "'e got the wind up proper."
"Good show, what?" queried Dick Little as he lazily pulled at his pipe, tired after a long day's work in the hospital.
"Seemed a bit cruel to me," said Dane as he struggled out of a pair of hefty-looking corsets.
"Cruel!" cried Bindle indignantly, as he sat up straight in his chair. "Cruel! with 'im a-tryin' to take the gal away from one of the boys wot's fightin' at the front. Cruel! It wouldn't be cruel, Mr. Nancy, if 'e was cut up an' salted an' given to the 'Uns as a meat ration;" and with this ferocious pronouncement Bindle sank back again in his chair and puffed away at his cigar.
"Sorry!" said Dane, laboriously pulling off a stocking.
"Right-o!" said Bindle cheerfully. Then after a pause he added, "I got to thank Ole 'Amlet for that little idea, and you, sir, for findin' Mr. Nancy. Did it wonderful well, 'e did; still," remarked Bindle meditatively, "I wish they 'adn't blown that police-whistle. Them pore women an' kids was that scared, made me feel I didn't ought to 'ave done it; but then, 'ow was I to know that the Ole Bird was goin' to 'anky-panky like that with Calves. Took 'er name they did, that's somethink. Any'ow, ole Mac won't go 'angin' round Millikins again for many a long day. If 'e does I'll punch 'is bloomin' 'ead."
The next day Lady Knob-Kerrick and John were summoned for causing to be blown to the public confusion a police-whistle, and although the summonses were dismissed the magistrate said some very caustic things about the insensate folly of excitable women. He furthermore made it clear that if anybody blew a police-whistle in the south-western district because somebody else's wife had come back unexpectedly, he would without hesitation pass a sentence that would discourage any repetition of so unscrupulous and unpardonable an act.
Mr. MacFie cleared his character to some extent by a sermon on the following Sunday upon the ninth commandment, and by inserting an advertisement in the principal papers offering £20 to anyone who would give information as to the identity of the woman who on the night of the 28th had created a disturbance in the Alton Road School Room.
CHAPTER IX
THE LETTING OF NUMBER SIX
I
"An' what am I to do if there's an air-raid?" demanded Mrs. Bindle.
Bindle deliberately emptied his coffee-cup, replaced it in its saucer, sat back further in his chair as a sign of repletion, then turned to Mrs. Bindle, who had been watching him with angry eyes.
"Well, there's always Gawd an' Mr. Gupperduck, Mrs. B.," he remarked, with the air of a man suggesting an unfailing source of inspiration.
"You always was a scoffer, you with your black 'eart." Mrs. Bindle's ire was rising, and her diction in consequence losing something of its customary precision. "You know I ain't strong and – and 'ow them guns an' bombs frighten me." There was in Mrs. Bindle's voice a note of entreaty.
"A daughter o' the Lord didn't ought to be afraid of an 'Un; besides, you can go round an' 'old 'Earty's 'and. 'E's a rare ole 'ero when there's guns goin' off."
"I knew I shouldn't get any sympathy from you," complained Mrs. Bindle, rising and proceeding to bang away the breakfast things. When Mrs. Bindle was suffering from any great stress of emotion, she expressed her feelings by the noise she made. Ironing gave her the greatest opportunities. She could bang the iron on the ironing-board, back again to the stand, and finally on to the stove.
"I got to earn a livin'," remarked Bindle philosophically as he proceeded to light his pipe. "It's war-time too, an' nobody can't afford to move, so pore ole Joe 'as to take any ole job 'e can get 'old of."
"You lorst your last job a-purpose," snapped Mrs. Bindle.
Bindle looked at her sharply. Sometimes Mrs. Bindle's accuracy in things where she could not possibly possess knowledge was startling. Bindle had temporarily relinquished his situation in the Removal Department of Harridge's Stores in order to become caretaker at Fulham Square Mansions whilst his intimate, Charlie Hart, had a fortnight's holiday.
Mrs. Hart had been ill, and the doctor said that change of air and scene were essential to her recovery. She could not go alone, and if Mr. Hart went with her and a substitute were obtained, he would in all probability, as Charlie put it, "pinch my bloomin' job." Bindle he knew he could trust, and so it came about that for a fortnight Bindle was to "sleep out."
"Well, you see," Bindle explained, "I couldn't disappoint ole Charlie – "
"And what about me?" demanded Mrs. Bindle, looking round from a fierce attack upon the kitchen stove with the poker.
"Well," said Bindle slowly, "you're a disappointed woman as it is, Mrs. B., so you ain't 'urt."
Mrs. Bindle resumed her attack upon the fire with increased vigour.
"You always was a selfish beast, Bindle," she retorted. "You'll be sorry when I'm dead."
Any reference by Mrs. Bindle to the remorse that he would suffer after her death, Bindle always regarded as a sort of "take cover" signal. Mrs. Bindle was hysterical, and Bindle liked to be well out of the way before the storm broke. He had heard, but had never had an opportunity of testing the statement, that without an audience dogs will not fight and women will never have hysterics.
When, therefore, Mrs. Bindle referred to what Bindle widower would suffer on account of what Bindle benedict had neglected to do, he rose, picking up the faded blue-and-white cricket-cap he invariably wore, and walked towards the door.
"There'll be a lot o' tips, ole Charlie says," he remarked, "an' I'll buy you somethink. I'll run in every day to see you ain't gone off with 'Guppy.'"
"You're a dirty-minded beast, Bindle," raged Mrs. Bindle; but her words beat up against the back door, through which Bindle had vanished. He had become a master of strategical retreat.
Whistling shrilly, he proceeded along the Fulham Road in the direction of Fulham Square Mansions. Bindle was in a happy frame of mind. It would be strange if a fortnight as porter at Fulham Square Mansions did not produce something in the way of a diversion.
"Cheer-o, uncle!" The remark came from a brazen-faced girl waiting for a bus.
Bindle frowned as he looked her up and down, from the low-cut transparent blouse to the short skirt, reaching little below her knees.
"If I was your uncle, young woman," he remarked, "I'd slap you into becomin' decent."
The girl jumped on to a bus that had just drawn up, and with a swirl of skirt and wealth of limb, waved her hand as she climbed the stairs.
"So long, old dear!" she cried.
"Got enough powder on 'er face to whitewash 'er feet," remarked a workman to Bindle as he resumed his walk.
"Women is funny things," responded Bindle. "They never seems to be wearin' so little, but wot they can't leave orf a bit more."
"You're right, mate," replied the man when he had digested the remark. "If I was the police I'd run 'em in."
"Well," said Bindle philosophically, "there is some wot likes to see all the goods in the window. S'long!" and he turned off the Fulham Road, leaving the workman to pursue his journey puzzling over Bindle's enigmatical utterance.
"'Ullo, Charlie!" greeted Bindle, as he entered the porter's lodge of Fulham Square Mansions. "'Ere I am, come to take care of all the little birds in the nest wot you're a-leavin' behind."
Charlie Hart was a big man with a heavy moustache, a brow whereon the creases of worry had a perpetual abiding-place, and an indeterminate chin. "Charlie ought to wear a beard," was Bindle's verdict.
"Glad you come, Joe. I'll 'ave time to go over things again. Train don't go till four."
During the next few hours Bindle was once more taken over the salient features of the life of a porter at a block of residential flats. Charlie Hart had no system or order in conveying his instructions, and Bindle saw that he would have to depend upon his own wits to meet such crises as arose.
Mrs. Sedge, Mrs. Hart's mother, would look after those tenants who did not possess servants.
"She's all right when she ain't after 'Royal Richard,'" explained Charlie Hart.
"An' who's Royal Richard?" enquired Bindle with interest.
"Gin!" was Charlie Hart's laconic response.
Charlie enumerated the numbers of the flats, the occupants of which were to be "done for." One thing he particularly emphasised, Number Six was temporarily vacant. The owner was away; but it was let furnished from the following Monday to a Miss Cissie Boye, who was one of those to be "done for." Bindle was particularly cautioned to see that there were no "carryings on," whereat he winked reassuringly.
Mrs. Sedge was a stolid matron, whose outlook on life had reached the dregs of pessimism.
"Oh! don't ask me," was the phrase with which she warded off any attempt at conversation. Hers was a soul dedicated to Royal Richard and silence.
"Cheery little thing," was Bindle's summing up of the gloomy Mrs. Sedge.
Bindle had not been in charge an hour before Number Seven began to get troublesome. He was a choleric ex-Indian civil servant.
"Where's that damned fellow Hart?" he roared, thrusting his head into the porter's lodge.
"'E's gone to the damned seaside," replied Bindle imperturbably, as he proceeded to light his pipe with elaborate calm. "Taken 'is damned wife with 'im," he added.
Number Seven gasped.
"And who the devil are you?" he demanded.
"Well," replied Bindle with a grin, "on the 'Alls I'm Little Tich; but 'ere I calls myself Joe Bindle, known as ''Oly Joe.'"
For a moment Number Seven, his customary redness of face transformed to purple, stood regarding Bindle fiercely.
"Then be damned to you!" he burst out, and turning on his heel, dashed upstairs.
"I ain't lived with Mrs. B. nineteen years without learnin' 'ow to 'andle explosives," remarked Bindle as he settled down to read an evening newspaper he had discovered in the letter box.
Bindle soon discovered that the life of a porter at residential flats is strangely lacking in repose. Everybody seemed either to want something sent up, or came to complain that their instructions had not been carried out.
The day passed with amazing rapidity. At eight o'clock Bindle stepped round to The Ancient Earl for a glass of beer. When he returned at nine-thirty he found his room in a state of siege.
"Oh, here he is!" said someone. Bindle smiled happily.
"Where the devil have you been?" demanded Number Seven angrily.
Bindle looked at him steadily. Having apparently established Number Seven's identity to his entire satisfaction, he spoke.
"Now look 'ere, sir, this is the second time to-day I've 'ad to speak to you about your language. This ain't a peace-meetin'. You speakin' like that before ladies too. I'm surprised at you, I am really. Now 'op it an' learn some nice words, an' then come back an' beg prettily, an' p'raps I'll give you a bit o' cake."
"You damned insolent fellow!" thundered Number Seven, "I'll report you, I'll – "
"Look 'ere," remarked Bindle tranquilly, "if you ain't gone by the time I've finished lightin' this pipe," – he struck a match deliberately, – "I'll 'oof it myself, an' then who'll fetch up all the coals in the mornin'?"
This master-stroke of strategy turned public opinion dead against Number Seven, who retired amidst a murmur of disapproving voices.
"It's 'ard if I can't go out to see a dyin' wife an' child, without 'im a-comin' usin' 'ot words like that," grumbled Bindle, as he proceeded to investigate the cases of the other tenants and their minions.
Number One was expecting a parcel. Had it arrived?
No, it had not, but Bindle would not rest until it did.
Number Twelve, a tall, melancholy-visaged man, had lost Fluffles. Where did Bindle think she was?
"P'raps she's taken up with another cove, sir," suggested Bindle sympathetically. "You never knows where you are with women."
The maid from Number Fifteen giggled.
Number Twelve explained in a weary tone that Fluffles was a Pekinese spaniel.
"A dog, you say, sir," cried Bindle, "why didn't you say so before? I might 'ave advertised for – well, well, I'll keep a look out."
"Wot's that?" he enquired of the maid from Number Eight. "No coal? Can't fetch coal up after six o'clock. That's the rules," he added with decision.
"But we must have some, we can't go to bed without coal," snapped the girl, an undersized, shrewish little creature.
"Well, Queenie," responded Bindle imperturbably, "you'll 'ave to take some firewood to bed with you, if you wants company; coal you don't get to-night. Wot about a log?"
"My name's not 'Queenie,'" snapped the girl.
"Ain't it now," remarked Bindle; "shows your father and mother 'adn't an eye for the right thing, don't it?"
"I tell you we must have coal," persisted the girl.
"Now look 'ere, Queenie, my dear, a gal as wants to take coal to bed with 'er ain't – well, she ain't respectable. Now orf you goes like a good gal."
"It's in case of raids, you saucy 'ound!" screeched "Queenie." "I'll get even with you yet, you red-nosed little bounder! I'll pay you!"
"Funny where they learns it all," remarked Bindle to Number Eleven, a quiet little old lady who wanted a postage stamp.
The little lady smiled.
"She won't be wantin' coal in the next world if she goes on like that, will she, mum?" said Bindle as he handed her the stamp.
"Her mistress has a weak heart," ventured Number Eleven, "and during the raids she shivers so – "
"Now ain't that jest like a woman, beggin' your pardon, mum. Why didn't Queenie say that instead of showin' 'ow bad she's been brought up? Right-o! I'll take her up some coal."
Ten minutes later Bindle surprised "Queenie" by appearing at the door of Number Eight with a pailful of coal. She stared at him in surprise. Bindle grinned.
"'Ere you are, Queenie," he said cheerfully. "Now you'll be able to go to sleep with a bit in each 'and, an' maybe there'll be a bit over to put in your mouth."
"Look 'ere, don't you go callin' me 'Queenie'; that ain't my name, so there," and the girl banged the door in his face.
"She'll grow up jest like Mrs. B.," murmured Bindle, as he slowly descended the stairs, "an' p'raps she can't even cook. I wonder if she's religious. Sort o' zoo this 'ere little 'ole. Shouldn't be surprised if things was to 'appen before Ole Charlie gets 'ome again!" and Bindle returned to his lodge, where, removing his boots and throwing off his coat, he lay down on the couch that served as a bed for the porter at Fulham Square Mansions.
During the next two days Bindle discovered that his duties were endless. Everybody seemed to want something, or have some complaint to make. He was expected to be always at his post, night and day, and if he were not, he was threatened with a possible complaint to the Secretary of the Company to which the flats belonged.
Bindle's fertile brain, however, was not long in devising a means of relieving the monotony without compromising "pore Ole Charlie." He sent home for his special constable's uniform, although he had obtained a fortnight's leave on account of his work. Henceforth, whenever he required relaxation, he donned his official garb, which he found a sure defence against all complaints.
"Well, Queenie," he remarked one evening to the maid at Number Eight, "I'm orf to catch the robbers wot might carry you away."
"I can see you catchin' a man," snorted the girl scornfully.
"Sorry I can't return the compliment, little love-bird," retorted Bindle. "S'long!"
"Queenie" had found her match.
II
"You – er – have a furnished – er – flat to let."
Bindle looked up from the paper he was reading.
A timid, mouse-like little man with side-whiskers and a deprecating manner stood on the threshold.
"Come in, sir," said Bindle heartily; "but I'm afraid it's let."
"But the board's up," replied the applicant.
Bindle rose, walked to the outer door, and there saw the notice-board announcing that a furnished-flat was to let.
"Funny me not noticin' that," he murmured to himself, as he returned to the porter's lodge.
"Was you wantin' it for long, sir?" he enquired.
"A month, I think," was the reply; "but three weeks – "
"I'm sorry, sir," began Bindle, then he smacked his leg with such suddenness that the stranger started back in alarm, his soft felt hat falling from his head and hanging behind him attached to a hat-guard.
"Now isn't that jest like me!" cried Bindle, his face wreathed in smiles.
The stranger eyed Bindle nervously, as he fumbled to retrieve his lost head-gear, looking like a dog endeavouring to ascertain if he still possessed a tail.