"Then why the corruption aren't you in your room?" bawled Number Seven.
Bindle slipped quickly out into the corridor to find Number Seven bristling with rage.
"Because Ole Damn an' 'Op it, I can't be in two places at once," he said.
Whilst Bindle was engaged with Number Seven, Mrs. Stiffson had once more galvanised herself to action. Still screaming and laughing by turn, she wheeled out of the flat with incredible rapidity and made towards the lift.
"Hi! stop 'er, stop 'er!" shouted Bindle, bolting after Mrs. Stiffson, followed by Number Seven.
"Police, police, murder, murder!" screamed Mrs. Stiffson. She reached the lift and, with an agility that would have been creditable in a young goat, slipped in and shut the gates with a clang. Just as Bindle arrived the lift began slowly to descend. In a fury of impatience, Mrs. Stiffson began banging at the buttons, with the result that the lift stopped halfway between the two floors.
Bindle and Number Seven shouted down instructions; but without avail. The lift had stuck fast. Mrs. Stiffson shrieked for help, shrieked for the police, and shrieked for vengeance.
"Damned old tiger-cat!" cried Number Seven. "Leave her where she is."
Bindle turned upon him a face radiating smiles.
"Them's the best words I've 'eard from you yet, sir"; and he walked upstairs to reassure the occupants of Number Six that fate and the lift had joined the Entente against Mrs. Stiffson.
It was four hours before Mrs. Stiffson was free; but Mr. Stiffson, his luggage, his thermos flask and Oscar had fled. Cissie Boye was at rehearsal and Bindle had donned his uniform. It was a chastened Mrs. Stiffson who wheeled out of the lift and enquired for her husband, and it was a stern and official Bindle who told her that Mr. Stiffson had gone, and warned her that any further attempt at disturbing the cloistral peace of Fulham Square Mansions would end in a prosecution for disorderly conduct.
And Mrs. Stiffson departed in search of her husband.
CHAPTER XI
THE CAMOUFLAGING OF MR. GUPPERDUCK
I
"Ah!" cried Bindle as he pushed open one of the swing doors of the public bar of The Yellow Ostrich. "I thought I should find my little sunflower 'ere," and he grasped the hand that Ginger did not extend to him. Demonstration was not Ginger's strong point.
The members of the informal club that used to meet each Friday night at The Scarlet Horse had become very uncertain in their attendance, and the consequent diminution in the consumption of liquor had caused the landlord to withdraw the concession of a private-room.
Bindle had accepted the situation philosophically; but Ruddy Bill had shown temper. In the public bar he had told the landlord what he thought of him, finishing up a really inspired piece of decorated rhetoric with "Yus, it's The Scarlet 'Orse all right; but there's a ruddy donkey behind the bar," and with that he had marched out.
From that date Bindle's leisure moments had been mostly spent in the bar of The Yellow Ostrich. It was here that Ginger, when free from his military duties, would seek Bindle and the two or three congenial spirits that gathered round him. Wilkes would cough, Huggles grin, and Ginger spit vindictive disapproval of everyone and everything, whilst "Ole Joe told the tale."
"There are times," remarked Bindle, when he had taken a long pull at his tankard, "when I feel I could almost thank Gawd for not bein' religious." He paused to light his pipe.
Ginger murmured something that might have been taken either as an interrogation or a protest.
"I jest been 'avin' a stroll on Putney 'Eath," continued Bindle, settling himself down comfortably in the corner of a bench. "I likes to give the gals a treat now an' then, and who d'you think I saw there?" He paused impressively, Ginger shook his head, Huggles grinned and Wilkes coughed, Wilkes was always coughing.
"Clever lot o' coves you are," said Bindle as he regarded the three. "Grand talkers, ain't you. Well, well! to get on with the story.
"There was a big crowd, makin' an 'ell of a row, they was, an' there in the middle was a cove talkin' an' wavin' 'is arms like flappers. So up I goes, thinkin' 'e was sellin' somethink to prove that you 'aven't got a liver, an' who should it turn out to be but my lodger, Ole Guppy."
"Wot was 'e doin'?" gasped Wilkes between two paroxysms.
"Well," continued Bindle, "at that particular moment I got up, 'e was talkin' about wot a fine lot o' chaps them 'Uns is, an' wot an awful lot of Aunt Maudies we was. Sort o' 'urt 'is feelin's, it did to know 'e was an Englishman when 'e might 'ave been an 'Un. 'E was jest a-sayin' somethink about Mr. Llewellyn John, when 'e' disappears sudden-like, and then there was a rare ole scrap.
"When the police got 'im out, Lord, 'e was a sight! Never thought ten minutes could change a cove so, and that, Ginger, all comes about through being a Christian and talkin' about peace to people wot don't want peace."
"We all want peace." Ginger stuck out his chin aggressively.
"Ginger!" there was reproach in Bindle's voice, "an' you a soldier too, I'm surprised at you!"
"I want this ruddy war to end," growled Ginger. "I don't 'old wiv war," he added as an after-thought.
"Now wot does it matter to you, Ging, whether you're a-carrin' a pack or a piano on your back?"
"Why don't they make peace?" burst out Ginger irrelevantly.
"Oh, Ginger, Ginger! when shall I teach you that the only way to stop a fight is to sit on the other cove's chest: an' we ain't sittin' on Germany's chest yet. Got it?"
"But they're willing to make peace," growled Ginger. "I don't 'old wiv 'angin' back."
"Now you jest listen to me. Why didn't you make peace last week with Pincher Nobbs instead o' fightin' 'im?"
"'E's a ruddy tyke, 'e is," snarled Ginger.
"Well," remarked Bindle, "you can call the Germans ruddy tykes. Pleasant way you got o' puttin' things, 'aven't you, Ging? No; ole son, this 'ere war ain't a-goin' to end till you got the V.C., that's wot we're 'oldin' out for."
"They could make peace if they liked," persisted Ginger.
"You won't get Llewellyn John to give in, Ging," said Bindle confidently. "'E's 'ot stuff, 'e is."
"Yus!" growled Ginger savagely. "All 'e's got to do is to stay at 'ome an' read about wot us chaps are doin' out there."
"Now ain't you a regular ole yellow-'eaded 'Uggins," remarked Bindle with conviction, as he gazed fixedly at Ginger, whose eyes shifted about restlessly. "Why, 'e's always at work, 'e is. Don't even 'ave 'is dinner-hour, 'e don't."
"Wot!" Ginger's incredulity gave expression to his features. "No dinner-hour?"
"No; nor breakfast-time neither," continued Bindle. "There's always a lot o' coves 'angin' round a-wantin' to talk about the war an' wot to do next. When 'e's shavin' Haig'll ring 'im up, 'im a-standin' with the lather on, makin' 'is chin 'itch."
Ginger banged down his pewter on the counter and ordered another.
"Then sometimes, when 'e's gettin' up in the mornin', George Five'll nip round for a jaw, and o' course kings can go anywhere, an' you mustn't keep 'em waitin'. So up 'e goes, an' there's L.J. a-talkin' to 'imself as 'e tries to get into 'is collar, an' George Five a-'elpin' to find 'is collar-stud when 'e drops it an' it rolls under the chest o' drawers."
Ginger continued to gaze at Bindle with surprise stamped on his freckled face.
"You got a kid's job to 'is, Ging," continued Bindle, warming to his subject. "If Llewellyn John 'ops round the corner for a drink an' to 'ave a look at the papers, they're after 'im in two ticks. Why 'e's 'ad to give up 'is 'ot bath on Saturday nights because 'e was always catchin' cold through nippin' out into the 'all to answer the telephone, 'im in only a smile an' 'is whiskers."
Ginger spat, indecision marking the act.
"Works like a blackleg, 'e does, an' all 'e gets is blackguardin'. No," added Bindle solemnly, "don't you never change jobs with 'im, Ging, it 'ud kill you, it would really."
"I don't 'old wiv war," grumbled Ginger, falling back upon his main line of defence. "Look at the price of beer!" He gazed moodily into the depths of his empty pewter.
"Funny cove you are, Ging," said Bindle pleasantly.
Ginger spat viciously, missing the spittoon by inches.
"There ain't no pleasin' you," continued Bindle, digging into the bowl of his pipe with a match stick. "You ain't willin' to die for your country, an' you don't seem to want to live for the twins."
"Wot's the use o' twins?" demanded Ginger savagely. "Now if they'd been goats – "
"Goats!" queried Bindle.
"Sell the milk," was Ginger's laconic explanation.
"They might 'ave been billy-goats," suggested Bindle.
Ginger swore.
"Well, well!" remarked Bindle, as he rose, "you ain't never goin' to be 'appy in this world, Ging, an' as to the next – who knows! Now I must be orf to tell Mrs. B. wot they been a-doin' to 'er lodger. S'long!"
And he went out whistling "I'd Never Kissed a Soldier Till the War."
II
"Where's Mr. Gupperduck?"
There was anxious alarm in Mrs. Bindle's interrogation.
"Well," responded Bindle, as he nodded to Mr. Hearty and waved his hand to Mrs. Hearty, "I can't rightly say. 'E may be 'appy with an 'arp in 'eaven, or 'e may be a-groanin' in an 'ospital with a poultice where 'is face ought to be. Where's Millikins?" he demanded, looking round.
"She's with her Aunt Rose," wheezed Mrs. Hearty.
"What has happened, Joseph?" faltered Mr. Hearty.
"Well, it ain't altogether easy to say," responded Bindle with aggravating deliberation. "It ought to 'ave been a peace-meetin', accordin' to plan; but some'ow or other things sort o' got mixed. I ain't seen a scrap like it since that little bust-up in the country when the lemonade went wrong."
Bindle paused and proceeded to refill his pipe, determined to keep Mr. Hearty and Mrs. Bindle on tenter-hooks.
"Where is he now?" demanded Mrs. Bindle.
"Can't say!" Bindle sucked at his pipe, holding a lighted match well down over the bowl. "I see 'im bein' taken orf on a stretcher, an' wot 'e was wearin' wouldn't 'ave made a bathin' suit for an 'Ottentot."
"Did they kill 'im, Joe?" wheezed Mrs. Hearty.
"You can't kill coves like Guppy, Martha," was Bindle's response. "'E's got more lives than a rate-collector."
"What happened, Joseph?" said Mr. Hearty. "I had meant to go to that meeting myself." Mr. Hearty made the statement as if Providence had interposed with the deliberate object of saving his life.
"Lucky for you, 'Earty, that you didn't," remarked Bindle significantly. "You ain't no good at scrappin'. Well, I'll tell you wot 'appened. Guppy seems to 'ave said a little too much about the 'Uns, an' wot fine fellers they was, an' it sort o' give them people wot was listenin' the pip, so they goes for Guppy."
"The cowards!" Mrs. Bindle snapped out the words venomously.
"You got to remember, Lizzie," said Bindle with unwonted seriousness, "that a lot o' those people 'ad lost them wot they was fond of through this 'ere war, an' they wasn't keen to 'ear that the 'Un is a sort o' picture-postcard, with a dove a-sittin' on 'is 'elmet."
"What did you do?" demanded Mrs. Bindle aggressively.
"Well, I jest looked on," said Bindle calmly. "I've warned Guppy more'n once that 'e'd lose 'is tail-feathers if 'e wasn't careful; but 'e was that self-willed, 'e was. You can't throw 'Un-wash over crowds in this 'ere country without runnin' risks." Bindle spoke with conviction.
"But it's a free country, Joseph," protested Mr. Hearty rather weakly.
"Oh! 'Earty, 'Earty!" said Bindle, wagging his head despondently. "When will you learn that no one ain't free to say to a cove things wot make 'im wild, leastwise without bein' ready to put 'is 'ands up."
"But weren't any of his friends there?" enquired Mrs. Bindle.
"I see two of 'em," said Bindle with a reminiscent grin. "They caught Ole Cap-an'-Whiskers jest as 'e was shinnin' up a tree – rare cove for trees 'e seems. 'Auled 'im down they did. Then 'e swore 'e'd never seen ole Guppy in all 'is puff, cried about it, 'e did."
"Peter!" muttered Mrs. Bindle.
"That 'is name?" enquired Bindle. "Any'ow it didn't 'elp 'im, for they pulled 'is whiskers out and dipped 'im in the pond, an' when last I see 'im 'e was wearin' jest a big bruise, a soft collar an' such bits of 'is trousers as the boys didn't seem to want. Made me blush it did."
"Serve him right!" cried Mrs. Bindle.
Bindle looked at her curiously. "Thought you was sort o' pals with 'im," he remarked.
"He was a traitor, a Peter betraying his master." Bindle looked puzzled, Mr. Hearty nodded his head in approval.
"Was Mr. Wayskin there?" asked Mrs. Bindle.
"The little chap with the glasses an' a beard too big for 'im, wot goes about with Ole Cap-an'-Whiskers?"
Mrs. Bindle nodded.
"Well, 'e got orf, trousers an' all," said Bindle with a grin. "Nippy little cove 'e was," he added.
"Oh, the brutes!" exclaimed Mrs. Bindle. "The cowards!"
"Well," remarked Bindle, "it all come about through 'im tryin' to give 'em treacle when they wanted curry."
"Perhaps he's gone home!" Mrs. Bindle half rose as the thought struck her.
"Who, Guppy?" interrogated Bindle.
"Yes, Mr. Gupperduck," said Mrs. Bindle eagerly.
"Guppy ain't never comin' back to my place," Bindle announced with decision.
"Where's he to sleep then?" demanded Mrs. Bindle.
"Well," remarked Bindle judicially, "by wot I last see of 'im, 'e ain't goin' to sleep much anywhere for some time"; and he again launched into a harrowing description of Mr. Gupperduck's plight when the police rescued him from the crowd.
"I'll nurse him!" announced Mrs. Bindle with the air of a Martha.
"You won't do no such thing, Mrs. B."
Even Mrs. Hearty looked at Bindle, arrested by the unwonted determination in his voice. "You jest remember this, Mrs. B.," continued Bindle, "if ever I catches Mr. Josiah Gupperduck, or any other cove wot loves Germans as if they was 'ymns or beer, round my place, things'll 'appen. Wot they done to 'im on the 'Eath won't be nothink to wot I'll do to 'im in Fenton Street."
"You're a brute, Bindle!" was Mrs. Bindle's comment.
"That may be; but you jest get 'is duds packed up, includin' Wheezy Willie, an' give 'em to 'im when 'e calls. I ain't goin' to 'ave no German spies round my back-yard. I ain't got no money to put in tanks," Bindle added, "but I still got a fist to knock down a cove wot talks about peace." Bindle rose and yawned. "Now I'm orf. Comin', Mrs. B.?" he enquired.
"No, I'm not. I want to talk to Mr. Hearty," said Mrs. Bindle angrily.
"Well, s'long, all!" and Bindle went out, leaving Mrs. Bindle and Mr. Hearty to mourn over the fallen Hector.
A minute later the door half opened and Bindle thrust his head round the corner. "Don't forget, Mrs. B.," he said with a grin, "if I see Guppy in Fenton Street, I'll camelflage 'im, I will;" and with that he was gone.
"I suppose," he remarked meditatively as he walked across Putney Bridge, "wot 'appened to-night is wot Guppy 'ud call 'the peace wot passes all understandin'.'"
CHAPTER XII
THE TRAGEDY OF GIUSEPPI ANTONIO TOLMENICINO
"'Ullo, Scratcher!" cried Bindle as the swing doors of The Yellow Ostrich were pushed open, giving entrance to a small lantern-jawed man, with fishy eyes and a chin obviously intended for a face three sizes larger. "Fancy meetin' you! Wot 'ave you been doin'?"
Bindle was engaged in fetching the Sunday dinner-beer according to the time-honoured custom.
Scratcher looked moodily at the barman, ordered a glass of beer and turned to Bindle.
"I changed my job," he remarked mysteriously.
"Wot jer doin'?" enquired Bindle, intimating to the barman by a nod that his pewter was to be refilled.
"Waiter," responded Scratcher.
"Waiter!" cried Bindle, regarding him with astonishment.
"Yus; at Napolini's in Regent Street;" and Scratcher replaced his glass upon the counter and, with a dexterous upward blow, scattered to the winds the froth that bedewed his upper lip.
"Well, I'm blowed!" said Bindle, finding solace in his refilled tankard. "But don't you 'ave to be a foreigner to be a waiter? Don't you 'ave to speak through your nose or somethink?"
"Noooo!" In Scratcher's voice was the contempt of superior knowledge. "Them furriners 'ave all gone to the war, or most of 'em," he added, "an' so we get a look-in."
"Wot d'you do?" enquired Bindle.
"Oh! we jest take orders, an' serves the grub, an' makes out the bills, an' gets tips. I made four pound last week, all but twelve shillings," he added.
"Well, I'm blowed!" said Bindle.
"Then," proceeded Scratcher, warming to his subject, "they often leaves somethin' in the bottles. Last night Ole Grandpa got so squiffy, 'e cried about 'is mother, 'e did."
"An' didn't it cost 'im anything?" enquired Ginger, who had been an interested listener.
"Not a copper," said Scratcher impressively, "not a brass farden."
"I wish this ruddy war was over," growled Ginger. "Four pound a week, and a free drunk. Blast the war! I say, I don't 'old wiv killin'."
"Then," continued Scratcher, "you can always get a bellyful. There's – "
"'Old 'ard, Scratcher," interrupted Bindle. "Wot place is it you're talkin' about?"
"Napolini's," replied Scratcher, looking at Bindle reproachfully.
"Go on, ole sport; it's all right," said Bindle resignedly. "I thought you might 'ave got mixed up with 'eaven."
"When you takes a stoo," continued Scratcher, "you can always pick out a bit o' meat with your fingers – if it ain't too 'ot," he added, as if not wishing to exaggerate. "An' when it's whitebait, you can pinch some when no one's lookin'. As for potatoes, you can 'ave all you can eat, and soup, – well, it's there."
Scratcher's tone implied that Napolini's was literally running with soup and potatoes.
"Don't go on, Scratcher," said Bindle mournfully; "see wot you're a-doin' to pore Ole Ging."
"Then there's macaroni," continued Scratcher relentlessly, "them bein' I-talians. Long strings o' white stuff, there ain't much taste; but it fills up." Scratcher paused, then added reflectively, "You got to be careful wi' macaroni, or it'll get down your collar; it's that slippery."
"I suppose ole Nap ain't wantin' anyone to 'elp mop up all them things?" enquired Bindle wistfully.
Scratcher looked at Bindle interrogatingly.
"D'you think you could find your ole pal a job at Nap's?" enquired Bindle.
"You come down to-morrow mornin' about eleven," said Scratcher with the air of one conferring a great favour. "Three of our chaps was sacked a-Saturday for fightin'."
"Well, I must be movin'," said Bindle, as he picked up the blue and white jug with the crimson butterfly. "You'll see me round at Nap's at eleven to-morrow, Scratcher, as empty as a drum;" and with a "s'long," Bindle passed out of The Yellow Ostrich.
"Nice time you've kept me waiting!" snapped Mrs. Bindle, as Bindle entered the kitchen.
"Sorry!" was Bindle's reply as he hung up his hat behind the kitchen-door.
"Another time I shan't wait," remarked Mrs. Bindle, as she banged a vegetable dish on the table.
Bindle became busily engaged upon roast shoulder of mutton, greens and potatoes.
After some time he remarked, "I been after a job."
"You lorst your job again, then?" cried Mrs. Bindle in accusing tones. "Somethin' told me you had."
"Well, I ain't," retorted Bindle; "but I 'eard o' somethink better, so on Monday I'm orf after a job wot'll be better'n 'Earty's 'eaven."
Bindle declined further to satisfy Mrs. Bindle's curiosity.
"You wait an' see, Mrs. B., you jest wait an' see."
II
On the following morning Bindle was duly enrolled as a waiter at Napolini's. He soon discovered that, whatever the privileges and perquisites of the fully-experienced waiter, the part of the novice was one of thorns rather than of roses. He was attached as assistant to a diminutive Italian, with a fierce upward-brushed moustache. Bindle had not been three minutes under his direction before he precipitated a crisis that almost ended in open warfare.
"Wot's your name, ole son?" he enquired. "Mine's Bindle – Joseph Bindle."
"Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino," replied the Italian with astonishing rapidity.
"Is it really?" remarked Bindle, examining his chief with interest, as he proceeded deftly to lay a table. "Sounds like a machine-gun, don't it?" Then after a pause he remarked quite innocently, "Look 'ere, ole sport, I'll call you Kayser."
In a flash Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino turned upon Bindle, his moustache bristling like the spines of a wild-boar, and from his lips poured a passionate stream of Southern invective.
Unable to understand a word of the burning phrases of reproach that eddied and flowed about him, Bindle merely stared. There was a patter of feet from all parts of the long dining-room, and soon he was the centre of an angry crowd of excited gesticulating waiters, with Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino screaming his fury in the centre.
"Hi!" called Bindle to Scratcher, who appeared through the service-door, just as matters seemed about to break into open violence. "'Ere! Scratcher, wot's up? Call 'im orf."
"Wot did you call 'im, Joe?" enquired Scratcher, pushing his way through the crowd.
"I asked 'is name, an' then 'e went off like the 'mad minute,' so I said I'd call 'im 'Kayser,' because of 'is whiskers."
At the repetition of the obnoxious word, Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino shook his fist in Bindle's face, and screamed more hysterically than ever. He was white to the lips, at the corners of his mouth two little points of white foam had collected, and his eyes blinked with the rapidity of a cinematograph film.
With the aid of three other waiters, Scratcher succeeded in restoring peace. Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino's fortissimo reproaches were reduced to piano murmurs by the explanation that Bindle meant no harm, added to which Bindle apologised.
"Look 'ere," he said, genuinely regretful at the effect of his remark, "'ow was I to know that you was that sensitive, you lookin' so fierce too."
The arrival of one of the superintendents put an end to the dispute; but it was obvious that Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino nourished in his heart a deep resentment against Bindle for his unintentioned insult.
"Fancy 'im takin' on like that," muttered Bindle, as he strove to adjust a white tablecloth so that it hung in equal folds on all sides of the table. "Funny things foreigners, as 'uffy as birds, they are." Turning to Scratcher, who was passing at the moment, he enquired, "Wot the 'ell am I a-goin' to call 'im?"
"Call who?" enquired Scratcher, his mouth full of something.
Bindle looked about warily. "Ole Kayser," he whispered. "'E's that sensitive. Explodes if you looks at 'im, 'e does."
Scratcher worked hard to reduce the contents of his mouth to conversational proportions.
"I can't never remember 'is name," continued Bindle. "Went off like a rattle it did."
"Don't know 'is name myself," said Scratcher after a gigantic swallow. "'E's new."
"Wouldn't 'elp you much, ole son, if you did know it," said Bindle with conviction. "Seemed to me like a patent gargle. Never 'eard anythink like it."
"'Ere!" said Bindle to Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino, who was darting past on his way to another table. The Italian paused, hatred smouldering in his dark eyes.
"I can't remember that name o' yours, ole sport," said Bindle. "Sorry, but I ain't a gramophone. Wot 'ave I got to call you?"
"Call me sair," replied Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino with dignity.
"Call you wot?" cried Bindle indignantly. "Call you wot?"
"Call me sair," repeated the Italian.
"Me call a foreigner 'sir!'" cried Bindle. "Now ain't you the funniest ole 'Uggins."
Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino cast upon Bindle a look of consuming hatred.
"Look 'ere," remarked Bindle cheerfully, "if you goes about a-lookin' like that, you'll spoil the good impression them whiskers make."
Murder flashed in the eyes of the Italian, as he ground out a paralysing oath in his own tongue.
"There's a-goin' to be trouble between me an' ole 'Okey-Pokey. Pleasant sort o' cove to 'ave about the 'ouse."
Customers began to drift in, and soon Bindle was kept busy fetching and carrying for Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino, who by every means in his power strove to give expression to the hatred of Bindle that was burning in his soul.
At the end of the first day, – it was in reality the early hours of the next morning, – as Bindle with Scratcher walked from Napolini's to the Tube, he remarked, "Well, I ain't 'ungry, though I could drink a deal more; still I says nothink about that; but as for tips, well, ole 'Okey-Pokey's pocketed every bloomin' penny. When I asked him to divvy up fair, 'e started that machine-gun in 'is tummy, rolled 'is eyes, an' seemed to be tryin' to tell me wot a great likin' 'e'd taken to me. One o' these days somethink's goin' to 'appen to 'im," added Bindle prophetically. "'E ain't no sport, any'ow."
"Wot's 'e done?" enquired Scratcher.
"I offered to fight 'im for the tips, an' all 'e did was to turn on 'is rattle;" and Bindle winked at the girl-conductor, who clanged the train-gates behind him.
For nearly a week Bindle continued to work thirteen hours a day, satisfying the hunger of others and quenching alien thirsts. Thanks to judicious hints from Scratcher, at the same time he found means of ministering to his own requirements. He tasted new and strange foods; but of all his discoveries in the realm of dietetics, curried prawns held pride of place. More than one customer looked anxiously into the dark brown liquid, curious as to what had become of the blunt-pointed crescents; but, disliking the fuss attending complaint, he ascribed the reduction in their number to the activities of the Food Controller.
When, as occasionally happened in the absence of his chief, Bindle came into direct contact with a customer and received an order, he invariably found himself utterly at a loss.
"Bouillabaisse de Marseilles, pommes sautées," called out one customer. Bindle, who was hurrying past, came to a dead stop and regarded him with interest.
"D'you mind sayin' that again, sir," he remarked.
"Bouillabaisse de Marseilles, pommes sautées," repeated the customer.
"Well, I'm blowed!" was Bindle's comment.
The customer stared, but before he had time to reply Bindle was unceremoniously pushed aside by Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino, who, pad in hand, bent over the customer with servile intentness.
"Wot did 'e mean? Was 'e tellin' me 'is name?" enquired Bindle of a lath-like youth, with frizzy hair and a face incapable of expressing anything beyond a meaningless grin. It was Scratcher, however, who told the puzzled Bindle that the customer had been ordering lunch and not divulging his identity.
"Bullybase de Marsales pumsortay is things to eat, Joe," he explained; "you got to learn the mane-yu."
"Well, I'm blowed!" was Bindle's sole comment. "Fancy people eatin' things with names like that." He followed Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino towards the "service" regions in response to an imperious motion of his dark, well-greased head.
When Bindle returned to the dining-room, after listening to the unintelligible rebukes of his immediate superior, he found himself beckoned to the side of the customer whose wants he had found himself unable to comprehend.
"New to this job?" he enquired.
"You've 'it it, sir," was Bindle's reply. "New as new. I'm in the furniture-movin' line myself; but Scratcher told me this 'ere was a soft job, an' so I took it on. 'E didn't happen to mention 'Okey-Pokey 'owever."
"Hokey-Pokey!" interrogated the guest.
"That chap with 'is whiskers growin' up 'is nose," explained Bindle. "All prickles 'e is. Can't say anythink without 'urtin' 'is feelin's. Never come across such a cove."
Later, when the customer left, it was to Bindle and not to Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino that he gave his tip. This precipitated a crisis. Once out of the dining-room the Italian demanded of Bindle the money.
"You shall 'ave 'alf, ole son," said Bindle magnanimously. "if you forks out 'alf of wot you've 'ad given you, see?" Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino did not see. His eyes snapped, his moustache bristled, his sallow features took on a shade of grey and, discarding English, he launched into a torrent of words in his own tongue.
Bindle stood regarding his antagonist much as he would a juggler, or quick-change artist. His good-humoured calm seemed to goad Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino to madness. With a sudden movement he seized a bottle from another waiter and, brandishing it above his head, rushed at Bindle.
Bindle stepped swiftly aside; but in doing so managed to place his right foot across Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino's path. The Italian lurched forward, bringing down the bottle with paralysing force upon the shoulder of another waiter, who, heavily laden, was making towards the dining-room.
The assaulted waiter screamed, Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino rolled on the floor, and the assaulted waiter's burden fell with a crash on top of him. The man who had been struck hopped about the room holding his shoulder, his shirt-front dyed a deep red with the wine that had flowed over it.
"Never see such a mess in all my puff," said Bindle in describing the scene afterwards. "Pore ole 'Okey-Pokey comes down on 'is back and a lot o' tomato soup falls on 'is 'ead. Then a dish o' whitebait gets on top of that, so 'e 'as soup and fish any'ow. Funny thing to see them little fishes sticking out o' the red soup. 'E got an 'erring down 'is collar, and a dish of macaroni in 'is ear, an' all 'is clothes was covered with different things. An 'ole bloomin' mane-yu, 'e was. 'Oly Angels! but 'e was a sight."
For a moment Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino lay inert, then he slowly sat up and looked about him, mechanically picking whitebait out of his hair, and removing a crème caramel from the inside of his waistcoat.
Suddenly his eyes lighted on Bindle.
In an instant he was on his feet and, with head down and arms waving like flails, he rushed at his enemy.
At that moment the door leading into the dining-room was opened and, attracted by the hubbub, Mr. James Smith, who before the war had been known as Herr Siegesmann, the chief superintendent, entered. He was a heavy man of ponderous proportions, with Dundreary whiskers and a pompous manner. His entrance brought him directly into the line of Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino's attack. Before he could take in the situation, the Italian's head, covered with tomato soup and bristling with whitebait, caught him full in the centre of his person, and he went down with a sobbing grunt, the Italian on top of him.