Adventures of Bindle

Mrs. Bindle was silent, her manner was distraite, she was listening for the sound of Mr. Gupperduck's return.

"I'd give my sugar ration to know wot we're all a-goin' to do in 'eaven," remarked Bindle meditatively. "Fancy 'Earty there! Wot will 'e do? They won't let 'im sell vegetables, and they'll soon stop 'im singing."

"We shall all have our occupations," remarked Mrs. Bindle oracularly.

"Yes, but wot?" demanded Bindle. "There ain't no furniture to move an' no vegetables to sell. All I can do is to watch 'Earty, an' see 'e don't go round pinchin' angels' meat-tickets."

For once Mrs. Bindle allowed a remark to pass without the inevitable accusation of blasphemy!

"No," remarked Bindle, "if I dies an' they sends me up to 'eaven, I shall knock at the door, an' I shall say, 'Is 'Earty 'ere? 'Earty the Fulham and Putney greengrocer, you know.' If they says 'Yes,' then it's a smoker for me;" and Bindle proceeded to re-charge his pipe. "I often thought – "

Bindle was interrupted by a loud knocking at the outer door. With a swift movement Mrs. Bindle rose and passed out of the kitchen. Bindle listened. There was a sound of men's voices in the outer passage, with the short, sharper tones of Mrs. Bindle. A moment later the door opened, and two men entered supporting the limp form of Mr. Gupperduck.

"'Oly angels!" cried Bindle, starting up. "'Oly angels! someone's been a-tryin' to alter 'im." He bent forward to get a better view. "Done it pretty well, too," he muttered as he gazed at the unprepossessing features of Mr. Gupperduck, now accentuated by a black eye, a broken lip, a contusion on the right cheek-bone, and one ear covered with blood. His collar had disappeared, also his hat and spectacles, his waist-coat was torn open, and various portions were missing from his coat.

"Wot's 'e been doin'?" enquired Bindle of a weedy-looking man with long hair, a sandy pointed beard, and a cloth cap, three sizes too large for him, which rested on the tops of his ears. "Wot's 'e been up to?"

"He's been addressing a meeting," replied the man in a mournful voice.

Bindle turned once more to Mr. Gupperduck and examined him closely.

"Looks as if the meetin's been addressin' 'im, don't it?" he remarked.

"It was not a very successful meeting," remarked the other supporter of Mr. Gupperduck, a very little man with a very long beard. "It wasn't a very successful meeting," he repeated with conviction.

"Well, I never seen a meetin' make such alterations in a man in all my puff," remarked Bindle.

Mrs. Bindle had busied herself in preparing a basin of hot water with which to wash the mud and blood from the victim's pallid face. With closed eyes Mr. Gupperduck continued to breathe heavily.

Bindle with practical samaritanism went into the parlour and returned with a half-quartern bottle. Pouring some of the contents into a glass he held it to Mr. Gupperduck's lips. Without the least resistance the liquid was swallowed.

"Took that down pretty clean," said Bindle, looking up at the man with the sandy beard.

"Don't do that!" cried Mrs. Bindle, turning suddenly, her nostrils detecting the smell of alcohol.

"Do what?" enquired Bindle from where he knelt beside the damaged Mr. Gupperduck.

"Give him that," said Mrs. Bindle, "he's temperance."

"Well, 'e ain't now," remarked Bindle with calm conviction.

"Oh, you villain!" The vindictiveness of Mrs. Bindle's tone caused the three listeners to look up, and even Mr. Gupperduck's eyelids, after a preliminary flutter, raised themselves, as he gazed about him wonderingly.

"Where am I?" he moaned.

"You're all right," said Mrs. Bindle, taking Bindle's place by Mr. Gupperduck's side. "You're safe now."

Mr. Gupperduck closed his eyes again, and Mrs. Bindle proceeded to wipe his face with a piece of flannel dipped in water.

"Pore ole Guppy!" murmured Bindle. "They done it in style any'ow. I wonder wot 'e's been up to. Must 'ave been sayin' things wot they didn't like. Wot was 'e talkin' about, ole sport?"

Bindle turned to the man with the sandy beard, who was sitting on a chair leaning forward with one hand on each knee, much as if he were watching a cock-fight.

"It was a Peace meeting," replied the man mournfully.

Bindle gave vent to a prolonged whistle of understanding.

"Oh, Guppy, Guppy!" he cried. "Why couldn't you 'ave kept to the next world, without getting mixed up with this?"

"It was wounded soldiers," volunteered the man with the sandy beard.

"Wounded soldiers!" exclaimed Bindle.

"Yes," continued the man mournfully; "he appealed to them, as sufferers under this terrible armageddon, to pass a resolution condemning the continuance of the war, and – and – "

"They passed their resolution on 'is face," suggested Bindle.

The man nodded. "It was terrible," he said, "terrible; we were afraid they would kill him."

"And where was you while all this was 'appenin'?"

"Oh!" said the man, "I was fortunate enough to find a tree."

Bindle looked him up and down with elaborate intentness, then having satisfied himself as to every detail of his appearance and apparel, he remarked:

"Ain't it wonderful wot luck some coves do 'ave!"

"I regard it as the direct interposition of Providence," said the man.

"And I suppose you shinned up that tree like giddy-o?" suggested Bindle.

"Yes," said the man, "I was brought up in the country."

"Was you now?" said Bindle. "Well, it was lucky for you, wasn't it?"

"The hand of God," was the reply; "clearly the hand of God."

"Sort o' boosted you up the tree from behind, so as when they'd all gone you could come down and pick up wot was left of 'im. That it?" enquired Bindle.

"That is exactly what happened, my friend," replied the man with the sandy beard.

"An' where did all this 'appen?" asked Bindle.

"It took place in Hyde Park," replied the man. "A very rough meeting, an extremely rough meeting, and he was speaking so well, so convincingly," he added.

Bindle looked at the man curiously to see if he were really serious; but there was no vestige of a smile upon his face.

"It's wonderful wot a man can do with a crowd," remarked Bindle oracularly; "but," turning to the inert figure of Mr. Gupperduck, "it's still more wonderful wot a crowd can do with a man."

"Bindle!" Mrs. Bindle's voice rang out authoritatively.

"'Ere am I," replied Bindle obediently.

"Help us lift Mr. Gupperduck on a chair."

With elaborate care they raised the inert form of Mr. Gupperduck on to a chair. His arms fell down limply beside him. Once he opened his eyes, and looked round the room, then, sighing as if in thankfulness at being amongst friends, he closed them again.

"'The Lord hath given me rest from mine enemies,'" he quoted.

Mrs. Bindle and the two friends regarded Mr. Gupperduck admiringly.

Seeing that their friend and brother was now in safe hands, Mr. Gupperduck's two supporters prepared to withdraw. Mrs. Bindle pressed them to have something to eat; but this they refused.

"Now ain't women funny," muttered Bindle, as Mrs. Bindle left the room to show her visitors to the door. "She was jest complaining that she could only get two candles and a quarter of a pound of marjarine, and yet she wants them two coves to stay to supper, 'ungry-lookin' pair they was too. I s'pose it's wot she calls 'ospitality," he added; "seems to me damn silly."

Like a hen fussing over a damaged chick, Mrs. Bindle ministered to the requirements of Mr. Gupperduck. She fed him with a spoon, crooned over and sympathised with him in his misfortune, whilst in her heart there was a great anger against those who had raised their hands against so godly a man.

When he had eventually been half-led, half-carried upstairs by Bindle, and Bindle himself had returned to the kitchen, Mrs. Bindle expressed her unambiguous opinion of a country that permitted such an outrage. She likened Mr. Gupperduck to those in the Scriptures who had been stoned by the multitude. She indicated that in the next world there would be a terrible retribution upon those who were responsible for the assault upon Mr. Gupperduck. She attacked the Coalition Government for not providing a more effective police force.

"But," protested Bindle at length, "'e was askin' for it. Why can't 'e keep 'is opinions to 'imself, and not go a-shovin' 'em down other people's throats when they don't like the taste of 'em? If you go tryin' to shove tripe down the throat of a cove wot don't like tripe, you're sure to get one in the eye, that is if 'e's bigger'n wot you are; if 'e's smaller 'e'll jest be sick. Yet 'ere are you a-complainin' because Guppy gets 'imself 'urt. I don't understand – "

"Because you haven't got a soul," interrupted Mrs. Bindle with conviction.

"Well," remarked Bindle philosophically, "I'd sooner 'ave a flea than a soul, there is flea-powder but there ain't no soul-powder wot I've been able to find."

And Bindle rose, yawned and made towards the door.

CHAPTER VII

THE COURTING OF THE REV. ANDREW MACFIE

Mr. Hearty had never reconciled himself to the understanding that existed between his daughter Millie and Charlie Dixon. He resented Bindle's share in the romance, still more he resented the spirit of independence that it had developed in Millie. He had, however, been forced to bow to the storm. Everyone was against him, and Millie herself had left home, refusing to return until he had apologised to her for the most unseemly suggestion he had made as to her relations with Charlie Dixon.

Sergeant Charles Dixon, of the 110th Service Battalion, London Regiment, had gone to the front, and Millie, sad-eyed, but grave, looked forward to the time when he would return, a V.C.

"Well, Millikins!" Bindle would cry, "'ow's 'is Nibs?" and Millie would blush and tell of the latest news she had received from her lover.

"Uncle Joe," she would say, "I couldn't stand it but for you," and there would be that in her voice which would cause Bindle to turn his head aside and admonish himself as "an ole fool."

"It's all right, Millikins," Bindle would say, "Charlie's goin' to win the war, an' we're all goin' to be proud of 'im," and Millie would smile at her uncle with moist eyes, and give that affectionate squeeze to his arm that Bindle would not have parted with for the rubies of Ind.

"You know, Uncle Joe," she said bravely on one occasion, "we women have to give up those we love."

Bindle had not seen the plaintive humour of her remark; but had suddenly become noisily engrossed in the use of his handkerchief.

Mr. Hearty was almost cordial to Charlie Dixon on the eve of his going to France. Once this young man could be removed from Millie's path, the way would be clear for a match such as he had in mind. He did not know exactly what sort of man he desired for his daughter; but he was very definite as to the position in the world that his future son-in-law must occupy. He would have preferred someone who had made his mark. Men of more mature years, he had noticed, were frequently favourably disposed towards young girls as wives, and Mr. Hearty was determined that he would be proud of his son-in-law, that is to say, his son-in-law was to be a man of whom anyone might feel proud.

It would not behove a Christian such as Mr. Hearty to wish a fellow-being dead; but he could not disguise from himself the fact that our casualties on the Western Front were heavy, particularly during the period of offensives. Since the occasion when Millie had asserted her independence, and had declined to order her affections in accordance with Mr. Hearty's wishes, there had been something of an armed neutrality existing between father and daughter. In this she had been supported, not only by Bindle and Mrs. Hearty, but, by a strange freak of fate, to a certain extent, by Mrs. Bindle herself.

Mr. Hearty had never quite understood how it was that his sister-in-law had turned against him. She had said nothing whatever as to where her sympathies lay; but Mr. Hearty instinctively felt that she had ranged herself on the side of the enemy.

But the fates were playing for Mr. Hearty.

When the Rev. Mr. Sopley, of the Alton Road Chapel, had decided to retire on account of failing health, Lady Knob-Kerrick determined to bring up from Barton Bridge, her country residence, the Rev. Andrew MacFie. She had forgiven him his participation in the Temperance Fête fiasco, accepting his explanation that he had been drugged by the disciples of the devil, a view that would have been entirely endorsed by Mrs. Bindle, had she known that Bindle was responsible for the mixing of alcohol with the lemonade.

The Barton Bridge Temperance Fête fiasco had proved the greatest sensation that the county had ever known. The mixing of crude alcohol and distilled mead with the lemonade, whereby the participants in the rustic fête had been intoxicated, thus causing it to develop into a wild orgy of violence, resulting in assaults upon Lady Knob-Kerrick and the police, had been a nine days' wonder. A number of arrests had been made; but when the true facts came to the knowledge of the police, the prisoners had been quietly released, and officially nothing more was heard of the affair.

It was a long time before Lady Knob-Kerrick could be persuaded to see in the Rev. Andrew MacFie, the minister of her chapel, an innocent victim of a deep-laid plot. It was he who had seized the hose that washed her out of her carriage, it was he who had led the assault on the police, it was he who had said things that had been the common talk of all the public-house bars for miles round.

After Mr. MacFie's eloquent sermon upon the Gadarene swine, Lady Knob-Kerrick had eventually come round, and a peace had been patched up between them. From that day it required more courage to whisper the words "Temperance Fête" in Barton Bridge, than to charge across "No Man's Land" in France.

And so it was that the Rev. Andrew MacFie transferred his activities from Barton Bridge to Fulham. He was grateful to Providence for this sign of beneficent approval of his labours, and relieved to know that Barton Bridge would in the future be but a memory. There he had made history, for in the bars of The Two-Faced Earl and The Blue Fox the unbeliever drinks with gusto and a wink of superior knowledge a beverage known as a "lemon-and-a-mac," a compound of lemonade and gin, which owes its origin to the part played in the historic temperance fête by the Rev. Andrew MacFie.

One evening, shortly after the departure of Charlie Dixon, Mrs. Bindle was busily engaged in laying the table for supper. Mrs. Bindle's kitchen was a model of what a kitchen should be. Everything was clean, orderly, neat. The utensils over the mantelpiece shone like miniature moons, the oil-cloth was spotless, the dresser scrubbed to a whiteness almost incredible in London, the saucepans almost as clean outside as in, the rug before the stove neatly pinned down at the corners. It was obviously the kitchen of a woman to whom cleanliness and order were fetiches. As Bindle had once remarked, "There's only one spot in my missis' kitchen, and that's when I'm there."

As she proceeded with her work she hummed her favourite hymn; it rose and fell, sometimes dying away altogether. She banged the various articles on the table as if to emphasise her thoughts. Her task completed, she went to the sink. As she was washing her hands there was a knock at the kitchen door. Taking no notice she proceeded to dry her hands. The knock was repeated.

"Oh, don't stand there playing the fool, Bindle!" she snapped. "I haven't time to – "

The door opened slowly and admitted the tall, lanky form of the Rev. Andrew MacFie.

"It's me, Mrs. Beendle," he said, as he entered the room. "The outer door was open, so I joost cam in."

"Oh! I'm sorry, sir," said Mrs. Bindle, "I thought it was Bindle."

Her whole manner underwent a change; her uncompromising attitude of disapproval giving place to one of almost servile anxiety to make a good impression. She hurriedly removed and folded her apron, slipping it into the dresser-drawer.

"Won't you come into the parlour, sir?" she said. "It's very kind of you to call."

"Na, na, Mrs. Beendle," replied Mr. MacFie. "I joost cam in to – to – " He hesitated.

"But won't you sit down, sir?" Mrs. Bindle indicated a chair by the side of the table.

Mr. MacFie drew the chair towards him, sitting bolt upright, holding his soft felt hat upon his knees.

Mrs. Bindle drew another chair from under the opposite side of the table and seated herself primly upon it. With folded hands she waited for the minister to speak.

Mr. MacFie was obviously ill at ease.

"Ye'll be comin' to the sairvice, the nicht, Mrs. Beendle?" he began.

"Oh, yes, sir," responded Mrs. Bindle, moving her head back on her shoulders, depressing her chin and drawing in her lips with a simper. "I wouldn't miss your address."

"Aye!" said Mr. MacFie, gazing into vacancy as if in search of inspiration. Finding none, he repeated "Aye!"

Mr. MacFie's expression was one of persistent gloom. No smile was ever permitted to wanton across his sandy features. After a few moments' silence he made another effort.

"I'm sair consairned, Mrs. Beendle – " He stopped, wordless.

"Yes, sir," responded Mrs. Bindle encouragingly.

"I'm sair consairned no to see the wee lassie more at the kirk."

"Who, sir, Millie?" queried Mrs. Bindle in surprise.

"Aye!" responded Mr. MacFie. "The call of mammon is like the blairst of a great trumpet, and to the unbelieving it is as sweet music. It is the call of Satan, Mrs. Beendle, the call of Satan," he repeated, as if pleased with the phrase. "I'd na like the wee lassie to – to – "

"I'll speak to Mr. Hearty, sir," said Mrs. Bindle, compressing her lips. "It's very good of you, sir, I'm sure, to – "

"Na, na," interrupted Mr. MacFie hastily, "na, na, Mrs. Beendle, ma duty. It is the blessed duty of the shepherd to be consairned for the welfare – "

He stopped suddenly. The outer door had banged, and there was the sound of steps coming along the passage. Bindle's voice was heard singing cheerily, "I'd rather Kiss the Mistress than the Maid." He opened the door and stopped singing suddenly. For a moment he stood looking at the pair with keen enjoyment. Both Mrs. Bindle and Mr. MacFie appeared self-conscious, as they gazed obliquely at the interrupter.

"'Ullo, caught you," said Bindle jocosely.

"Bindle!" There was horror and anger in Mrs. Bindle's voice. Mr. MacFie merely looked uncomfortable. He rose hastily.

"I must be gaeing, Mrs. Beendle," he said; then turning to Bindle remarked, "I joost cam to enquire if Mrs. Beendle was coming to chapel the nicht."

"Don't you fret about that, sir," said Bindle genially. "She wouldn't miss a chance to pray."

"And – and may we expect you, Mr. Beendle?" enquired Mr. MacFie by way of making conversation and preventing an embarrassing silence.

"I ain't much on religion, sir," replied Bindle hastily. "Mrs. B.'s the one for that. Lemonade and religion are things, sir, wot I can be trusted with. I don't touch neither." Then, as Mr. MacFie moved towards the door, he added, "Must you go, sir? You won't stay an' 'ave a bit o' supper?"

"Na, na!" replied Mr. MacFie hastily, "I hae the Lord's work to do, Mr. Beendle, the Lord's work to do," he repeated as he shook hands with Mrs. Bindle and then with Bindle. "The Lord's work to do," he repeated for a third time as, followed by Mrs. Bindle, he left the room.

"Funny thing that the Lord's work should make 'im look like that," remarked Bindle meditatively, as he drew a tin of salmon from his pocket.

When Mrs. Bindle returned to the kitchen it was obvious that she was seriously displeased. The bangs that punctuated the process of "dishing-up" were good fortissimo bangs.

Bindle continued to read his paper imperturbably. In his nostrils was the scent of a favourite stew. He lifted his head like a hound, appreciatively sniffing the air, a look of contentment overspreading his features.

Having poured out the contents of the saucepan, Mrs. Bindle went to the sink and filled the vessel with water. Carrying it across the kitchen, she banged it down on the stove. Opening the front, and picking up the poker, she gave the fire several unnecessary jabs.

"Wot did Sandy want?" enquired Bindle as he got to work upon his supper.

"Don't talk to me," snapped Mrs. Bindle. "You'd try a saint, you would, insulting the minister in that way."

"Insultin'! Me!" cried Bindle in surprise. "Why, I only cheer-o'd 'im."

"You'll never learn 'ow to behave," stormed Mrs. Bindle, losing her temper and her aitches. "Look at you now, all dressed up and leaving me alone."

Bindle was wearing his best clothes, for some reason known only to himself.

"Anyone would think you was goin' to a weddin'," continued Mrs. Bindle.

"Not again," said Bindle cheerfully. "Wot was ole Scotch-an'-Soda after?" he enquired.

"When you ask me a proper question, I'll give you a proper answer," announced Mrs. Bindle.

"Oh, Lord!" said Bindle with mock resignation. "Well, wot did the Reverend MacAndrew want?"

"He came to enquire why Millie was so often absent from chapel. I shall have to speak to Mr. Hearty," said Mrs. Bindle.

Bindle's reply was a prolonged whistle. "'E's after Millikins, is 'e?" he muttered.

That is how both Bindle and Mrs. Bindle first learned that the Rev. Andrew MacFie was interested in their pretty niece, Millie Hearty.

Mrs. Bindle mentioned the fact of Mr. MacFie's call to Mr. Hearty, and from that moment he had seen in the minister a potential son-in-law.

The angular piety of Mr. MacFie rendered him an awkward, not to say a clumsy, lover.

"I likes to see ole Mac a-'angin' round Millikins," remarked Bindle to Mrs. Bindle one evening over supper. "It's like an 'ippopotamus a-givin' the glad-eye to a canary."

"Heathen!" was Mrs. Bindle's sole comment.

Millie Hearty herself had been much troubled by Mr. MacFie's ponderous attentions. At first she had regarded them merely as the friendly interest of a pastor in a member of his flock; but soon they became too obvious for misinterpretation.

"Millikins!" said Bindle one evening, as he and Millie were walking home from the pictures, "you ain't a-goin' to forget Charlie, are you?"

"Uncle Joe!" There was reproach in Millie's voice as she withdrew her arm from Bindle's.

"All right, Millikins," said Bindle, capturing her hand and placing it through his arm, "don't get 'uffy. Ole Mac's been makin' such a dead set at you, that I wanted to know 'ow things stood."

Bindle's remarks had opened the flood-gates of Millie's confidence. She told him that she had not liked to speak of it before because nothing had been said, although there had been some very obvious hints from Mr. Hearty.

"I hate him, Uncle Joe. He's always – always – " She paused, blushing.

"A-givin' of you the glad-eye," suggested Bindle. "I seen 'im."

"Oh, he's horrible, Uncle Joe. I'm sure he's a wicked man."

"'Course 'e is," replied Bindle with conviction, "or 'e wouldn't be a parson."

Bindle had spoken to Mr. Hearty about the matter. "Look 'ere, 'Earty, you ain't goin' back on them two love-birds, are you?" he enquired.

Mr. Hearty had regarded his brother-in-law with what he conceived to be reproving dignity.

"I do not understand, Joseph," he remarked in hollow, woolly tones.

"Well, there's ole Mac, always a-givin' the glad-eye to Millikins," explained Bindle.

"If you wish to speak of our minister, Joseph, you must do so respectfully, and I cannot listen to such vulgar suggestions."

"Oh, come orf of it, 'Earty! you're only a greengrocer, an' greengrocers don't talk like that 'ere, whatever they may do in 'eaven. If you're a-goin' to 'ave any 'anky-panky with Millikins over that sandy-'aired son of a tub-thumper, then you're up against the biggest thing in your life, an' don't you forget it."

Bindle was angry.

"Of late, Joseph," Mr. Hearty replied, "you have shown too much desire to interfere in my private affairs, and I cannot permit it."

"Oh! you can't, can't you?" said Bindle. "Don't you forget, ole sport, that if it 'adn't a-been for me 'oldin' my tongue, you wouldn't 'ave 'ad no bloomin' affairs for me to mix up in."

Mr. Hearty paled and fumbled with the right lapel of his coat.