Bindle: Some Chapters in the Life of Joseph Bindle

Colonial governors, viceroys, and archbishops could have recalled uproarious nights spent beneath the hospitable roof of Bungem's, had their memories not been subject to severe censorship.

Framed above the head of the table was the quatrain, written by a future Poet Laureate, that was the pride of Bungem's heart:

"Take from me all I have: my friends,My songs, for no one's ever sung 'em;One crowded hour of glorious lifeI crave, but let it be with Bungem."

Never had Bungem's presented so gay and glorious an appearance as on the Wednesday evening of the famous supper to Josiah Williams.

Applications for tickets had poured in upon the Dinner Committee hastily organised by the men of St. Joseph's. Many ideas, in which originality and insanity were happily blended, had been offered to the Committee. One man had even suggested that the waiters should be dressed as kangaroos; but the idea had been discarded owing to the difficulty of jumping with plates of soup. Another suggestion had been that nothing but Mr. Williams's mutton should be eaten, whilst a third had proposed a bushman's menu. An Australian Rhodes man had, however, with great gravity of countenance, assured the Committee that the Bushmen were cannibals, and the project had been abandoned.

The banquet was limited to two hundred covers, and the applications had exceeded twice that number. Preference was given to men of St. Joseph's, and after that to the Australian Rhodes scholars, who had kindly undertaken during the course of the evening to reproduce the battle-cry of the Bushmen.

One Rhodes scholar, more serious than the rest, suggested that the Bushmen had no battle-cry; but he was promptly told that they would possess one after that evening.

Tom Little had taken upon himself the guarding of Reginald Graves, as a suspicion had flitted through the minds of the organisers of the feast that he might fail them at the last moment. As a matter of fact he did venture a remark that he felt very ill, and would go to bed. That was during the afternoon. But the Committee of Management had made it clear that he was to be at the dinner, and that if he went to bed he would probably be there in pyjamas.

The Committee called for Mr. Josiah Williams at the Sceptre at 8.30, formally to escort him to Bungem's. They discovered Bindle in the happiest of moods and full evening-dress. In his shirt-front blazed the "Moonagoona star, the second finest diamond that Australia had ever produced." On his head was an opera hat, and over his arm a light overcoat. The party walked over to Bungem's, passing through a considerable crowd that had collected outside the Sceptre.

At Bungem's the guests lined up on each side from the pavement up the stairs into the reception-room, and as the guest of honour arrived arm-in-arm with Tom Little they broke out into "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow," led by an impromptu band consisting of a concertina, three mouth-organs, six whistles, eighteen combs, and a tea-tray.

Dick Little, who had arrived by a later train than that carrying Bindle, was in the chair. He was an old St. Joseph's man and his memory was still green, although he had gone down some years previously. On his right sat Bindle, the guest of the evening; next to him were Reginald Graves and Guggers.

When all the guests were seated the chairman's mallet called for order.

"Gentlemen, you are too graceless a crew for grace, but you understand the laws of hospitality, that much I grant you. It is our object to make our distinguished visitor, Mr. Josiah Williams of Moonagoona, thoroughly welcome and at home, and to remind him of the sylvan glades of Moonagoona." Then, turning to Bindle, "Am I right, sir, in assuming that Moonagoona has sylvan glades?"

"'It it first time," replied Bindle. "Mooniest place I was ever in. It used to be called Moonaspoona till the birth-rate dropped." This remark was greeted with a roar of approval.

"We will open the proceedings with a representation of the Australian Bushmen's war-cry, kindly contributed by certain Rhodes scholars and others from the Antipodes."

The war-cry was not a success, but the meal that followed savoured of the palmiest days of Bungem's. The food was plentiful and excellently cooked; the wine more plentiful and generously served.

Bindle's greatest concern was his white shirt-front. He had tucked his napkin in his collar, but that did not reassure him, because he then became alarmed lest the napkin should be soiled. However, he watched very carefully the careless, well-bred eating of Little and the finicking deportment of Graves, and managed to strike the middle course. It is true he absorbed his soup with sibilance and from the point of the spoon; but apart from that he acquitted himself excellently until the arrival of the asparagus. When the waiter presented it Bindle eyed the long, slender stems suspiciously. Then he looked at the waiter and back again at the stems and shook his head.

"Nonsense!" said Dick Little; "nobody ever refuses asparagus at Bungem's."

Asperge à la Bungem is a dish the memory of which every Oxford man cherishes to the end of his days.

Bindle weakened, and helped himself liberally, a circumstance which he soon regretted.

"How do I eat it?" he enquired of Dick Little in an anxious whisper.

"Watch me," replied Little.

The asparagus was tired and refused to preserve an erect position. Each stem seemed desirous of forming itself into an inverted "U." Little selected a particularly wilted stem and threw his head well back in the position of a man about to be shaved, and lowered the asparagus slowly into his mouth.

Nobody took any particular notice of this, and Little had been very careful to take only two or three stems. To the horror of Graves, Bindle followed Dick Little's lead.

"Funny sort o' stuff, Reggie, ain't it?" said Bindle, resuming an upright position in order to select another stick. "Seems as if yer 'ad to 'ave somebody rubbin' yer while it goes down."

Never in the history of Bungem's had the famous asparagus been so neglected. Everybody was watching alternately Bindle and Graves. Bindle was enjoying himself; but on the face of Graves was painted an anguish so poignant that more than one man present pitied him his ordeal.

Dick Little's mallet fell with a thump, and the attention of the guests became diverted from Graves to the chairman, amidst cries of "Chair," "Order," "Shame," and "Chuck him out."

"Gentlemen – a mere euphemism, I confess," began Dick Little; "men of St. Joseph's never propose the toast of the King; that is a toast that we all drink silently and without reminder. The toast of the evening is naturally that of the health and happiness of the guest of the evening, Mr. Josiah Williams of Moonagoona – a man, need I say more?"

There were loud cheers, in which Bindle joined.

In proposing the toast of the evening, Dick Little dwelt upon the distinction conferred upon Oxford in general and St. Joseph's in particular by Reginald Graves in selecting it from out of the myriad other universities and colleges. He touched lightly upon the love Graves had inspired in the hearts of his contemporaries; but never greater than when he had generously decided to share with them his uncle.

"This uncle," he continued, "has raised mutton and a nephew, and it is difficult to decide which of the two the men of St. Joseph's love the more: Josiah's mutton, or Josiah's nephew.

"Gentlemen, fellow-wanderers along the paths of knowledge, I give you the toast, Mr. Josiah Williams of Moonagoona, and with that toast I crave your permission to associate all his bleating sheep."

The whole assembly sprang to its feet, cheering wildly, among the others Bindle, who drank his own health with gusto and enthusiasm.

The shouts that greeted Bindle when he rose to respond to the toast created a record even for Bungem's. Bindle gazed round him imperturbably, as if the making of a speech were to him an everyday matter.

In his right hand he held a cigar, and three fingers of his left hand rested lightly upon the edge of the table. When the din had subsided he began.

"Gentlemen, I never knew 'ow fortunate I was until now. I been raisin' sheep and 'ell in Moonagoona for years, forgettin' all about this 'ere little cherub," Bindle indicated Graves with a wave of his hand, "and all the jolly times I might 'ave 'ad through 'im. Moonagoona ain't exactly a paradise, it's too 'ot for that; still, if any of yer ever manages to find yer way there you'll be lucky, and you'll be luckier still if yer finds yours truly there at the same time. No; I done raisin' 'ell an' mutton, bein' too old for one an' too tired for the other.

"When I decided to 'ave a nephew I prayed 'ard for a good 'un, an' they sent me this little chap." Bindle patted Reggie's head affectionately amidst resounding cheers. "'E ain't much to look at," continued Bindle, with a grin, "'e ain't the beauty 'is uncle was at 'is age; still, 'e seems to 'ave a rare lot o' pals."

More eyes were watching Graves than Bindle. His face was very white and set, and he strove to smile; but it was a sickly effort. His immediate neighbours noticed that his glass, which those around him were careful to keep filled, was raised frequently to his lips. From time to time he looked round him like a hunted animal who seeks but fails to find some avenue of escape.

"'E was always a good boy to 'is mother, my sister Polly, an' now 'e's a gentleman, 'im wot once took round oil an' sausages for 'is father when 'e kep' a general shop.

"Everyone," proceeded Bindle, referring to a scrap of paper he held, "'as heard o' Tom Graves, grocer, of 60 'Igh Street, Bingley. 'E don't mix sand with 'is sugar and sell it at threepence a pound, not 'im; 'e mixes it wi' the tea at one-an'-eight a pound. There ain't no flies on old Tom.

"'Is mother, when she was in service, 'fore she married Tom, 'ad a face almost as pretty as Reggie's." Bindle placed his hand beneath Graves's chin and elevated his flushed face and gazed down into his nephew's watery eyes.

Graves half rose from his seat, an ugly look on his face, but someone dragged him down again. He looked round the room with unseeing eyes, making vain endeavours to moisten his lips. Once or twice he seemed determined to get up and go, but Guggers' brawny arm was always there to restrain him. There was nothing for it but to sit and listen.

"Now, gentlemen," continued Bindle, "I mustn't keep yer." (There were loud cries of "Go on," "The night is young," and similar encouragements.) "Although," continued Bindle, "I could tell yer things yer might like to know about 'orses, beer, women, an' other things wot 'urt." (Loud cries of "No!") "Well, wait till you're married, then yer'll see. As I was sayin', this is an 'appy evenin'.

"Lord, I seen things in Moonagoona," continued Bindle reminiscently, "that 'ud make yer 'air stand on end. There's the Moonagoona linnet, big as an eagle, and you 'ave to plug yer ears when it sings. Then there's the Moonagoona beetle, wot'll swallow a lamb 'ole, an' then sit up an' beg for the mint-sauce.

"We got eels that big that yer wouldn't believe it. We once caught a eel at Moonagoona, and it pulled an' pulled so, that 'fore long we'd got the 'ole bloomin' population on the end o' the rope. We 'auled in miles of it, an' presently we see comin' along the river a crowd o' people; they was the in'abitants of Gumbacooe, the next town. They'd caught the other end o' the eel, wot 'ad two 'eads, an' we was a-'aulin' of 'em as well as Mister Eel. Moonagoona's the place to see things.

"I been very 'appy this evenin'," proceeded Bindle, "so's Reggie. No one would know yer was gents, yer behave so nicely." Bindle grinned broadly as he raised his glass. "Well, 'ere's to us, mates," he cried.

With a roar the company once more sprang to its feet and, assisted by bells, rattles, whistles, a tray, a phonograph which played "You Made Me Love You," combs and mouth-organs, sang in various keys, "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow."

Bindle was at that moment the most popular man in Oxford. He was one of the greatest successes that Bungem's had ever known. He was hoisted on brawny shoulders and borne in triumph round the room. In his hand he held a finger-bowl full of champagne, the contents of which slopped over the heads and persons of his bearers at every step.

"If only 'Earty could see me now," he murmured happily. "These chaps 'ud make a man of 'Earty 'fore 'e knew it. Leggo my leg!" he yelled suddenly, as one enthusiast seized his right leg and strove to divert the procession from its course. "You funny 'Uggins, you! Think I'm made o' rubber? Leggo!"

Too excited for mere words to penetrate to his brain, the youth continued to pull, and Bindle poured the rest of the champagne over his upturned face. With a yelp the youth released Bindle's leg.

In the excitement that followed Bindle's speech Graves saw his opportunity. Guggers' eye was momentarily off him and he slipped towards the door unnoticed. He had almost reached safety when Bindle, who was the first to observe the manoeuvre, uttered a yell.

"Stop 'im! stop 'im! 'Ere, let me down," he shouted, and by pounding on the head of one of his bearers with the finger-bowl and with a kick that found the stomach of another, he disengaged himself.

Bindle's cry had attracted general attention to Graves, but too late to stop him. With a bound he reached the door and tore down the stairs.

"After him, you chaps," cried Guggers, and with yells and cries ranging from "Tally-ho!" to the "Bushmen's war-cry" the whole company streamed out of Bungem's and tore down "the High" in hot pursuit.

That night those who were late out beheld the strange sight of a white-faced man in evening-dress running apparently for his life, pursued by a pack of some two hundred other men similarly garbed and uttering the most horrible shouts and threats. Windows were thrown up and heads thrust out, and all wondered what could be the meaning of what the oldest, and consequently longest-suffering, townsman subsequently described as defying even his recollection.

Late that night the porter at St. Joseph's was aroused by a furious ringing of the bell, accompanied by a tremendous pounding at the door. On the doorstep he found, to his astonishment, the dishevelled figure of Graves, sobbing for breath and sanctuary, and with terror in his eyes. In the distance he heard a terrible outcry, which next morning he was told was the Australian Bushmen's war-cry.

IV

Bindle was awakened next morning by a continuous hammering at his bedroom door.

"Who the 'oppin' robin are yer?" he shouted; "shut up and go 'ome."

The door burst open, and Tom Little, Guggers, and Travers entered.

"Up you gug-gug-get," cried Guggers. "You must catch the 11.6."

"Look 'ere, ole Spit and Speak, if you're wantin' to get 'urt you're on the right road." Bindle grinned up at Guggers impudently. "I'm as tired as yer mother must be o' you."

"Up you get, you merry wight," cried Tom Little, laughing; "there's the devil to pay."

"There always is, exceptin' sometimes it's a woman," remarked Bindle, yawning. "Devils are cheaper, on the 'ole. What's the trouble?"

"The Master has invited you to lunch," broke in Travers, "and that ass Gravy never told us."

"You must be recalled to town," said Tom Little, "or we shall all be sent down. Now up you get."

Bindle climbed out of bed resplendent in pyjamas with alternate broad stripes of pale blue and white.

"'Oo's the Master? I'll lunch with anybody wot's not temperance." Bindle was sleepy.

"It's the Master of St. Joseph's, and you've got to clear out."

"We've sent him a letter in your name regretting that you have to return to town at once."

"Oh, you 'ave, 'ave yer?" remarked Bindle drily. "I 'ope you told 'im that I got ter call at Buckingham Palace."

Bindle dressed, shaved, and kept his visitors amused by turn. He caught the 11.6, accompanied by Dick Little. The two men spent their time in reading the long accounts in the Oxford papers of the previous evening's "banquet." They were both full and flattering. Bindle chuckled to find that his speech had been reported verbatim, and wondered how Reggie was enjoying the biographical particulars.

Dick Little and Bindle were unaware that in his rooms at St. Joseph's Reginald Graves also was reading these selfsame accounts with an anguish too great for expression. The accounts of his early life in particular caused him something akin to horror.

"It didn't last long," murmured Bindle regretfully, "but it was top-'ole (your words, sir) while it did. I wonder 'oo's 'oldin' Reggie's 'ead this mornin'?" and he chuckled gleefully.

CHAPTER XIV

MR. HEARTY GIVES A PARTY

I

"I'm surprised at 'Earty," remarked Bindle to Millie one Friday evening as they walked across Putney Bridge on the way to meet Charlie Dixon. "Fancy 'im givin' a party! It'll be all 'ymns an' misery, wi' some oranges thrown in to give it the right smell. There won't be no Kiss-in-the-ring an' Postman's-knock for the likes o' you an' me, Millikins."

Millie blushed. She had no illusions as to the nature of the festivity: she knew who were to be invited.

"I'm glad you're coming, Uncle Joe," she cried, dancing along beside him. "It would be hateful without you."

"Well, o' course I am a bit of an attraction," replied Bindle. "Lord! how the ladies fight for me in the kissin' games!"

It was rarely that Mr. Hearty unbent to the extent of entertaining. He was usually content with the mild pleasures that the chapel provided, in the shape of teas, the annual bazaar, and occasional lantern-lectures bearing such titles as "Jerusalem Revisited," "The Bible in the East," "A Christian Abroad," delivered by enthusiastic but prosy amateurs and illustrated by hired lantern-slides.

One day, however, Mr. Hearty came to the determination that it was quite compatible with his beliefs to give a party. Not one of the stupid gatherings where the gramophone vied with round-games, and round-games with music-hall songs; but one where the spirit of revelry would be chastened by Christian sobriety. Mr. Hearty did not object to music as music, and there were certain songs, such as "The Village Blacksmith" and "The Chorister" that in his opinion were calculated to exercise a beneficial effect upon those who heard them.

When Mr. Hearty had at length come to his momentous decision, he was faced with the problem of the Bindles. He felt that as a fellow-chapel-goer he could not very well omit Mrs. Bindle from the list of the invited; but Bindle would be impossible where Mr. Sopley, the pastor of the chapel, was to be an honoured guest.

One evening at supper he had, as he thought with consummate tact, broached the matter to his family.

"Not have Joe?" wheezed Mrs. Hearty.

"Not ask Uncle Joe?" Millie had exclaimed in a tone that her father thought scarcely filial.

"He is not interested in parties," Mr. Hearty had explained feebly.

"We can't leave Joe out," panted Mrs. Hearty with a decisiveness unusual to her. "Why, he'll be the life and soul of the evening."

This was exactly what Mr. Hearty feared; but seeing that his women-folk were united against him, and after a further feeble protest, he conceded the point, and the Bindles received their invitation. Mr. Hearty had, however, taken the precaution of "dropping a hint" to Mrs. Bindle, the "hint" in actual words being: "I hope that if Joseph comes he – he won't – "

"I'll see that he doesn't," was Mrs. Bindle's reply, uttered with a snap of the jaws that had seemed to reassure her brother-in-law.

II

Mrs. Bindle was engaged in removing curl-papers from her front hair. On the bed lay her best dress of black alpaca with a bright green satin yoke covered with black lace. Beside it lay her best bonnet, also of black, an affair of a very narrow gauge and built high up at the back, having the appearance of being several sizes too small for its wearer.

Mrs. Bindle was dressing with great care and deliberation for Mr. Hearty's party. Her conception of dress embodied the middle-class ideals of mid-Victorian neatness, blended with a standard of modesty and correctness peculiarly her own.

It had cost Mrs. Bindle many anxious days of thought before she had been able to justify to herself the green satin yoke in her best dress. With her, to be fashionable was to be fast. A short skirt and a pneumonia-blouse were in her eyes the contrivances of the devil to show what no modest woman would think of exhibiting to the public gaze.

As she proceeded with her toilette Mrs. Bindle was thinking of the shamelessness of women who bared their arms and shoulders to every man's gaze. On principle she disapproved of parties and festivities of any description that were not more or less concerned with the chapel; but to her Mr. Hearty could do no wrong, and the fact that their pastor was to be present removed from her mind any scruples that she might otherwise have felt.

She was slowly brushing her thin sandy hair when Bindle entered the bedroom in full evening-dress, the large imitation diamond stud in the centre of his shirt, patent boots, a red silk handkerchief stuck in the opening of his waistcoat, the light coat over his arm, and an opera hat stuck at a rakish angle on his head. Between his lips was a cigar, one of the last remaining from the Oxford adventure.

Mrs. Bindle knew nothing of that, and consequently was unaware that Bindle's wardrobe had been considerably enlarged.

Mrs. Bindle caught sight of him in the looking-glass. For a moment she stared at the reflection in helpless amazement, then turning round with startling suddenness, she continued to regard him with such fixity as he stood complacently smoking his cigar, that Bindle could not resist replying with the broadest of grins.

"Where'd you get that dress-suit?" she asked at length, in the tone a policeman might adopt to a navvy found wearing a diamond tiara.

"It's me own, o' course," replied Bindle cheerily.

"Your own!" gasped Mrs. Bindle.

"O' course it is. Your ole man's a bit of a blood, Mrs. B., and you're a lucky woman. Won't ole 'Earty open them merry eyes of 'is when 'e sees me to-night. What-oh!" and Bindle executed a few impromptu steps, holding his overcoat at arm's-length.

Mrs. Bindle continued to regard him with wonder. She glanced at her own rather shabby black dress lying on the bed, and then her eyes returned to Bindle. She examined with grim intentness his well-cut clothes.

"Where'd you get them from?" she rapped.

"Don't you worry where your peacock got 'is tail; you just feel proud," replied Bindle, seating himself on the only chair the bedroom boasted. "Your ole man is goin' to be the belle of the ball to-night."

"You been buyin' them things, an' me doin' my own housework an' keepin' you when you're out of work!" Mrs. Bindle's voice rose as the full sense of the injustice of it all began to dawn upon her. "You spendin' money on dress-suits and beer, an' me inchin' an' pinchin' to keep you in food. It's a shame. I won't stand it, I won't." Mrs. Bindle looked about her helplessly. "I'll leave you, I will, you – you – "

"Oh no, yer won't," remarked Bindle complacently; "women like you don't leave men like me. That's wot matrimony's for, to keep two people together wot ought to be kept apart by Act o' Parliament."

"Where'd you get that dress-suit?" broke in Mrs. Bindle tenaciously.

"As I was sayin'," continued Bindle imperturbably, "matrimony's a funny thing."

"Where'd you get that dress-suit?" Mrs. Bindle broke in again.

Bindle sighed, and cast up his eyes in mock appeal. "I 'ad it give to me so that I might be worthy o' wot the Lord 'as sent me an' won't 'ave back at no price – that is to say, yerself, Mrs. B. If marriages is really made in 'eaven, then there ought to be a 'Returned with thanks' department. That's my view." The happy smile with which Bindle accompanied the remark robbed it of its sting.

For some time Mrs. Bindle continued her toilette in silence, and Bindle puffed contentedly at his cigar. Mrs. Bindle was the first to speak.

"I hope you'll be careful what you say to-night." She had just put on her bonnet and with many strange grimaces had at last adjusted it and the veil to her satisfaction.

As she spoke she began to draw on a pair of tight brown kid gloves, which so contracted her palms as to render her hands practically useless.