Mrs. Bindle: Some Incidents from the Domestic Life of the Bindles

by Herbert George Jenkins

  CHAPTER VI

  MRS. BINDLE DEFENDS HER HOME

  I

  "Gospel bells, gospel bells, hm-hm-hm-hm-hm-hm-hm."

  Mrs. Bindle accompanied her favourite hymn with bangs from the flat-ironas she strove to coax one of Bindle's shirts to smoothness.

  She invariably worked to the tune of "Gospel Bells." Of the hymn itselfshe possessed two words, "gospel" and "bells"; but the tune was hers tothe most insignificant semi-quaver, and an unlimited supply of "hms" didthe rest.

  Turning the shirt at the word "gospel," she brought the iron down fullin the middle of what, judging from the power she put into the stroke,might have been Bindle's back.

  "Bells," she sang with emphasis, and proceeded to trail off into the"hms."

  With Mrs. Bindle, singing reflected her mood. When indignation or angergripped her soul, "Gospel Bells" was rendered with a vigour thatpenetrated to Mrs. Grimps and Mrs. Sawney.

  Then, as her mood mellowed, so would the tune soften, almost dying awayuntil, possibly, a stray thought of Bindle brought about a crescendopassage, capable of being developed into full forte, brass-wind andtympani.

  After one of these full-throated passages, the thought of herbrother-in-law, Mr. Hearty, mellowed the stream of melody passingthrough her thin, slightly parted lips.

  It had reached an almost caressing softness, when a knock at the doorcaused her to stop suddenly. A moment later, the iron was banged uponthe rest, and she glanced down at her apron. To use her own phrase, shewas the "pink of neatness."

  Walking across the kitchen and along the short passage, she threw openthe door with the air of one who was prepared to defend the sacreddomestic hearth against all comers.

  "I've come about the 'ouse, mum." A mild-looking little man with a dirtycollar and a deprecating manner stood before her, sucking nervously at ahollow tooth, the squeak of which his friends had learned to live down.

  "The house!" repeated Mrs. Bindle aggressively. "What house?"

  "This 'ouse wot's to let, mum." The little man struggled to extract anewspaper from his pocket. "I'd like to take it," he added.

  "Oh! you would, would you?" Mrs. Bindle eyed him with disfavour. "Well,it's not to let," and with that she banged the door in the little man'sface, just as his pocket gave up the struggle and released a soiledcopy of _The Fulham Signal_.

  He started back, the paper falling upon the tiled-path that led from thegate to the front-door.

  For nearly a minute he stood staring at the door, as if not quiterealising what had happened. Then, picking up the paper, he gazed at itwith a puzzled expression, turned to a marked passage under the heading"Houses to Let," and read:

  HOUSE TO LET.--Four-roomed house to let in Fulham. Easy access to bus, tram and train. Rent 15/6 a week. Immediate possession. Apply to occupier, 7 Fenton Street, Fulham, S.W.

  He looked at the number on the door, back again at the paper, then oncemore at the number. Apparently satisfied that there was no mistake, heknocked again, a feeble, half-hearted knock that testified to thetremors within him.

  He had been graded C3; but he possessed a wife who was, physically, A1.It was the knowledge that she would demand an explanation if he failedto secure the house, after which she had sent him hot-foot, thatinspired him with sufficient courage to make a second attempt tointerview Mrs. Bindle.

  With inward tremblings, he waited for the door to open again. As hestood, hoping against hope in his coward heart that the summons had notbeen heard, a big, heavily-hipped woman, in a dirty black-and-whitefoulard blouse, a draggled green skirt, and shapeless stays, slidthrough the gate and waddled up the path.

  "So you got 'ere fust," she gasped, her flushed face showing that shehad been hurrying. "Well, well, it can't be 'elped, I suppose, fust comefust served. I always says it and always shall."

  The little man had swung round, and now stood blinking up at the newarrival, who entirely blocked his line of retreat.

  "Knocked, 'ave you?" she enquired, fanning her flushed face with afolded newspaper.

  He nodded; but his gaze was directed over her heaving shoulder at a manand woman, with a little girl between them, approaching from theopposite side of the way.

  As the new arrivals entered the garden, the stout woman explained that"this gentleman" had already knocked.

  "P'raps they ain't up yet," suggested the man with the little girl.

  "Well, they ought to be," said the stout woman with conviction.

  Another woman now joined the throng, her turned-up sleeves and the man'stweed cap on her head, kept in place by a long, amber-headed hat-pin,testifying to the limited time she had bestowed upon her toilette.

  "Is it took?" she demanded of the woman with the little girl.

  "Dunno!" was the reply. "She ain't opened the door yet."

  "She opened it once," said the little man.

  "Wot she say?"

  "Said it wasn't to let, then banged it to in my face," was the injuredresponse.

  "'Ere, let me 'ave a try," cried the woman in the foulard blouse, as shegrasped the knocker and proceeded to awaken the echoes of Fenton Street.Corple Street at one end and Bransdon Road at the other, were includedin the sound-waves that emanated from the Bindles' knocker.

  Several neighbours, including Mrs. Grimps and Mrs. Sawney, came to theirdoors and gazed at the collection of people that now entirely blockedthe pathway of No. 7. Three other women had joined the throng, togetherwith a rag-and-bone man in dilapidated clothing, accompanied by a donkeyand cart.

  "A shame I calls it, a-keepin' folks 'angin' about like this," said oneof the new arrivals.

  "P'raps it's let," said the rag-and-bone man.

  "Well, why don't they say so?" snapped she with the tweed cap andhat-pin.

  "'Ave another go, missis," suggested the man with the little girl. "I'mlosin' 'alf a day over this."

  Inspired by this advice, the big woman reached forward to seize theknocker. At that moment the door was wrenched open, and Mrs. Bindleappeared. She had removed her apron and brushed her thin, sandy hair,which was drawn back from her sharp, hatchet-like face so that not ahair wantoned from the restraining influence of the knot behind.

  Grim, with indrawn lips and the light of battle in her eyes she glared,first at the little man with whom she had already held parley, then atthe woman in the foulard blouse.

  At chapel, there was no more meek and docile "Daughter of the Lord" thanMrs. Bindle. To her, religion was an ever-ready help and sustenance; butthere was something in her life that bulked even larger than her Faith,although she would have been the first to deny it. That thing was herHome.

  In keeping the domestic temple of her hearth as she conceived it shouldbe kept, Mrs. Bindle toiled ceaselessly. It was her fetish. Sheworshipped at chapel as a stepping-stone to post-mortem glory; but herhome was the real altar at which she sacrificed.

  As she gazed at the "rabble," as she mentally characterised it,littering the tiled-path of the front garden, which only that morningshe had cleaned, the rage of David entered her heart; but she was aGod-fearing woman who disliked violence--until it was absolutelynecessary.

  "Was it you knocking?" she demanded of the big woman in the foulardblouse. Her voice was sharp as the edge of a razor; but restrained.

  "That's right, my dear," replied the woman comfortably, "I come aboutthe 'ouse."

  "Oh! you have, have you?" cried Mrs. Bindle. "And are these yourfriends?" Her eyes for a moment left those of her antagonist and took inthe queue which, by now, overflowed the path into the roadway.

  "Look 'ere, I'll give you sixteen bob a week," broke in the woman withthe tweed cap and the hat-pin, instantly rendering herself an Ishmael.

  "'Ere, none o' that!" cried an angry female voice. "Fair do's."

  There was a murmur of approval from the others, which was interrupted byMrs. Bindle's clear-cut, incisive voice.

  "Get out of my garden, and be off, the lot of you," she cried, taking ahalf-step in the direction of the big woman,
to whom she addressedherself.

  "Is it let?" enquired the rag-and-bone man from the rear.

  "Is what let?" demanded Mrs. Bindle.

  "The 'ouse, mum," said the rag-and-bone man, whose profession demandedtact and politeness.

  "This house is not to let," was the angry retort, "never was to let, andnever will be to let till I'm gone. Now you just be off with you,or----" she paused.

  "Or wot?" demanded she of the tweed cap and hat-pin, desirous ofrehabilitating herself with the others.

  "I'll send for a policeman," was Mrs. Bindle's rejoinder. She stillrestrained her natural instincts in a vice-like self-control. Her handsshook slightly; but not with fear. It was the trembling of the tigresspreparing to spring.

  "Then wot about this advert?" cried the man with the little girl,extending the newspaper towards her.

  "Yes, wot about it?" demanded the woman in the foulard blouse, extendingher paper in turn.

  "There's no advertisement about this house," said Mrs. Bindle, ignoringthe papers, "and you'd better go away. Pity you haven't got somethingbetter to do than to come disturbin' me in the midst of my ironin'," andwith that she banged the door and disappeared.

  A murmur of anger passed along the queue, anger which portended trouble.

  "Nice way to treat people," said a little woman with a dirty face, adingy black bonnet and a velvet dolman, to which portions of theoriginal jet-trimming still despairingly adhered. "Some folks don't seemto know 'ow to be'ave."

  There was another murmur of agreement.

  "Kick the blinkin' door in," suggested a pacifist.

  "I'd like to get at 'er with my nails," said a sharp-faced woman with ababy in her arms. "I know '_er_ sort."

  "Deserves to 'ave 'er stutterin' windows smashed, the stuck-up baggage!"cried another.

  "'Ullo, look at all them people."

  A big, puffy man with a person that rendered his boots invisible, guidedthe hand-cart he was pushing into the kerb in front of No. 7 FentonStreet. A pale, dispirited lad was harnessed to the vehicle by adilapidated piece of much-knotted rope strung across his narrow chest.As the barrow came to a standstill, he allowed the rope to drop to theground and, stepping out of the harness, he turned an apathetic andunspeculative eye towards the crowd.

  The big man, whose clothing consisted of a shirt, a pair of trousersand some braces, stood looking at the applicants for the altar of Mrs.Bindle's life. The crowd returned the stare with interest. The furniturepiled upon the barrow caused them some anxiety. Was that the explanationof the unfriendly reception accorded them?

  "Now then, Charley, when you've done a-drinkin' in this bloomin'beauty-show, you can give me a 'and."

  "'Oo are you calling a beauty-show?" demanded the woman in the dolman."You ain't got much to talk about, with a stummick like yours."

  "My mistake, missis," said the big man imperturbably. "Sorry I made youcry." Then, turning to Charley, he added: "If you 'adn't such a thick'ead, Charley, you'd know it was a sugar queue. They're wearin' too muchfor a beauty-show. Now, then, over the top, my lad." He indicated therailings with a nod, the gateway was blocked.

  With the leisurely movements of a fatalist, Charley moved hisinconspicuous person towards the railings of No. 7, while the big manproceeded to untie the rope that bound a miscellaneous collection ofhousehold goods to the hand-cart, an operation which entirely absorbedthe attention of the queue.

  "You took it?" interrogated the rag-and-bone man.

  "Don't you worry, cocky," said the big man as he lifted from the barrowa cane-bottomed chair, through which somebody had evidently sat, andplaced it on the pavement. "Once inside the garding and the 'ouse ismine. 'Ere, get on wiv it, Charley," he admonished the lad, who wasstanding by the kerb as if reluctant to trespass.

  With unexpressive face, the boy turned and climbed the railings.

  "Catch 'old," cried the man, thrusting into Charley's unwilling hands adilapidated saucepan.

  The boy tossed it on to the small flower-bed in the centre of thegarden, where Mrs. Bindle was endeavouring to cultivate geraniums fromslips supplied by a fellow-worshipper at the Alton Road Chapel. Thesegeranium slips were the stars in the grey firmament of her life. Shetended them assiduously, and always kept a jug of water just inside theparlour-window with which to discourage investigating cats. It was shetoo that had planted the lobelia-border.

  The queue seemed hypnotised by the overwhelming personality of the bigman. With the fatalism of despair they decided that the gods wereagainst them, and that he really had achieved the success he claimed.They still lingered, as if instinct told them that dramatic moments werepending.

  "I don't doubt but wot I'll be very comfortable," remarked the big mancontentedly. "'Ere, catch 'old, Charley," he cried, tossing the lad acolander, possessed of more holes than the manufacturer had ever dreamedof.

  Charley turned too late, and the colander caught a geranium which, aloneamong its fellows, had shown a half-hearted tendency to bloom. Thatparticular flower was Mrs. Bindle's ewe-lamb.

  "Ain't 'e a knock-out?" cried the big man, pausing for a moment to gazeat his offspring. "Don't take after 'is pa, and that's a fact," and heexposed three or four dark-brown stumps of teeth.

  "P'raps you ain't 'is father," giggled a feminine voice at the end ofthe queue.

  The big man turned in the direction from which the voice had come,stared stolidly at an inoffensive little man, who had "not guilty"written all over him, then, deliberately swinging round, he lifted asmall wicker clothes-basket from the cart.

  "'Ere, catch it, Charley," he cried, and without waiting to assurehimself of Charley's willingness or ability to do so, he pitched it overthe railings.

  Charley turned just in time to see the basket coming. He endeavoured toavoid it, tripped over the colander, and sat down in the centre of thegeranium-bed, carrying riot and desolation with him.

  "Ain't you a----" but Charley was never to know how he appeared to hisfather at that moment.

  Observing that several heads were turned towards the front door, theeyes of the big man had instinctively followed their direction. It waswhat he saw there that had caused him to pause in describing hisoffspring.

  Standing very still, her face deathly pale, with no sign of her lipsbeyond a thin, grey line, stood Mrs. Bindle, her eyes fixed upon thegeranium-bed and the desolation reigning there. Her breath came in shortjerks.

  With an activity of which his previous movements had given noindication, Charley climbed the railings to the comparative safety ofthe street.

  Mrs. Bindle turned her gaze upon the big man.

  "'Ere, come along, let me get in," he cried, pushing his way through thecrowd, which showed no inclination for resistance. The little man whohad first arrived was already well outside, talking to the woman withthe tweed cap and hat-pin, while she of the foulard blouse was edgingdown the path towards the gate. None showed the least desire to protestagainst the big man's claim to the house by right of conquest--and hepassed on to his Waterloo.

  "I taken this 'ouse," he cried, as he approached the grim figure on thedoorstep. "Fifteen an' a kick a week, an' cheap at 'alf the price," headded jovially.

  "'Ere, get on wiv it, Charley," he called out over his shoulder.

  Charley, however, stood gazing at his parent with a greater show ofinterest than he had hitherto manifested. He seemed instinctively tograsp the dramatic possibilities of the situation.

  "Thought I'd bring the sticks wiv me, missis," said the man genially."Nothink like makin' sure in these days." He stopped suddenly. Without aword, Mrs. Bindle had turned and disappeared into the house.

  "May as well pay a deposit," he remarked, thrusting a dirty hand intohis trouser pocket. He glanced over his shoulder and winked jocosely atthe woman with the foulard blouse.

  The next thing he knew was that Drama with a capital "D" had taken ahand in the game. The crowd drew its breath with almost a sob ofsurprised expectancy.

  Into Charley's vacant eyes there came a look of int
erest, and into thebig man's mouth, just as he turned his head, there came a something thatwas wet and tasted odiously of carbolic.

  He staggered back, his eyes bulging, as Mrs. Bindle, armed with a largemop, which she had taken the precaution to wet, stood regarding him likean avenging fury. Her eyes blazed, and her nostrils were distended likethose of a frightened thoroughbred.

  Before the big man had time to splutter his protests, she had swunground the mop and brought the handle down with a crack upon his bare,bald head. Then, once more swinging round to the business end of themop, she drew back a step and charged.

  The mop got the big man just beneath the chin. For a moment he stood onone leg, his arms extended, like the figure of Mercury on the PiccadillyCircus fountain.

  Mrs. Bindle gave another thrust to the mop, and down he went with athud, his head coming with a sharp crack against the tiles of the path.

  The crowd murmured its delight. Charley danced from one foot to theother, the expression on his face proving conclusively that the vacuouslook with which he had arrived was merely a mask assumed for defensivepurposes.

  "Get up!"

  Into these two words Mrs. Bindle precipitated an amount of feeling thatthrilled the crowd. The big man, however, lay prone, his eyes fixed infear upon the end of the mop.

  "Get up!" repeated Mrs. Bindle. "I'll teach you to come disturbing arespectable home. Look at my garden."

  As he still made no attempt to move, she turned suddenly and doubledalong the passage, reappearing a moment later with a pail of water withwhich she had been washing out the scullery. Without a moment'shesitation she emptied the contents over the recumbent figure of the bigman. The house-cloth fell across his eyes, like a bandage, and thehearthstone took him full on the nose.

  "Oo-er!"

  That one act of Mrs. Bindle's had saved from entire annihilation thefaith of a child. For the first time in his existence, Charley realisedthat there was a God of retribution.

  Murmurs of approval came from the crowd.

  "Give it to 'im, missis, 'e done it," shouted one. "It warn't the kid'sfault, blinkin' 'Un."

  "Dirty profiteer," cried the thin woman. "Look at 'is stummick," sheadded as if in support of her words.

  "Get up!" Again Mrs. Bindle's hard, uninflected words sounded like theaccents of destiny.

  She accompanied her exhortation by a jab from the mop-end of her weapondirected at the centre of that portion of the big man's anatomy whichhad been advanced as proof of his profiteering propensities.

  He raised himself a few inches; but Mrs. Bindle, with all theinconsistency of a woman, dashed the mop once more in his face, and downwent his head again with a crack.

  "Charley!" he roared; but there was nothing of the Paladin aboutCharley. Between him and his father at that moment were eleven years ofheavy-handed tyranny, and Charley remained on the safety-side of therailings.

  "Get up! You great, hulkin' brute," cried Mrs. Bindle, reversing the mopand getting in a stroke at his solar-plexus which would have made herfame in pig-sticking.

  "Grrrrumph!" The fat man's exclamation was involuntary.

  "Get up, I tell you," she reiterated. "You fat, ugly son of Satan, youBeelzebub, you leper, you Judas, you----" she paused a moment in hersearch for the undesirables from Holy Writ. Then, with inspiration, sheadded--"Barabbas."

  The man made another effort to rise; but Mrs. Bindle brought the end ofthe mop down upon his head with a crack that sounded like a pistol-shot.

  The expression on Charley's face changed. The lower jaw lifted. Theloose, vacuous mouth spread. Charley was grinning.

  For a moment the man lay still. Mrs. Bindle was standing over him withthe mop, a tense and righteously indignant St. George over aparticularly evil dragon.

  Suddenly he gave tongue.

  "'Elp!" he yelled. "I'm bein' murdered. 'Elp! Charley, where are you?"But Charley's grin had expanded and he was actually rubbing his handswith enjoyment.

  Mrs. Bindle brought the mop down on the man's mouth. "Stop it, youblaspheming son o' Belial," she cried.

  The big man roared the louder; but he made no effort to rise.

  "'Ere comes a flatty," cried a voice.

  "Slop's a-comin'," echoed another, and a minute later, a clean-shavenembodiment of youthful dignity and self-possession, in a helmet and blueuniform, approached and began to make his way through the crowd towardsthe Bindles' gate.

  From the position in which he lay the big man, unable to see thatassistance was at hand, continued to roar for help.

  At the approach of this symbol of the law, Mrs. Bindle stepped back andbrought her mop to the stand-at-ease position.

  The policeman looked from one to the other, and then proceeded to ferretsomewhere in the tails of his tunic, whence he produced a notebook. Thiswas obviously a case requiring literary expression.

  The big man, seeing Mrs. Bindle fall back, turned his head and caught aglimpse of the policeman. Very cautiously he raised himself to a sittingposture.

  "She's been murderin' me," he said, with one eye fixed warily upon themop. "'Ere, Charley!" he cried, looking over his left shoulder.

  Charley reluctantly approached, regretful that law and order hadtriumphed over red revolution.

  "Ain't she been tryin' to kill me?" demanded the big man of hisoffspring.

  "Biffed 'im on the 'ead wiv the 'andle," corroborated the boy in atoneless voice.

  "Poured water over me and 'it me in the stummick too, didn't she,Charley?" Once more the big man turned to his son for corroboration.

  "Got 'im a rare 'un too!" agreed Charley, with a feeling in his voicethat caused his father to look at him sharply. "Sloshed 'im on the jawtoo," he added, as if finding pleasure in dwelling upon the sufferingsof his parent.

  "Do you wish to charge her?" asked the policeman in an official voice.

  "'Charge me!'" broke in Mrs. Bindle. "'Charge me!' I should like to see'im do it. See what 'e's done to my geraniums, bringing his filthysticks into my front garden. 'Charge me!'" she repeated. "Just let himtry it!" and she brought the mop to a position from which it could belaunched at the big man's head.

  Instinctively he sank down again on to the path, and the policemaninterposed his body between the weapon and the vanquished.

  "There's plenty of witnesses here to prove what he done," cried Mrs.Bindle shrilly.

  Once more the big man raised himself to a sitting posture; but Mrs.Bindle had no intention of allowing him to control the situation. To hera policeman meant justice, and to this self-possessed lad in the uniformof unlimited authority she opened her heart and, at the same time, thevials of her wrath.

  "'Ere was I ironin' in my kitchen when this rabble," she indicated thecrowd with the handle of the mop, "descended upon me like the plague oflocusts." To Mrs. Bindle, scriptural allusion was a necessity.

  "They said they wanted to take my 'ouse. Said I'd told them it was tolet, the perjured scum of Judas. Then _he_ came along"--she pointed toher victim who was gingerly feeling the bump that Mrs. Bindle's mop hadraised--"and threw all that dirty lumber into my garden, and--and----"Here her voice broke, for to Mrs. Bindle those geranium slips were verydear.

  "You'd better get up."

  At the policeman's words the big man rose heavily to his feet. For amoment he stood still, as if to make quite sure that no bones werebroken. Then his hand went to his neck-cloth and he produced a piece ofhearthstone which had, apparently, become detached from the parent slab.

  "Threw bricks at me," he complained, holding out the piece ofhearthstone to the policeman.

  "Ananias!" came Mrs. Bindle's uncompromising retort.

  "Do you want to charge her?" asked the policeman brusquely.

  "Serves 'im jolly well right," cried the woman with the tweed cap andhat-pin, pushing her way in front of a big man who obstructed her view.

  "Oughter be run-in 'isself," agreed a pallid woman with a shawl over herhead.

  "Look wot 'e done to 'er garding," mumbled the rag-and-bone man,pointin
g at the flower-bed with the air of one who has just made animportant discovery.

  "It's the likes of 'im wot makes strikes," commented the woman in thedolman. "Blinkin' profiteer."

  "She's got pluck, any'ow," said a telephone mechanic, who had joined thecrowd just before Charley's father had bent before the wind of Mrs.Bindle's displeasure. "Knocked 'im out in the first round. RegularGeorge Carpenter," he added.

  "You get them things out of my garden. If you don't I'll give you incharge."

  The big man blinked, a puzzled expression creeping into his eyes. Helooked at the policeman uncomprehendingly. This was an aspect of thecase that had not, hitherto, struck him.

  "Are they your things?" asked the policeman, intent upon disentanglingthe situation before proceeding to use the pencil, the point of which hewas meditatively sucking.

  Charley's father nodded. He was still thinking over Mrs. Bindle'sremark. It seemed to open up disconcerting possibilities.

  "Now then, what are you going to do?" demanded the policeman sternly."Do you wish to make a charge?"

  "I will," said Mrs. Bindle, "unless 'e takes 'is furniture away and paysfor the damage to my flowers. I'll charge 'im, the great, 'ulking brute,attacking a defenceless woman because he knows 'er 'usband's out."

  "That's right, missis, you 'ave 'im quodded," called out therag-and-bone man. "'E didn't ought to 'ave done that to your garding."

  "Tryin' to swank us 'e'd taken the 'ouse," cried the woman with thetweed cap and hat-pin. "I see through 'im from the first, I did. Thereain't many men wot can throw dust in my eyes," she added, lookingeagerly round for a dissenting look.

  "'Ullo, 'ullo!" cried a voice from the outskirts of the crowd. "Somebodygivin' somethink away, or is it a fire? 'Ere, let me pass, I'm the covewot pays the rent," and Bindle pushed his genial way through the crowd.

  They made way without protest. The advent of the newcomer suggestedfurther dramatic developments, possibly even a fight.

  "'Ullo, Tichborne!" cried Bindle, catching sight of the big man. "Beenscrappin'?"

  The three protagonists in the drama turned, as if with relief, to facethis new phase of the situation.

  "'Oo's 'e?" enquired Bindle of the policeman, indicating the big manwith a jerk of his thumb.

  "He's been tryin' to murder me, and if you were a man, Joe Bindle, you'dkill 'im."

  Bindle subjected the big man to an elaborate scrutiny. "Looks to me," heremarked drily, "as if someone's got in before me. Wot's 'appened?" Helooked interrogatingly up at the policeman.

  "'Oly 'Orace," he cried suddenly, as he caught sight of themiscellaneous collection of furniture that lay about the geranium bed."What's that little pawnshop a-doin' on our front garden?"

  With the aid of the rag-and-bone man and the woman with the tweed capand hat-pin, the whole situation was explained and expounded to bothBindle and the policeman.

  When he had heard everything, Bindle turned to the big man, who stoodsulkily awaiting events.

  "Now, look 'ere, cully," he said. "You didn't oughter start doin' themsort o' things with a figure like yours. When Mrs. B. gets 'old of abroom, or a mop, the safest thing to do is to draw in your solar-plexusan' run. It 'urts less. Now, speakin' as a Christian to a bloomin''eathen wot's done 'imself pretty well, judgin' from the size of 'ispinafore, you'd better send for the coachman, 'arness up that there drayo' yours, carry orf them bits o' sticks an' let bygones be bygones.Ain't that good advice?" He turned to the policeman for corroboration.

  There was a flicker of a smile at the corners of the policeman's mouth,which seemed not so very many years before to have been lisping babylanguage. He looked at the big man. It was not for him to advise.

  "'Ere, Charley, blaaarst you," cried the big man, pushing his way to thegate. He had decided that the dice had gone against him. "Get themthings on to the blinkin' barrer, you stutterin' young pup. Wot thepurple----"

  "Here, that's enough of that," said a quiet, determined voice, and thesoft lines of the policeman's face hardened.

  "Wot she want to say it was to let for?" he grumbled as he loped towardsthe hand-cart.

  "'Ere 'ave I come wiv all these things to take the blinkin' 'ouse, thenthere's all this ruddy fuss. Are you goin' to get over into thatblinkin' garden and fetch out them stutterin' things, or must I chuckyou over?"

  The last remark was addressed to Charley, who, with a wary eye on hisparent, had been watching events, hoping against hope that the policemanwould manifest signs of aggression, and carry on the good work that Mrs.Bindle had begun.

  Charley glanced interrogatingly at the policeman. Seeing in his eye noencouragement to mutiny, he sidled towards the gate, a watchful eyestill on his father. A moment later he was engaged in handing thefurniture over the railings.

  After the man had deposited the colander, a tin-bath, and two saucepansin the barrow, he seemed suddenly smitten with an idea.

  He tugged a soiled newspaper from his trouser pocket. Glancing at it, hewalked over to where the policeman was engaged in moving on the crowd.

  "Read that," he said, thrusting the paper under the officer's nose andpointing to a passage with a dirty forefinger. "Don't that say theblinkin' 'ouse is to let? You oughter run 'er in for false----" Hepaused. "For false----" he repeated.

  With a motion of his hand, the policeman brushed aside the newspaper.

  "Move along there, please. Don't block up the footpath," he said.

  At length the barrow was laden.

  The policeman stood by with the air of a man whose duty it is to see thething through.

  The crowd still loitered. They had even yet hopes of a breach of thepeace.

  The big man was reluctant to go without a final effort to rehabilitatehimself. Once more he drew the paper from his pocket and approached thepoliceman.

  "Wot she put that in for?" he demanded, indicating the advertisement.

  Ignoring the remark, the policeman drew his notebook once more from hispocket.

  "I shall want your name and address," he said with an official air.

  "Wotjer want it for?"

  "Now, then, come along," said the policeman, and the big man gave hisname and address.

  "Wot she do it for?" he repeated, "an' wot's going to 'appen to 'er for'ittin' me in the stummick?"

  "You'd better get along," said the policeman.

  With a grumble in his throat, the big man placed himself between theshafts of the barrow and, having blasted Charley into action, moved off.

  "Made a rare mess of the garding, ain't 'e?" remarked the rag-and-boneman to the woman with the tweed cap and the hat-pin.

  "Blinkin' profiteer!" was her comment.

  II

  "It's all your fault. Look wot they done." Mrs. Bindle surveyed thedesolation which, that morning, had been a garden.

  The bed was trodden down, the geraniums broken, and the lobelia bordershowed big gaps in its blue and greenness.

  "It's always the same with anything I 'ave," she continued. "You alwaysspoil it."

  "But it wasn't me," protested Bindle. "It was that big cove with thepinafore."

  "Who put that advertisement in?" demanded Mrs. Bindle darkly. "That'swhat _I_ should like to know."

  "Somebody wot 'ad put the wrong number," suggested Bindle.

  "I'd wrong number them if I caught them."

  Suddenly she turned and made a bolt inside the house.

  Bindle regarded the open door in surprise. A moment later his quick earscaught the sound of Mrs. Bindle's hysterical sobbing.

  "Now ain't that jest like a woman?" was his comment. "She put 'im tosleep in the first round, an' still she ain't 'appy. Funny things,women," he added.

  That evening as Mrs. Bindle closed the front door behind her on her wayto the Wednesday temperance service, she turned her face to the garden;it had been in her mind all day.

  She blinked incredulously. The lobelia seemed bluer than ever, andwithin the circular border was a veritable riot of flowering geraniums.

  "It's that
Bindle again," she muttered with indrawn lips as she turnedtowards the gate. "Pity he hasn't got something better to do with hismoney." Nevertheless she placed upon the supper-table an apple-tart thathad been made for to-morrow's dinner, to which she added a cup ofcoffee, of which Bindle was particularly fond.