Those who remained, together with a number of girls and women, fought until they were overpowered and captured, and the Barton Bridge Temperance Fête came to an inglorious end.
That same evening, having laden the van with such of the property and tents as had not been utilised for bonfires and missiles, Bindle took his seat on the tail-board, and the van lumbered off in the direction of London.
He proceeded to review the events of the day. What particularly diverted him was the recollection of the way in which horses and vehicles had been mixed up.
When he had returned to the High Street he found there numbers of those who had visited the Fête and were now desirous only of getting home. He helped them to harness their horses, assuring them that the beasts were theirs. If he were asked for a dog-cart he selected the first to hand, and then sought out a horse of suitable size and harnessed it to the vehicle.
If any demur were made, or if identification marks were sought, he hurried the objector off, telling him that he ought to be glad he had got a horse at all.
Bindle was grinning comfortably at the thought of the days it would take to sort out the horses and vehicles, when he saw in the distance a bicycle being ridden by someone obviously in a hurry.
As it came nearer he recognised the rider as Dick Little, who pedalled up beside the van and tendered a sovereign to Bindle.
"No, sir," Bindle remarked, shaking his head. "I'm a bit of a sport myself. Lord! wasn't they drunk!" He chuckled quietly. "That young parson chap, too. No, sir, I been paid in fun."
After a somewhat lengthy discussion carried on in whispers, so that the driver should not hear, Bindle suggested that Dick Little had better come inside the van, as if anyone were to see them it might result in suspicion.
"Yer seem to like a little joke," he added. "I can tell yer about some as won't make yer want to cry."
An hour later, when Dick Little hunched his bicycle from the tail of the van he said:
"Well, come and see me in London; I'm generally in Sunday evenings."
"Right, sir; I will," replied Bindle; "but might I arst, sir, wot it was that made 'em so fidgety?"
"It was pure alcohol mixed with distilled mead," was the reply.
"Well, it done the trick. Good-night, sir. Lord! won't there be some 'eads wantin' 'oldin' in the mornin'," and he laughed joyously as the pantechnicon rumbled noisily Londonwards.
CHAPTER X
MR. HEARTY PRAYS FOR BINDLE
Mrs. Bindle had just returned from evening chapel. On Sundays, especially on Sunday evenings, when there had been time for the cumulative effect of her devotions to manifest itself, Mrs. Bindle was always in a chastened mood. She controlled those gusts of temper which plunged her back into the Doric and precipitated Bindle "into 'ell, dust an' all."
On this particular evening she was almost gentle. The bangs with which she accentuated the placing of each plate and dish upon the table were piano bangs, and Bindle duly noted the circumstance.
With him Sunday was always a day of intellectual freedom. He aired his views more freely on that than on other days.
Having laid the supper, Mrs. Bindle began to remove her bonnet. With a hat-pin in her mouth and her hands stretched behind her head in the act of untying an obstreperous veil that rested like a black line across the bridge of her nose, she remarked, in that casual tone which with her betokened an item of great interest and importance:
"Mr. Hearty prayed for you to-night, Bindle."
Bindle sat up in his chair as if he had been shot.
"'Earty wot?" he interrogated, with unaccustomed anger in his voice, and an unwonted flash in his eye. "'Earty wot?"
"He prayed for you," replied Mrs. Bindle in what was for her a hushed voice; "a beautiful prayer about a brother who had fallen by the wayside, a wheat-ear among thorns."
"'E prayed for me – 'im?"
Bindle removed his pipe from his mouth, and gripping the bowl between thumb and finger, pointed what remained of the stem at Mrs. Bindle, as she stuck a hat-pin through her bonnet and placed it on the dresser.
"'E prayed for me?" The words came with such deliberation and intensity that Mrs. Bindle glanced round sharply.
"Yes!" she snapped, "an' you want it. You're nothin' but an 'eathen." Mrs. Bindle was forgetting her careful articulation.
"A brother fallen by the roadside – "
"Wayside," corrected Mrs. Bindle, as she banged a loaf on the table.
"A brother 'oo 'as fallen by the wayside, a wheat-ear among thorns," murmured Bindle as if to himself. Suddenly he grinned; the humour of the thing seemed to strike him. "Prayed for in church – leastwise chapel – jest like the Royal Family an' rain. You're comin' on, Joe Bindle," he chuckled.
"Seems to amuse you," remarked Mrs. Bindle as she took her place at the table.
"Yer've 'it it," replied Bindle, as he skilfully opened the tin of salmon. "Yer've just 'it it. Alfred 'Earty was sent to annoy 'eaven with 'is 'ymns and tickle up Joe Bindle with 'is prayers."
"If you was more like what he is, you'd be a better man."
"'Earty is as 'Earty does," flashed Bindle with a grin. Then after a pause to enable him to reduce a particularly large mouthful of bread and salmon to conversational proportions, he continued:
"If I 'ad the runnin' of this 'ere world, there'd be some rather big alterations, with a sort of 'end o' the season' sale, an' there'd be some pretty cheap lines in parsons an' greengrocers, not to speak of chapel-goers."
"I'm surprised at you, Bindle, talking such blasphemies in a Christian 'ome. Unless you stop I'll go out."
"Not while there's any salmon left, Mrs. B.," remarked Bindle oracularly.
"You're a bad man. I done my best, I'm sure – "
"You 'ave; if yer'd done yer second best or yer third best, Joe Bindle might 'a been a better man than wot 'e is." Bindle dug a morsel of salmon out of the tin with the point of his knife. "I been too well brought up, that's wot's the matter wi' me."
"You're always scoffin' and sneerin' at me an' the chapel," responded Mrs. Bindle tartly. "It don't hurt me, whatever you may think."
"There you're wrong, me blossom." Bindle was in high spirits. His mind had been busily at work, and he saw a way of "bein' a bloomin' thorn in 'Earty's wheat-ear 'ole."
"I ain't a scoffer; it's just that I don't understan' 'ow a thing wot was meant to make people 'appy, seems to make 'em about as joyful as a winkle wot feels the pin."
"Winkles are boiled first," retorted the literal Mrs. Bindle, wiping round her plate with a piece of bread; "an' bein' dead don't feel pins. I wouldn't eat them if it hurt. Besides, winkles haven't anythin' to do with religion."
"That's wot makes 'em so tasty," retorted Bindle. "You an' 'Earty 'ave sort o' spoiled me appetite for religion; but winkles still 'old me." After a short silence he continued, "I never see a religious cove yet wot I 'ad any likin' for, leastwise, wot said 'e was religious. It's a funny thing, but as soon as people become good they seems to get about as comfortable to live with as an 'edge'og in bed.
"Funny thing, religion," Bindle continued. "There was one cove I know'd 'oo spent 'is time in 'avin' D.T.'s and gettin' saved, about 'alf an' 'alf, with a slight leanin' to D.T.'s. We called 'im Suds an' Salvation, 'suds' bein' 'is name for beer.
"Look at 'Earty, now. 'E's always talkin' of 'eaven, but 'e ain't in no 'urry to get there. 'E's as nippy as a cat if 'e 'ears a motor 'ooter when 'e's crossin' the road; and 'e 'ustles like 'ell to get inside of a bus when it's rainin'."
"His life is not 'is own, and he's waitin' his call."
Bindle looked up with a laugh.
"'Ow'll 'e know it's for 'im an' not next door?" he asked.
"I won't listen to your evil talk," announced Mrs. Bindle, half rising from her chair, and then resuming her seat again as if thinking better of her determination.
"When," continued Bindle imperturbably, "I 'ears of a place where the beer's better an' cheaper than wot I gets 'ere, orf I goes like a bunny after a lettuce. Now you an' 'Earty knows that in 'eaven 'appiness is better an' cheaper than wot it is 'ere, yet yer does all yer can to keep away from it; and they're all the same. That's wot does me."
"If you wasn't such an 'eathen you'd understand," stormed Mrs. Bindle, "and my life would be 'appier. You won't go to chapel, an' you won't 'ave a bath, and – "
"I don't 'old with all this talk o' washin'. It ain't natural," broke in Bindle cheerfully. "Look at the ladies. Wot do they do? When they gets sort o' soiled, do they wash? Not a bit of it; they shoves on another coat of powder to cover it up. I seen 'em doin' it."
"Scarlet women!" Mrs. Bindle's jaws snapped loudly.
"Yes, an' pink an' white 'uns too. I seen all sorts doin' it – which reminds me of 'ow ole Snooker lorst 'is job. 'E wos sent round by 'is guv'nor to a lady with an estimate for white-washin' and paper-'angin'. When she saw the price she gives a sort of screech o' surprise.
"'This is very expensive,' she says. 'It didn't cost little more than 'alf this last time.'
"'It's the right price, mum,' says Snooker. 'I been through it myself,' 'e says.
"'But I don't understand,' says she.
"'Well, mum,' says Snooker, 'there's the ceilin's to be washed off,' 'e says, 'an' the old paper to be stripped off the walls,' 'e says, 'and it all takes time.'
"'But is that necessary?' says the lady.
"'Well, mum,' says Snooker, quiet like, 'yer wouldn't put clean stockin's on dirty legs, would yer?' says 'e.
"She was as angry as an 'en, and wrote in that Snooker 'ad been sayin' disgustin' things, 'im wot blows a cornet in the Salvation Band o' Sundays. Why, 'e ain't got enough wind left on week-days to be disgustin' with. Any'ow 'e lorst 'is job, and the lady went to someone else as didn't talk about legs."
"Y' ought to be ashamed of yourself, Joseph Bindle, telling me such lewd tales."
"'Lewd!' Wot's that?" queried Bindle.
"An abomination in the sight of the Lord," replied Mrs. Bindle sententiously. "Your talk ain't fit for a woman to listen to. Last time we was at Mr. Hearty's you was speakin' of babies in front of Millie. I went hot all over."
"Is babies lewd then?" enquired Bindle innocently.
"They're born in sin."
"Oh, Lord!" grinned Bindle, "I'm always doin' it. Fancy babies bein' as bad as that."
"You shouldn't speak about them before a young girl like Millie."
"Babies is funny things," remarked Bindle, replacing his empty glass on the table, and wiping his mouth with the back of his disengaged hand. "Babies is funny things. If yer want one it never seems to come; but if yer don't want 'em it rains babies, an' 'fore yer know it you've got a dose or two o' triplets at three pound a bunch from the King. There wos 'Arry Brown; 'e wanted a kid, and 'e 'ated kittens. Yet 'is missis never 'ad a baby, though the cat was always 'avin' kittens, which shows as there wasn't anythink wrong wi' the 'ouse."
"I'm goin' to bed," announced Mrs. Bindle, as she rose. "Your talk ain't fit for decent ears to listen to. If it wasn't the Sabbath I'd tell you wot I think of you."
"I'm goin' out," announced Bindle with decision.
"At this time? You ain't goin' round to Mr. Hearty's?" There was a note of anxiety in Mrs. Bindle's voice. "It's past nine o'clock."
"I ain't decided whether I'll punch 'Earty's 'ead or go an' get drunk. I'm sick of all this 'umbug."
Whilst speaking, Bindle had seized his coat and cap, and made for the door. The utterance of the last word synchronised with the banging of the door itself.
Bindle walked to the Fulham Road, where he boarded an east-bound bus. At Beaufort Street he alighted, and a few minutes later was ringing the bell at 550 Beaufort Mansions, the address given to him by Dick Little. The door was opened by Little himself.
"Why, it's Aristophanes," he said with obvious pleasure.
"No, sir, Joe Bindle."
"Come in, man, whoever you are. Come in, you're just the man we want," said Dick Little heartily.
At that moment there was a gust of laughter from an adjoining room.
"I'm afraid you got friends, sir," said Bindle, hesitating on the mat. "I'll call round another night, sir. Shouldn't like to interrupt you."
"Rot! Come in," Little replied, dragging Bindle towards the room from whence the laughter came. Through the door he cried out:
"Shut up that damned row. Here's Bindle, the immortal Bindle."
The momentary hush that Little's command had produced was followed by yells of delight which crystallised into, "For he's a Jolly Good Fellow!"
Bindle stood at the door listening in amazement; then with a grin remarked to Little:
"Seem to know me, sir; seem sort o' fond of me."
"Know you, Bindle, my boy? There's not a fellow in Tim's that doesn't know and love you. A toast, you fellows," he cried.
Little seized a glass half-full of whisky-and-soda. "A toast," he cried, "to Bindle the Incomparable, rival of Aristophanes as a maker of mirth."
Cries of "Bindle! Bindle!" echoed from all parts of the smoke-dimmed room, and again there broke out what Dick Little called "the National Anthem of Good Fellowship," followed by calls for a speech.
Before he knew it Bindle was hoisted upon the table, where he stood gazing down upon some eight or ten flushed faces.
"Gentlemen, chair, please." Little rapped a glass on the table. Silence ensued. "Now, Aristophanes," to Bindle.
"Bindle, sir, plain Joe Bindle, if you please." Then turning to the expectant faces round him Bindle began his first speech.
"Gentlemen – leastways, I 'ope so. You all seem to know me, and likewise to be very fond o' me; well, p'r'aps I might become fond o' you if I don't get to know too much about yer 'abits. I'm sorry to break up this 'ere prayer-meetin', but I come to 'ave a word with Mr. Little." (Cries of "Have it with us.") "Very well, then," continued Bindle. "I got a brother-in-law, 'Earty by name." (There were cries of "Good old Hearty!") "Seem to know 'im too. P'r'aps yer sings in the choir at 'is chapel. Any'ow, 'Earty's been prayin' for me to-night at 'is chapel, an' I come to arst Mr. Little wot I'd better do."
Bindle's announcement caused a sensation and something of an uproar. His voice was drowned in cries of "Shame!"
"Just a moment, gentlemen, and I've done. 'E called me 'a brother fallen by the wayside, a wheat-ear among thorns.'"
Yells of laughter followed this announcement, and Bindle was pulled down and drink forced upon him. Soon he was sitting in the most comfortable armchair in the room, smoking a colossal cigar, with a large kitchen jug full of beer at his elbow. He saw before him nearly a dozen of the most riotous spirits in London listening with eager interest to his stories and opinions, which they punctuated with gusts of laughter. The night was far advanced when at length he rose to go.
"Well, gentlemen," he said, "I never thought that doctors was such sports. Now I understand why it is that the ladies is always gettin' ill. S' long, and thanks for this friendly little evenin'. If I've talked too much you jest come and 'ear Mrs. Bindle one evenin' and yer'll be glad it's me and not 'er."
As Dick Little showed him out Bindle enquired:
"'Ow am I to get 'ome on that psalm-singin' brother-in-law o' mine? – that's wot I wants to know. Prayin' for me in chapel." Bindle wreaked his disgust on the match he was striking.
"I'll think it over," said Little, "and let you know. Good-night, and thanks for coming. We shall always be glad to see you any Sunday night."
"Different from 'Earty's Sunday nights," muttered Bindle, as he walked away. "I wonder which makes the best men. It's a good job I ain't got anythink to do with 'eaven, or them wheat-ears might sort o' get mixed wi' the thorns."
CHAPTER XI
MR. HEARTY BECOMES EXTREMELY UNPOPULAR
"'Earty may be all 'ymns an' whiskers," Bindle had said, "an' I 'ate 'is 'oly look an' oily ways; but 'e sticks to his job an' works like a blackleg. It don't seem to give 'im no pleasure though. 'E don't often smile, an' when 'e does it's as if 'e thought Gawd was a-goin' to charge it up against 'im."
Mr. Hearty was an excellent tradesman; he sold nothing that he had not bought himself, and Covent Garden knew no shrewder judge of what to buy and what not to buy, or, as Bindle phrased it:
"'E's so used to lookin' for sin in the soul that 'e can see a rotten apple in the middle of a barrel without knockin' the top off. Yes, I'll give 'Earty 'is due. There ain't many as can knock spots off 'im as a greengrocer, though as far as bein' a man, I seen better things than 'im come out o' cheese."
On the Saturday morning after Bindle's visit to Dick Little, Mr. Hearty was busily engaged in superintending the arrangement of his Fulham High Street shop, giving an order here and a touch there, always with excellent results.
According to his wont he had returned from market before eight o'clock, breakfasted, hurried round to his other shop in the Wandsworth Bridge Road, and before ten was back again at Fulham.
He was occupied in putting the finishing touches to a honey-coloured pyramid of apples, each in its nest of pink paper like a setting hen, when an ill-favoured man entered leading an enormous dog, in which the salient points of the mastiff, bull-terrier, and French poodle struggled for expression. The man looked at a dirty piece of paper he held in his hand.
"Name of 'Earty?" he interrogated.
"I am Mr. Hearty," was the reply, uttered in a voice that was intended to suggest dignity with just a dash of Christian forbearance.
"I brought your dawg," said the man with ingratiating geniality, baring three dark-brown stumps that had once been teeth; "I brought your dawg," he repeated, looking down at what appeared to be four enormous legs loosely attached to a long, sinuous body.
"You're mistaken," said Mr. Hearty. "It's not mine; I don't keep a dog."
"My mistake, guv'nor," replied the man with a grin; "I should 'a said the dawg wot you're a-lookin' for. 'Ere, Lily, drop it."
This last remark was addressed to the dog, who, seeing Mr. Hearty's soft black felt hat lying on a box, had seized it in her enormous jaws. She looked up at her master and shook the hat roguishly with a gurgle of joy; but a sharp cuff on the muzzle caused her to drop what her teeth and saliva had already ruined.
"This is just the dawg you're wantin'," continued the man pleasantly, indicating Lily, who had lain down and was now occupying the entire centre of the shop, looking about her with distended jaws and a great flap of whitey-red tongue hanging out amiably. "Playful as a kitten, and an 'ouse-dog as 'ud eat a burglar an' then go back to dawg-biscuit wivout a murmur. She's some dawg, is Lily!"
"But I don't want a dog," replied Mr. Hearty, eyeing his hat, which the man was endeavouring to clean with his coat-sleeve. "Will you please take it away?" There was a note of asperity in his voice.
"Don't want a dawg? Don't want a dawg?" There was menace in the man's manner that caused Mr. Hearty some anxiety, and he looked appealingly at Smith, his chief assistant, and the boy, who stood regarding the episode with an enjoyment they dare not express.
"Don't want a dawg?" repeated the man for the third time. "You jest read this," thrusting out towards Mr. Hearty the dirty piece of paper he held in his hand. "You jest read this an' you'll ruddy well see that yer do want a dawg, an' this 'ere is the dawg yer want."
Mr. Hearty mechanically took the piece of paper the man thrust towards him. It was a cutting of an advertisement, which read:
"DOG WANTED, breed not important, provided it is a large and good house-dog. Not to cost more than £4. Apply personally with animal to Alfred Hearty, 530 Fulham High Street, S.W., on Saturday at 10.30 a.m."
Mr. Hearty looked from the paper to Lily's owner in an uncomprehending way and then back to the advertisement again.
"The breed ain't important in Lily," remarked the man. "She's took prizes as a mastiff, a French poodle, a bull-terrier, and a pom., and she got hon'ble mention as a grey'ound once. She'll chaw up a man she don't like, won't yer, Lily, old gal?"
Lily looked up with a ridiculously amiable expression for a dog possessed of such qualities.
"But I don't want a dog," repeated Mr. Hearty, looking helplessly at Smith.
"Then wot the grumblin' 'ereafter do yer put in this advertisement for?" growled the man angrily.
"But I didn't."
"Is your name 'Earty?"
"I am Mr. Hearty."
"Then you want a dawg, an' Lily's your dawg, an' I want four pound. Now, 'and it over, guv'nor. I'm in a 'urry. I ain't a bloomin' non-stop."
At that moment a middle-aged woman entered, followed by a very small boy with a very large dog, as indeterminate as to pedigree as Lily herself. The woman looked about her and approached Smith.
"Mr. Hearty?" she almost whispered.
Smith, a man of few words, jerked his thumb in the direction of his employer. The woman walked over to him. Meanwhile the new dog had growled ominously at Lily, who, throwing out her forepaws and depressing her head upon them, had playfully challenged it to a romp.
"Mr. Hearty?" meekly enquired the woman.
As she spoke a woman and two more men with other dogs entered the shop. These were quickly followed by another woman of a I – know-what-I-want-and-'Uggins-is-my-name-an'-I've-got-me-marriage-lines appearance. Following her came a mild-mannered man with yet another dog, larger and more bewildering in the matter of breed than Lily and the other animal combined.
"I want to see Mr. 'Earty," announced the third woman to Smith. Smith indicated Mr. Hearty in his usual manner by a jerk of the thumb.
"I come in answer to the advertisement," she announced.
"For a dawg?" enquired Lily's owner suspiciously.
"For an 'ousekeeper," replied the woman aggressively. "Wot's that got to do wi' you? You ain't Mr. 'Earty, are yer? You jest shut yer ugly face."
The man subsided.
The shop was now full. Lily and the second dog had decided to be friends, and had formed an alliance against the third dog. In their gambols they had already upset a basket of apples.
Whilst Mr. Hearty was endeavouring to convince Lily's owner that not only did he not require a dog, but that as a matter of fact he had a marked antipathy for the whole species, other animals continued to arrive. They grouped themselves outside with their owners, together with a nondescript collection of men, women, and boys, with and without dogs. All seemed inspired with the same ambition – to interview Mr. Hearty.
Mr. Hearty looked at the sea of faces outside as an actor suffering from stage-fright might gaze at the audience that had bereft him of the power to speak or move. He felt that he must act promptly, even sternly; but he was not a brave man and saw that he was faced by a crowd of potential enemies. Summoning up all his courage he turned to Lily's owner.
"Kindly remove that dog," he ordered in what he meant to be a stern voice, indicating Lily, who was playing a game of hide-and-seek round an apple-barrel with a pomeranian-Irish-terrier.
"'Oo are you talkin' to? Just answer me that," demanded Lily's owner.
Mr. Hearty saw clearly that the man intended to be awkward, even insolent.
"I am speaking to you, and unless you take that dog away, I – I – " Mr. Hearty stopped, wondering what he really would do. What ought he to do under such circumstances?
"Why did yer advertise?" demanded the aggressive woman.
"I didn't," replied Mr. Hearty miserably, turning to his new assailant. "I have advertised for nothing."
"Didn't yer advertise for a 'ousekeeper?" continued the woman.
"No!"
"Yer a blinkin' liar."
At this uncompromising rejoinder Mr. Hearty started. He was unaccustomed to such directness of speech.
"Unless you are civil I shall order you out of my shop," retorted Mr. Hearty angrily.
"An' if yer do I shan't go; see?" The woman placed her hands on her hips and looked at Mr. Hearty insultingly. "Look at 'im," she continued, addressing the crowd, "playin' 'is dirty jokes on pore people. I paid eightpence return to get 'ere all the way from Brixton, then 'e says it's a joke."
There was an ominous murmur from the others. All sorts of epithets were hurled at Mr. Hearty.
"Will yer pay our fares?"
"I'll punch 'is bloomin' 'ead till it aches!"
"Let me get at 'im!"
"Yer dirty tyke!"
"You goin' to buy my dawg?" demanded Lily's owner, thrusting his face so close to Mr. Hearty's that their noses almost touched.
"No, I'm not," shouted Mr. Hearty in desperation. "Smith, put this man and his dog out."
Smith looked embarrassed and Lily's owner laughed outright, a sneering, insulting laugh, which his black stumps of teeth seemed to render more sinister and menacing.
Mr. Hearty felt that the situation was passing beyond his control. How had it all happened and what did it mean? Events had followed upon one another so swiftly that he was bewildered. Where were the police? What did he pay rates and taxes for if he were to be subjected to this? What would be the end of it all? Would they kill him?
Just as he saw himself being bruised and buffeted by a furious crowd, a shadow fell across the shop as a pantechnicon drew up outside. It was one of three, and from the tail-board of the last Bindle slipped off and began forcing his way towards the shop entrance.
"Now then," he called out cheerfully, "make way there. I'm the brother o' the corpse. Wot's it all about – a fire or a dog-show?"
The crowd good-humouredly made room. Pushing his way into the shop he hailed his brother-in-law.
"'Ullo, 'Earty; 'oldin' a levée? What-oh!"
"'E wants a dawg," broke in the dog man, indicating Lily with a jerk of his thumb.
"I come all the way from Brixton," shouted the would-be housekeeper.
"An' very nice, too," replied Bindle, as he pushed his way to the side of Mr. Hearty, who was listening with anguished intentness to an eager group of women whose one desire seemed to caretake for him.
Bindle looked round the shop with a puzzled expression, his eyes finally resting on Lily.
"Call that a dawg?" he enquired of Lily's owner with an incredulous grin.
"Yus, I do," replied the man aggressively. "What 'ud you call it? A rosy kitten?"
"Well," remarked Bindle imperturbably, regarding Lily critically, "since you arsts me, I'd call it a bloomin' 'istory o' dawgs in one volume."
"Where'll yer 'ave the coal, guv'nor?" bawled a voice from the fringe of the crowd.
At that moment Mrs. Hearty entered from the parlour behind the shop. She gazed about her in mild wonderment.
"We don't want any coals, Alf. We had them in last week." Mrs. Hearty subsided into a chair. Suddenly her eyes fell upon Lily, who was trying to shake off her head Mr. Hearty's hat, which someone had placed there, and she collapsed, helpless with laughter.
"'Ere, get out of it," cried Bindle, giving Lily a cuff, whereat she yelped dismally. Providence had evidently intended her for doughty deeds, having endowed her with the frame of an Amazon, but had then lost interest and given her the heart of a craven.
By dint of threats, badinage, and persuasion Bindle at last cleared the shop of all save Mr. and Mrs. Hearty, Smith, and the boy. Posting the staff at the door with instructions to admit no one, Bindle approached his brother-in-law.
"Wot jer been doin', 'Earty? The 'ole bloomin' street's full o' carts and people wantin' to see yer. I brought three vans. What's it all about?"
Never had Mr. Hearty been so genuinely pleased to see Bindle. Before he had time to reply to his question, a big man pushed his way past Smith and entered the shop.
"Where'll yer 'ave the beer, guv'nor?" he shouted in a thick, hearty voice redolent of the Trade.
"'Ere, come out of the way," shouted a small wiry man who had followed him in. "All this little lot goin'?" he asked, nodding in the direction of the crowd that blocked the street. "I only got three brakes, an' they won't take 'em all."
"What's your little game?" Bindle enquired of the newcomer.
The brakeman eyed him with scornful contempt.
"You Mr. 'Earty?" he enquired.
"I'm 'is brother; 'e's been took ill. There's a mistake. You better get 'ome."
"Get 'ome!" shouted the man. "'Oo's goin' to pay?"
"Try Lloyd George!" suggested Bindle cheerfully.
A policeman pushed his way into the shop and Bindle slipped out. The real drama was being enacted outside. From all directions a steady stream of people was pouring towards Mr. Hearty's shop.
"'Earty, 'Earty," murmured Bindle joyously to himself, as he surveyed the High Street, "wot 'ave yer been an' done?"
The place presented an extraordinary appearance.
There were coal-carts, strings of them, brewers'-drays, laundry-carts, railway-vans, huge two-horse affairs, pantechnicons, char-a-bancs, large carts, small carts, and medium-sized carts. There were vehicles with one, two, and three horses. There were motor-cars, motor-vans, motor-lorries, and motor-cycles. There were donkey-carts, spring-carts, push-carts, and pull-carts. Everything capable of delivering goods was represented, and all were locked together in a hopelessly congested mass.
Everything had come to a standstill and the trams strove in vain to clang their way through the inextricable tangle.
The footpaths were crowded with men, women, boys, and dogs, all endeavouring to reach Mr. Hearty's shop, the Mecca of their pilgrimage. Crowds overflowed the paths into the roadway and seemed to cement together the traffic.
Bindle passed along the line intent on gleaning all the information he could.
"'Ave yer come after the job o' 'ousekeeper, nurse, or dawg?" he asked one seedy-looking man with an alarming growth of nose.
"'Ow about my railway fare?"' enquired Lily's owner, recognising Bindle. "'Oo's goin' to pay it?"
"You're a-goin' to pay it yerself, ole sport, unless you're goin' to walk." Then eyeing the man critically he added, "A little exercise might ease yer figure a bit."
Bindle pushed among the throng of disappointed applicants for employment and deliverers of goods. Fate had been kind to him in sending him this glorious jest.
"Might 'a been foundin' a colony," he muttered, as he passed from group to group; "'e ain't forgot nothink: plumbers, bricklayers, vans, 'ousekeepers, dawgs, kids to adopt, 'orses, carpenters, caretakers, shovers; an' 'e's ordered everythink what ever growed or was made, includin' beer, enough to keep the Guards drunk for a year. 'Earty's mad, pore chap. Religion do take some that way."