Adventures of Bindle

Bindle did not even raise his eyes from his favourite dish of stewed-steak-and-onions.

"Cold mutton," he had once remarked to his friend, Ginger, "means peace, because I don't like it – the mutton, I mean; but stewed-steak-and-onions means an 'ell of a row. Mrs. B. ain't able to see me enjoyin' myself but wot she thinks I'm bein' rude to Gawd."

Bindle continued his meal in silent expectation.

"Look at you!" continued Mrs. Bindle. "Look at you now!"

Bindle still declined to be drawn into a discussion.

"Look at Mr. Hearty." Mrs. Bindle uttered her challenge with the air of one who plays the ace of trumps.

With great deliberation Bindle wiped the last remaining vestige of gravy from his plate with a piece of bread, which he placed in his mouth. With a sigh he leaned back in his chair.

"Personally, myself," he remarked calmly, "I'd rather not."

"Rather not what?" snapped Mrs. Bindle.

"Look at 'Earty," was the response.

"You might look at worse men than him," flashed Mrs. Bindle with rising wrath.

"I might," replied Bindle, "and then again I might not."

"Look how he's got on!" challenged Mrs. Bindle.

After a few moments of silence Bindle remarked more to himself than to Mrs. Bindle:

"Gawd made me, an' Gawd made 'Earty; but in one of us 'E made a bloomer. If I'm right, 'Earty's wrong; if 'Earty's right, I'm wrong. If they 'ave me in 'eaven, they won't want 'Earty; an' if 'Earty gets in, well, they won't look at me."

Mrs. Bindle proceeded to gather up the plates.

"Thank you for that stoo," said Bindle as he tilted back his chair contentedly.

"You should thank God, not me," was the ungracious retort.

For a moment Bindle appeared to ponder the remark. "Some'ow," he said at length, "I don't think I should like to thank Gawd for stewed-steak-an'-onions," and he drew his pipe from his pocket and began to charge it.

"Don't start smoking," snapped Mrs. Bindle, rising from the chair and going over to the stove.

Bindle looked up with interested enquiry on his features.

"There's an apple-pudding," continued Mrs. Bindle.

Bindle pocketed his pipe with a happy expression on his features. "Lizzie," he said, "'ow could you treat me like this?"

"What's the matter now?" demanded Mrs. Bindle.

"An apple-puddin' a-waitin' to be eaten, an' you lettin' me waste time a-talkin' about 'Earty's looks. It ain't kind of you, Lizzie, it ain't really."

Mrs. Bindle's sole response was a series of bangs, as she proceeded to turn out the apple-pudding.

Bindle ate and ate generously. When he had finished he pushed the plate from him and once more produced his pipe from his pocket.

"Mrs. B.," he said, "you may be a Christian; but you're a damn fine cook."

"Don't use such language to me," was the response, uttered a little less ungraciously than her previous remarks.

"It's all right, Mrs. B., don't you worry, they ain't a-goin' to charge that there 'damn' up against you. You're too nervous about the devil, you are," Bindle struck a match and sucked at his pipe.

"He's going to open another shop," said Mrs. Bindle.

"Who, the devil?" enquired Bindle in surprise.

"It's going to be in Putney High Street," continued Mrs. Bindle, ignoring Bindle's remark.

Bindle looked up at her with genuine puzzlement on his features.

"Putney 'Igh Street used to be a pretty 'ot place at night before the war," he remarked; "it ain't exactly cool now; but I never thought o' the devil openin' a shop there."

"I said Mr. Hearty," retorted Mrs. Bindle angrily.

"Oh! 'Earty," said Bindle contemptuously. "'Earty'd open anythink except 'is 'eart, or a barrel of apples 'e's sellin', knowin' them to be rotten. Wot's 'e want to open another shop for? 'E's got two already, ain't 'e?"

"Why haven't you got on?" stormed Mrs. Bindle inconsequently. "Why haven't you got three shops?"

"Well!" continued Bindle, "I might 'ave done so, but wot should I sell in 'em?"

"You never got on, you lorst every job you ever got. You'd 'ave lorst me long ago if – "

"No," remarked Bindle with solemn conviction as he rose and took his cap from behind the door. "You ain't the sort o' woman wot's lorst, Mrs. B., you're one o' them wot's found, like the little lamb that Ole Woe-and-Whiskers talked about when I went to chapel with you that night. S'long."

The news about Mr. Hearty's third venture in the greengrocery trade occupied Bindle's mind to the exclusion of all else as he walked in the direction of Chelsea to call upon Dr. Richard Little, whom he had met in connection with the Temperance Fête fiasco at Barton Bridge. He winked at only three girls and passed two remarks to carmen, and one to a bus-conductor, who was holding on rather unnecessarily to the arm of a pretty girl.

He found Dick Little at home and with him his brother Tom, and "Guggers," now a captain in the Gordons.

"Hullo! Here's J.B., gug-gug-good," cried Guggers, hurling his fourteen stone towards the diminutive visitor.

"Blessed if it ain't ole Spit-and-Speak in petticoats," cried Bindle. "I'm glad to see you, sir, that I am," and he shook Guggers warmly by the hand.

Guggers, as he was known at Oxford on account of his inability to pronounce a "G" without a preliminary "gug-gug," had taken a prominent part in the Oxford rag, when Bindle posed as the millionaire uncle of an unpopular undergraduate.

Bindle had christened him Spit-and-Speak owing to Gugger's habit of salivating his words.

When the men were seated, and Bindle was puffing furiously at a big cigar, he explained the cause of his visit.

"I ain't 'appy, sir," he said to Dick Little, "and although the 'ymn says ''ere we suffer grief an' woe,' it don't say we got to suffer grief an' woe an' 'Earty, altogether."

"What's up, J.B.?" enquired Dick Little.