THE DUPLICATION OF MR. HEARTY
I
"You've never been a real husband to me," burst out Mrs. Bindle
stormily.
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 Fete 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.
"Well, if the truth's got to be told, sir, I got 'Earty in the
throat."
"Got what?" enquired Tom Little, grinning.
"'Earty, my brother-in-law, 'Earty. I 'ad 'im thrust down my throat
to-night with stewed-steak-and-onions an' apple-puddin'. The
stewed-steak and the puddin' slipped down all right; but 'Earty
stuck."
"What's he been up to now?" enquired Dick Little.
"'E's goin' to open another shop in Putney 'Igh Street, that's number
three. 'Earty with two shops give me 'ell; but with three shops it'll
be 'ell and blazes."
"Gug-gug-gave you hell?" interrogated Guggers.
"Mrs. B.," explained Bindle laconically. Then after a pause he added,
"No matter wot's wrong at 'ome, if the pipes burst through frost, or
the butcher's late with the meat, or if it's a sixpenny milkman
instead of a fivepenny milkman, Mrs. B. always seems to think it's
through me not being like 'Earty, as if any man 'ud be like 'Earty wot
could be like somethink else, even if it was a conchie. No," continued
Bindle, "somethink's got to be done. That's why I come round this
evenin'."
"Can't we gug-gug-get up a rag?" enquired Guggers. "If I gug-gug-go
back to France without a rag we shall never beat the Huns."
For a few minutes the four men continued to smoke, Dick Little
meditatively, Bindle furiously. It was Bindle who broke the silence.
"You may think I got a down on 'Earty, sir?" he said, addressing Dick
Little. "Well, p'rap's I 'ave: but 'Eaven's sometimes a little late in
punishin' people, an' I ain't above lendin' an 'and. 'Earty's afraid
o' me because 'e's afraid of wot I may say, knowin' wot I know."
With this enigmatical utterance, Bindle buried his face in the tankard
that was always kept for him at Dick Little's flat.
"We might of course celebrate the occasion," murmured Dick Little
meditatively.
"Gug-gug-great Scott!" cried Guggers. "We will! Gug-gug-good old
Dick!" He brought a heavy hand down on Dick Little's shoulder blade.
"Out with it!"
For the next hour the four men conferred together, and by the time
Bindle found it necessary to return to his "little grey 'ome in the
west," the success of Mr. Hearty's third shop was assured, that is its
advertisement was assured.
"It'll cost an 'ell of a lot of money," said Bindle doubtfully as he
rose to go.
"Gug-gug-get out!" cried Guggers, whose income was an affair of five
figures. "For a rag like that I'd gug-gug-give my--my----"
"Not your trousers, sir," interrupted Bindle, gazing down at Guggers'
brawny knees; "remember you gone into short clothes. Wouldn't do for
me to go about like that," he added, "me with my various veins."
And Bindle left Dick Little's flat, rich in the knowledge he possessed
of coming events.
II
"Any'ow," remarked Bindle as he stood in front of the looking-glass
over the kitchen mantelpiece, adjusting his special constable's cap at
a suitable angle. "Any'ow, 'Earty's got a fine day."
Mrs. Bindle sniffed and banged a vegetable-dish on the dresser. She
appeared to possess an almost uncanny judgment as to how much banging
a utensil would stand without breaking.
"Now," continued Bindle philosophically, "it's a fine day, the sun's
shinin', people comin' out, wantin' to buy vegetables; yet I'll bet my
whistle to 'is whole stock that 'Earty ain't 'appy."
"We're not here to be happy," snapped Mrs. Bindle.
"It ain't always easy to see why some of us is 'ere at all," remarked
Bindle, as he gave his cap a further twist over to the right in an
endeavour to get a real Sir David Beatty touch to his appearance.
"We're here to do the Lord's work," said Mrs. Bindle sententiously
"But d'you mean to tell me that Gawd made 'Earty specially to sell
vegetables, 'im with a face like that?" questioned Bindle.
Mrs. Bindle's reply was in bangs. Sometimes Bindle's literalness was
disconcerting.
"Did Gawd make me to move furniture?" he persisted. "No, Mrs. B.," he
continued. "It's more than likely that Gawd jest puts us down 'ere an'
lets us sort ourselves out, 'Im up there a-watchin' to see 'ow we does
it."
"You're a child of Moloch, Joseph Bindle," said Mrs. Bindle.
"A child o' what-lock?" enquired Bindle "Who's 'e?"
"Oh! go along with you, don't bother me. I'm busy," cried Mrs. Bindle.
"I promised Mr. Hearty I'd be round at two o'clock."
"Now ain't that jest like a woman," complained Bindle to a fly-catcher
hanging from the gas-bracket. "Ain't that jest like a woman. If you're
too busy to tell me why I'm a child of ole What-a-Clock, why ain't you
too busy to tell me that I am a child of ole What-a-Clock?" and with
this profound enquiry Bindle slipped out, assuring Mrs. Bindle that he
would see her some time during the afternoon as he was to be on duty
in Putney High Street, "to see that no one don't pinch 'Earty's
veges."
Ten minutes later Bindle stood in front of Mr. Hearty's new shop,
aided in his scrutiny by two women and three boys.
"There ain't no denying the fact," murmured Bindle to himself, "that
'Earty do do the thing in style. If only 'is 'eart wasn't wot it is,
an' if 'is face was wot it might be, 'e'd make a damn fine
brother-in-law."
At that moment Mr. Hearty appeared at the door of the shop, bowing out
a lady-customer, obviously someone of importance to judge by the
obsequious manner in which he rubbed his hands and bent his head.
"Cheer-o! 'Earty!" cried Bindle.
Mr. Hearty started and looked round. The three errand boys and the two
women looked round also and fixed their gaze on Bindle. Mr. Hearty
devoted himself more assiduously to his customer, pretending not to
have heard.
"I'll run in about six, 'Earty, and 'ave a look round," continued
Bindle. "I'm on dooty till then. I'll see they don't pinch your
stock," and he walked slowly down the High Street in the direction of
the bridge, followed by the grins and gazes of the errand boys.
Mr. Hearty's new shop was, without doubt, the best of the three. A
study in green paint and brass-work, it was capable of holding its own
with the best shops in the West End. In the window was a magnificent
array of fruits. Outside were the vegetables. Everything was ticketed
in plain figures, figures that were the envy and despair of other
Putney greengrocers.
It was Mr. Hearty's hour.
As Bindle promenaded the High Street, his manner was one of
expectancy. Twice he looked at his watch and, when walking in the
direction of Putney Hill, he would turn and cast backward glances
along the High Street. During his second perambulation he encountered
Mrs. Bindle hurrying in the direction of Mr. Hearty's new shop. He
accorded her a salute that would have warmed the heart of a Chief
Commissioner of the Police.
Meanwhile Mr. Hearty was gazing lovingly at the curved double
brass-rail that adorned his window, looking like a harvest festival
decoration. Mr. Hearty believed in appearances. He would buy
persimmons, li-chis, bread-fruit, and custard-apples, not because he
thought he could sell them; but because they gave tone to his shop.
Those who had not heard of persimmons and li-chis were impressed
because Mr. Hearty was telling them something they did not know; those
who had heard of, possibly eaten, them were equally impressed, because
he was reminding them of Regent Street and Piccadilly. As Bindle
phrased it, Mr. Hearty was "a damn good greengrocer."
Mr. Hearty was interrupted in his contemplation of the fruity
splendour of his genius by the entry of a customer, at least something
had come between him and the light of the sun.
He turned, started violently and stared. Then he blinked his eyes and
stared again. A man had entered wearing a silk-faced frock-coat of
dubious fit and doubtful age, a turn-down collar, a white tie and
trousers that concertinaed over large ill-shaped boots. On his head
was a black felt hat, semi-clerical in type, insured against any
sudden vagary of the wind by a hat-guard.
Mr. Hearty gazed at the man, his eyes dilated in astonishment. He
stared at the stranger's sunken, sallow cheeks, at his heavy
moustache, at his mutton-chop whiskers. The man was his double:
features, expression, clothes; all were the same.
"'Ullo! 'Earty! Put me down for a cokernut an' an onion."
Bindle, who had entered at that moment, dug the stranger in the ribs
from behind. He turned round upon his assailant, then Bindle saw Mr.
Hearty standing in the shadow. He looked from him to the stranger and
back again with grave intentness. Both men regarded Bindle.
"Good afternoon, Joseph," said Mr. Hearty at length in his toneless
voice, that always seemed to come from somewhere in the woolly
distance.
"Good afternoon, Joseph," said the stranger in a voice that was a very
clever imitation of that of Mr. Hearty.
Bindle fumbled in the breast-pocket of his tunic and produced a box of
matches. Going up to Mr. Hearty he struck a match. Mr. Hearty started
back as if doubtful of his intentions. Bindle proceeded to examine Mr.
Hearty's features by the flickering light of the match, then turning
to the stranger, he went through the same performance with him.
Finally pushing his cap back he scratched his head in perplexity.
"Well, I'm damned!" he ejaculated. "Two 'Earty's."
"I want a cauliflower, please." It was the stranger who spoke.
Bindle once more proceeded to regard the stranger critically.
"I s'pose you're what they call an alibi," he remarked.
The stranger had no time to reply, as at that moment another man
entered. In garb and appearance he was a replica of the first. Mr.
Hearty looked as a man might who, without previous experience of
alcohol, has just drunk a whole bottle of whisky.
Bindle whistled, grinned, then he smacked his leg vigorously.
"My cauliflower, please," said the first man.
"Good afternoon, Joseph," said the new arrival. The voice was not so
good an imitation.
At that moment Smith, Mr. Hearty's right-hand man, thrust his head
through the flap in the floor of the shop that gave access to the
potato-cellar. He caught sight of the trinity of masters. He gave one
frightened glance, ducked his head, and let the flap down with a bang
just as a third "Mr. Hearty" entered. He was followed almost
immediately by a fourth and fifth. Each greeted Bindle with a
"Good-afternoon, Joseph."
Just as the sixth Mr. Hearty entered, Smith pushed up the flap again,
this time a few inches only, and with dilated eyes looked out. The
sight of seven "masters," as he afterwards confessed to Billy Nips,
the errand boy, "shook 'im up crool." Keeping his eyes fixed warily
upon the group of men, each demanding a cauliflower, Smith slowly drew
himself up and out, letting the cellar-flap down with a bang as he
slipped to the back of the shop away from the group. Was he drunk, or
only dreaming?
"I woke up with one brother-in-law, an' now I got seven," cried Bindle
as he walked over and opened the glass-door, with white lace curtains
tied back with blue ribbon, at the back of the shop.
"Martha," he shouted, "Martha, you're wanted!"
An indistinct sound was heard and a minute later Mrs. Hearty appeared,
enormously fat and wheezing painfully.
"That you, Joe?" she panted as she struck her ample bosom with
clenched hand. "My breath! it's that bad to-day." For a moment she
stood blinking in the sunlight.
"See 'em, Martha?" ejaculated Bindle, pointing to Mr. Hearty and the
"alibis." "Seven of 'em. You're a bigamist, sure as eggs, Martha, an'
Millie ain't never goin' to be an orphan."
As she became accustomed to the glare of the sunlight, Mrs. Hearty
looked in a dazed way at the group of "husbands," all gazing in her
direction. Then she suddenly began to shake and wheeze. It took very
little to make Mrs. Hearty laugh, sometimes nothing at all. Now she
sat down suddenly on a sack of potatoes and heaved and shook with
silent laughter.
Suddenly Mr. Hearty became galvanised into action.
"How--how dare you!" he fumed. "Get out of my shop, confound you!"
"'Earty, 'Earty!" protested Bindle, "fancy you a-usin' language like
that. I'm surprised at you."
Mr. Hearty looked about him like a caged animal, then suddenly he
turned to Bindle.
"Joseph," he cried, "I give these men in charge."
The men regarded Mr. Hearty with melancholy unconcern.
"Give 'em in charge!" repeated Bindle in surprise. "Wot for?"
"They're--they're like me," stammered Mr. Hearty in a rage that, with
a man of more robust nature, must have found vent in physical
violence.
"Well," remarked Bindle judicially, "I can't run a cove in for bein'
like you, 'Earty. Although," he added as an afterthought, "'e ought to
be in quod."
"It's a scandal," stuttered Mr. Hearty, "it's a--a----" He broke off,
words were mild things to express his state of indignation. Turning to
Bindle he cried, "Joseph, turn them out of my shop, in--in the name of
the Law," he added melodramatically.
"You 'ear, sonnies?" remarked Bindle, turning to the passive six. "'Op
it, although," he added meditatively as he eyed the six duplicates,
"wot I'm to do with you if you won't go, only 'Eaven knows, an' 'Eaven
don't confide in me."
The six figures themselves settled Bindle's problem by marching
solemnly out of the shop, each with a "Good afternoon, Joseph."
"Joseph, what is the meaning of this?" demanded Mr. Hearty, turning to
Bindle as the last black-coated figure left the shop. "What is the
meaning of this?"
"You may search me, 'Earty," replied Bindle. "I should 'ave called 'em
twins, if there 'adn't been so many. Sort o' litter, wasn't it? 'Ope
they're all respectable, or there'll be trouble for you, 'Earty. You'd
better wear a bit o' ribbon round your arm, so's we shall know you."
"Bindle, you're at the bottom of this." Mrs. Bindle had come out of
the back-parlour, just as the duplicates were leaving. She regarded
her husband with a suspicion that amounted to certainty.
"Me?" queried Bindle innocently; "me at the bottom of wot?"
"You know something about these men. It's a shame, and this Mr.
Hearty's first day. Look how it's upset him."
"Now 'ow d'you think I could make six alibis like them----" Bindle's
defence was interrupted by the sound of music.
"Well, I'm blowed!" he exclaimed, "if it ain't them alibis."
The "doubles" had all produced tin whistles, which they were playing
as they marched slowly up and down in front of Mr. Hearty's premises.
Five seemed to have selected each his own hymn without consultation
with his fellows; the sixth, probably a secularist, had fallen back
upon "The Men of Harlech."
A crowd was already gathering.
Mr. Hearty looked about him like a hunted rat, he rushed to the shop
door, desperation in his eyes, violence in his mind. Before he had an
opportunity of coming to a decision as to his course of action, a new
situation arose, that distracted his thoughts from the unspeakable
"alibis."