Having become thoroughly practised, Dare waited outside Standish's
office one morning and administered the necessary punishment. The affair
was an astounding success. Never probably in the history of
horse-whipping had punishment been so admirably and skilfully
administered. Standish's clerks lined the windows and had the time of
their lives. They dared not cheer; but it was obvious on which side
were their sympathies.
"Funny sensation whipping a man," remarked Dare, meditatively when he
told the story, "It's so devilish difficult to hit him and avoid your
own legs, even when you've had a Walters to practise on."
The next day Dare received a note from Mrs. Standish, which made it
clear that so far from appreciating his chivalry, she was engaged in
mourning over her stricken lord, moistening his poultices with her
tears.
"Queer things, women," said Dare; "chivalry is as dead as Queen Anne."
Later in the day Dare was served with a summons for assault and battery.
The affair was assuming an aspect which caused him considerable anxiety.
If the matter were aired in the police-court, then the whole story would
come out, Millie Standish would be humiliated and Standish himself would
be made utterly ridiculous. Dare decided to consult old John Brissett,
his solicitor, who immediately got into touch with Standish's solicitor
and told him that if the matter went into court he should supoena Fay.
The result was that the lion became as a lamb. Brissett made it quite
clear to Standish's solicitor, who in turn made it clear to Standish,
that his respectable intentions would be entirely misunderstood. The
upshot of it was that the summons was withdrawn.
"And was that the end?" I queried of Dare.
"The end?" he cried. "Good God, no! Three days later Millie Standish
cut me dead at the Latimer's reception. Women are oblivious to chivalry
as I said before."
"So all was well," I said.
"All was not well, my dear fellow," was Dare's reply, as he gazed up at
the ceiling. "All was peculiarly and damnably ill. Horsewhipping is a
luxury far beyond my means," and he started blowing rings.
"But the summons----"
"Was withdrawn, true; but Fay was still alive alas! and with every
'tonic' she dispensed in the saloon-bar of 'The Belted Earl' she told of
the noble way in which I had whipped Standish for her sake. That was
Millie's doing. I could swear to it, she made Standish tell Fay that I
did it because I was jealous of him and--oh, it was hell and chaos and
forty publishers all rolled into one."
"But Fay?" I queried. "What of her?"
"She sent me perfumed notes (such vile perfume too) by the potman or
chucker-out every other hour. Notes of adoration and of gratitude, in
which the terms 'hero,' 'noble,' 'chivalrous,' with two v's, occurred at
sickening intervals. I had to leave London for nearly a month, and it
was at a time when I was busily engaged in a dispute with my publisher
which necessitated my presence in town.
"Alas!" he concluded. "The tragedy of life is that it is always the
wrong woman who appreciates a man's nobility."
"I never got no woman to appreciate my nobility wrong _or_ right, sir,"
said Bindle, at the conclusion of the story.
"Well, you're a lucky man, J.B.," said Dare. "An old fogey who lived
some three thousand years ago said one of the disadvantages of matrimony
was that your wife insisted on taking her meals with you."
"Did 'e really, sir?" said Bindle, greatly interested. '"I should a'
like to 'ave known 'im."
"Mr. Bindle," said Sallie, "I am afraid you are a misogynist."
"I 'ope not, miss," said Bindle anxiously.
"Well you must remember that every time you say things against women you
are saying something against me, because I am a woman."
"Lord, miss, don't say that," said Bindle half rising from his chair.
"I never thinks o' you as a woman. You seem to be a sort of----" and he
paused.
"A sort of what?" enquired Sallie.
"Well, miss, I don't 'ardly like to say."
"Come on, speak up, J.B.," said Dick Little, "don't be a coward. We'll
see that Miss Carruthers doesn't hurt you."
"You must finish your sentence, I insist," said Sallie.
"Well, miss, I was goin' to say you always seems more like a mate than a
woman."
That is one of the few occasions I have seen Sallie blush. Dick
Little's attentions, my devotion, Angell Herald's elaborate manners, the
General's gallantry; none of them had succeeded in bringing to Sallie's
face the look of pleasure that Bindle's simple remark produced.
"Thank you, Mr. Bindle, very much indeed," she said.
"But why?" asked Windover reverting to the horsewhipping affair, "why
should Mrs. Standish----"
"I expected," said Dare, "that some ass----"
"Psychologist," suggested Windover.
"The same thing, old man," was the retort. "I expected that some
psychological ass would ask why Millie Standish should behave so oddly.
I will tell you. It transpired later that she had evolved a cure of her
own.
"She had after all invited Fay to her flat one evening, where she met
the smartest women and the cleverest men that Millie could collect. I
was not included," he added.
"Fay had turned up in a pale blue satin blouse, a black skirt and white
boots. She had hung herself with every ounce of metal she possessed and
jingled like a cavalry charger. All the women were very nice to her,
tried to draw her out; but the men just stared, first at her and then at
each other. It was Millie's hour, and when Standish had put Fay into a
taxi, he had wept his repentance, been taken back to Millie's heart, and
all was at peace."
"So your whipping came as an anti-climax," said Windover.
"Exactly," was Dare's response.
"Alas!" remarked Windover, "A man can but do his best and a woman her
worst."
*CHAPTER XIV*
*GINGER VISITS THE NIGHT CLUB*
Bindle had on more than one occasion been urged to bring Ginger to the
Night Club; but Ginger finds himself "not 'oldin' wiv" so many things in
life, that he is very difficult to approach. One evening, however,
Bindle entered with the khaki-clad Ginger. Awkward and self-conscious,
Ginger strove to disguise his nervousness under the mantle of his
habitual gloom.
"We been walkin' in the Park," Bindle announced. "I been quite worried
about poor old Ging. Sunday evenin' in the Park ain't no place for a
young chap like 'im. It puts wrong ideas into 'is 'ead."
Ginger grumbled something in his throat and with one hand took the cigar
Dick Little offered whilst with the other he grasped the glass of beer
that Windover had poured out for him.
"Funny place Hyde Park on a Sunday evenin'," Bindle remarked
conversationally to Sallie; "but it's a rare responsibility with a chap
like Ginger."
"Now Mr. Bindle," she smiled, "if you tease him I shall be cross."
"Me tease, miss, you must be mixin' me up wi' Mr. 'Erald."
"Get along with, the yarn, J.B., tell us about the Park," urged
Carruthers, who liked nothing better than to get Bindle going.
"You should 'ear wot them Australian boys says about the Daylight Bill,"
he continued after a pause.
"The Daylight Bill?" queried Angell Herald.
"Well, you see, sir, its like this. Them poor chaps says that they gets
a gal, and then, as soon as it gets dark, it's time for 'er to go 'ome."
"But why----?" began Angell Herald.
"Oh, you work it out by the square root of the primitive instinct," said
Dick Little, which left Angell Herald exactly where he was before.
"They're an 'ot lot, them Australians," Bindle proceeded. "Ginger says
they go off with all the gals, an' 'e don't get a chance. Aint that so,
ole sport?" he demanded turning to Ginger.
"I don't 'old wiv women," grumbled Ginger.
"Anyway the Kangaroos don't give yer much chance of 'oldin' 'em. Fine
chaps they looks too. I don't blame the gals," Bindle added.
"Funny things gals," continued Bindle, "they'd chuck a angel for an
Australian. 'Earty's got a gal to 'elp in the shop. She's a pretty bit
too, yer can always trust 'Earty in little things like that. Well,
she's nuts on Australians. Poor Martha gets quite worried about it.
Martha's 'Earty's missis," he explained, "A rare lot o' trouble she's
'ad with Jenny. First of all the gal took up wi' the milkman, wots got
an 'eart and can't get into khaki. Then she chucks 'im an' starts with
Australians; an' 'e was a fivepenny milkman too, an' now 'e can't go
near the 'Earty's 'ouse without it 'urtin' 'im, so poor ole Martha is a
penny down on 'er milk."
Bindle paused and proceeded to pull at his pipe meditatively.
"Get ahead, man," cried Dare impatiently. "What happened to the fickle
Jenny?"
"Well," continued Bindle, "she seemed to get a new Australian every
night out, an' poor ole Milkcans is lookin' round for another bit o'
skirt."
"Know this thou lov'st amiss and to love true,
Thou must begin again and love anew,"
quoted Dare.
"One day Martha asks Jenny why she's always out with Australians instead
of our chaps. She looks down, shuffles 'er feet, nibbles the corner of
'er apron. At last she says, 'Oh, mum, it's the way they 'olds yer.'
"Yes," continued Bindle, "they're fine chaps them Australians, an' they
can fight too." After a pause he continued: "Ole Spotty can't stand
'em, though. Spotty's got somethink wrong with 'is lungs and the doctor
says to 'im, 'Spotty ole card, it's outdoors or underground. The choice
is with you.'
"So instead o' becomin' a member o' parliament, Spotty goes round takin'
pennies for lettin' people sit down on the chairs in the Park. It means
fourpence 'alfpenny an 'our now an' rheumatism later.
"Them Australians can't understand bein' asked a penny to sit down, and
sometimes they refuses to pay, thinking it's a do. It's a shame not to
let 'em sit down for nothink, after they come all them miles to fight.
So Spotty soon learns to sort of overlook 'em.
"One day an inspector reports 'im to the guv'nor, an' 'e was 'auled up
an' asked to tell all about it. 'E did, also 'ow one of 'em offered to
fight 'im for the penny. Spotty's a slip of a thing like a war sausage.
"'I took up this 'ere job,' says Spotty, 'to get well, not as a short
cut to the 'orspital,' and he offered to resign; but they're short o'
men an' Spotty is still takin' pennies, when 'e can get 'em without
scrappin'.
"Lord, the things Spotty's told me about Hyde Park. It ain't no place
for me. I told Mrs. B. one night, leastwise I told 'er some, an' she
says, 'The King ought to stop it.'" Bindle grinned. "I can see 'im
goin' round a-stoppin' it by 'avin' all the chairs put two yards apart,
an' bein' late for 'is supper."
"Are you a royalist, J.B.?" enquired Windover languidly.
"A wot, sir?" enquired Bindle.
"Do you believe in kings?"
"I believe in our King." There was decision in Bindle's voice. "'E's a
sport, same as 'is father was. I'm sick of all this talk about a
republic." Disgust was clearly expressed upon Bindle's face and in his
voice. "Down at the yard they're always jawin' about the revolution
wot's comin'."
"I don't 'old wiv kings," broke in Ginger. "There's goin' to be a
revolution."
"'Ullo Ging, you woke up? Well ole son, wot's wrong wi' George Five?"
"Look wot 'e corsts, an' you an' me 'as to pay, an' everything goin' up
like 'ell."
"'Ush, Ginger, 'ush, there's a lady 'ere."
Ginger looked awkwardly at Sallie, who smiled her reassurance.
"'I s'pose, Ginger, yer thinks you're goin' to get a republic with a
pound o' tea," said Bindle good-humouredly.
"There's goin' to be a revolution," persisted Ginger doggedly. Ginger
logic is repetition. "After the war," he added.
"An' wot jer goin' to revolute about?" enquired Bindle, gazing at
Ginger's face, which Windover has described as "freckled with
stupidity."
For a few minutes Ginger was silent, thinking laboriously.
"Look at the price of beer?" he at length challenged with inspiration.
"Well, Ging, ain't you an ole 'uggins. 'Jer think you'll get cheap beer
if yer makes George and Mary 'op it? Not you, ole son. Wot you'll most
likely get is no beer at all, same as in America."
"That's a lie!" We were all startled at the anger in Ginger's voice, as
he flashed a sullen challenge round the room.
"Don't get 'uffy, ole sport. Wot's a lie?" enquired Bindle, unmoved by
Ginger's outburst.
"That they ain't got no beer in America," snarled Ginger.
"J.B. is quite right," murmured Windover soothingly. "In some States
there's no drink of any sort."
Ginger gazed from one to the other, bewilderment and alarm stamped upon
his face.
"Well I'm----" began Ginger.
"Surprised," broke in Bindle. "O' course you are. Fancy bein' in the
army without anythink to wash it down.
"Now, Ginger," said Bindle after a pause, "tell the General 'ow 'appy
you are bein' a soldier."
"I don't 'old wiv the army," was Ginger's gloomy response.
"What!" There was the light of battle in the General's eye. "Then why
the devil did you enlist?" he demanded in his most aggressive parade
manner.
"To get away," was Ginger's enigmatical response.
"To get away! To get away from what?" demanded the General.
"You see, sir," explained Bindle, "Ginger ain't 'appy in 'is 'ome life.
'E's got a wife an' three kids and----"
"Jawin' an' squallin'," interrupted Ginger vindictively.
"Why don't you like the army?" demanded the General.
"Don't 'old wiv orficers."
"With officers! Why?"
"Order yer about."
"How the devil would you know what to do if they didn't order you
about?" demanded the General rapidly losing his temper.
"Don't 'old wiv the army," was the grumbled retort.
It is Ginger's method, when faced with an awkward question, to fall back
upon his inner defences by announcing that he "don't 'old wiv" whatever
it is under discussion.
"If you don't hold with the army, with officers, with wives and
children, then what do you hold with?" demanded the General angrily.
"Beer," was the laconic response, uttered without the vestige of a
smile.
Ginger personifies gloom. He would if he could snatch the sun's ray
from a dewdrop, or the joyousness from a child's laugh. It is
constitutional.
"Poor ole Ginger's 'appier when 'e's miserable," Bindle explained; "but
'e's a rare good sort at 'eart is Ging. 'E once bought a cock canary,
wot the man told 'im would sing like a prize bird; but when the yaller
comes orf an' there warn't no song, and the bird started a-layin' eggs,
it sort o' broke poor ole Ging. up. 'E ain't never been the same man
since, 'ave yer, ole sport?"
Ginger muttered something inaudible, the tone of which suggested blood.
"If you could catch that cove you'd be 'oldin' 'im, eh Ging?"
"Blast 'im!" exploded Ginger.
Shortly afterwards Ginger took an ungracious leave. The Night Club saw
him no more.
On the Sunday following Bindle arrived early, hilarious with excitement.
"'Old me, 'Orace," he cried joyously, and two of "Tims'" men supported
him in the approved manner of the prize-ring, flapping handkerchiefs
before his face. Presently Bindle reassumed control of his limbs.
"What's the joke?" enquired Dick Little.
"Joke!" cried Bindle. "Joke! 'Ere 'old me again."
After further ministrations he explained. On the previous day he had met
one of Ginger's mates, who had told him that Ginger was undergoing seven
days C.B. for fighting in the guardroom.
"An' wot jer think 'e was fighting about?" enquired Bindle, his face
crinkled with smiles.
We gave it up.
"Because one of 'is mates says we're goin' to 'ave a republic! The poor
chap's in 'orspital now," he added, "a-learnin' to believe in kings, and
poor ole Ginger's learnin' that it ain't wise to believe too much in
anythink."
"Well, here's to Private Ginger, loyalist," cried Jim Colman, and we
drank the toast in a way that brought the General hurrying up from
below.
"I seem to been 'avin' quite a lot o' things 'appen last week," remarked
Bindle as he unscrewed the stopper of a beer-bottle on the sideboard,
and poured the contents into the pewter tankard that Sallie had given
him. After a long and refreshing drink he continued tantalisingly--
"Funny 'ow things 'appen to me. Cheer-o! Archie," this to Old Archie
who had just entered, his face looking more than ever like a withered
apple in which were set a pair of shrewd, but kindly eyes.
"Tellin' the tale, Joe," he remarked. Then turning to the rest of us he
added, "Suppose poor old Joe was to forget 'ow to talk. Evenin',
m'lord," this with an upward movement of his hand as Windover entered.
"There ain't no fear o' that, Archie my lad," replied Bindle. "I'm as
likely to forget 'ow to talk as you are to remember to put the cawfee
into the stuff yer sells for more'n it's worth."
"What's been happening?" demanded Blint.
"I see Mr. Angell 'Erald the other day," Bindle remarked. "I was on the
tail-board o' the van with ole Wilkes, 'im wot coughs to keep 'im from
swallowing flies."
"Did he see you?" enquired Dick Little.
"If 'e didn't see me, there wasn't no excuse for 'im not 'earin'
Wilkie's cough. They wouldn't 'ave 'im as a special constable. Rude to
'im they was. Poor ole Wilkie ain't forgot it, 'e's a bit sensitive
like, not bein' married."
"Never mind about Wilkes," broke in Tom Little. "Get oh with the story,
J.B."
At times Bindle has a tendency to wander into by-paths of reminiscence.
"It was in the Strand," he continued, "an' to make sure of Mr. Angell
'Erald not bein' disappointed I cheero'd 'im. 'E sort o' looked round
frightened-like, then 'e disappeared into a teashop like a rabbit in an
'ole. S'pose 'e suddenly remembered 'e was tea-thirsty," and Bindle
looked round solemnly.
"Perhaps he didn't hear you," ventured Dick Little.
"When I cheero a cove, an' Wilkie coughs at 'im, well if 'e don't 'ear
then 'e ought to be seen to, because it's serious. Why the cop on point
mentioned it to me. Said we'd set the motor-busses shyin' if we didn't
stop. 'E was quite 'urt about it. Seemed upset-like about poor ole
Wilkie's cough. No: 'e 'eard us right enough."
"He may not have recognised you," the Boy ventured, knowing full well
that Angell Herald would not be seen exchanging salutations with a man
on the tail-board of a pantechnicon.
But Bindle merely closed his left eye and placed the forefinger of his
right hand at the side of his nose.
At that moment Angell Herald entered the room. He glanced, a little
anxiously I thought, at Bindle who, however, greeted him with unaffected
good-humour.
"When you come in, sir," he explained cheerily, "I was jest tellin' 'ow
me an' Wilkie ran across 'is Lordship last week. Me an' Wilkie was on
the tail-board o' the van; but 'is Lordship come up an'--wot jer think?"
Bindle gazed round the room triumphantly. Angell Herald looked extremely
unhappy. Windover, on the contrary, seemed unusually interested. Having
centred upon himself the attention of the whole room Bindle proceeded,
"'E took us into a swell place an' stood us a dinner. Lord, 'ow they
did look to see us, me an' Wilkie in our aprons, 'is Lordship in 'is red
tabs an' a gold rim to 'is cap, an' a red band round it."
Bindle was enjoying himself hugely, especially as he saw that Angell
Herald was becoming more and more uncomfortable.
"We 'ad champagne an' oysters, an' soup an'---- Well I thought Wilkie
'ud never stop." He broke off to light his pipe, when it was in full
blast he continued.
"Presently a cove in an 'igh collar comes up an' says polite like to 'is
lordship--
"'Would you kindly ask that gentleman to 'urry with 'is soup, sir,'
meanin' Wilkie, 'there's a gentleman over there wot says 'e can't 'ear
the band, an' this is 'is favourite tune.'"
"Mr. Bindle!" cried Sallie, who is very sensitive upon the subject of
table manners.
"I'm sorry, miss, but you see poor ole Wilkie never 'ad no mother to
teach 'im. Yes," he continued, "we 'ad a rare ole time, me an' Wilkie."
Angell Herald looked from Bindle to Windover. His veneer of
self-complacency had been badly punctured.
"By the way, J.B.," said Windover, "I want you to come to lunch with me
again on Saturday. You'll come, Little and you, Boy."
It was Bindle's turn to look surprised. That is how he got a real
"dinner" with a lord, and Angell Herald had a lesson by which he
probably failed to profit. To this day he believes Bindle's story of
the mythical lunch. Bindle has never forgiven Angell Herald his "men's
stories," and he unites with the Boy in scoring off him whenever
possible. Sometimes Dick Little and I have to take a strong line with
both delinquents. Fortunately Angell Herald is more often than not
oblivious of what is taking place.
Sometimes we have a night devoted to Bindle's views on life. His
philosophy is a thing devoid of broideries and frills. It is the
essence of his own experience. Once when Dare had been talking upon the
subject of ideals, Bindle had remarked:
"Very pretty to talk about, but they ain't much use in the
furniture-movin' line. One in the eye is more likely to make a man
be'ave than a month's jawin' about wot 'Earty calls 'brotherly love.'"
Bindle's good-nature makes it possible for him to say without offence
what another man could not even hint at.
Windover once remarked that Bindle would go through life saying and
doing things impossible to any but a prize-fighter.
"An' why a bruiser, sir?" Bindle had enquired.
"Well, few men care to punch the head of a professional boxer," was the
retort.
"It ain't wot yer say, sir," Bindle had remarked, obviously pleased at
the compliment. "It's wot's be'ind the words. I ain't got time to look
for angels in trousers, or saints in skirts. There ain't many of us wot
ain't got a tear or an 'ole somewhere, but it ain't 'elpin' things to
put it in the papers."
"But," Jim Dare, one of "Tims'" men, broke in wickedly, "without
criticism there'd be no progress."
Bindle was on him like a flash.
"If an angel's lost 'is tail feathers," he retorted, "you bet the other
angels ain't goin' to make a song about it. If they was the right sort
of angels they'd pull their own out, to show that tail-feathers ain't
everythink."
We made many attempts to get at Bindle's views upon the Hereafter: but
although by nature as open as the day, there are some things about which
he is extremely reticent. One evening in answer to a direct challenge he
replied,
"Well, I don't rightly know, I ain't been taught things; but I got a
sort of idea that Gawd's a sight better man than Joe Bindle, an' that's
why I can't stick 'Earty's Gawd. 'E ain't Gawd no more'n I'm the
Kayser." Then after a pause he had added, "If Gawd's goin' to be Gawd
'E's got to be a mystery. Why there's some coves wot seem to know more
about wot Gawd's goin' to do than wot they've 'ad for dinner."
Dick Little never lost an opportunity of getting Bindle started upon his
favourite subject--marriage. One night he announced that his brother
Tom had become engaged to be married.
"'E's wot?" interrogated Bindle.
"He's done it, J.B.," Dick Little had replied with a laugh.
Bindle said nothing; but we awaited Tom Little's arrival with no little
eagerness. When he entered, Bindle fixed him with a remorseless eye.
"Wot's this I 'ear, sir?" he enquired.
"What's what?" Tom Little enquired, becoming very pink, and casting a
furious glance in his brother's direction.
Tom Little's demeanour left no doubt as to his guilt. For some moments
Bindle regarded him gravely. Tom Little proceeded to light a cigarette;
but he was obviously ill at ease.
"Wot's the use o' me tellin' yer all about women," Bindle demanded,
"when, as soon as my back's turned yer goes an' does it. Silly sort of
thing to do, I call it."
"Don't be an ass, J.B." Tom Little strove to carry off the affair
lightly; but Bindle was Rhadamanthine.
"I told yer not to," he continued, then after a pause, "Course she's got
pretty 'air an' eyes, an' made yer feel funny an' all that; but you jest
wait. Mrs. B. 'ad all them things, an' look at 'er now. She's about as
soft-'earted as a cop is to a cove wot's 'carryin' the banner.'"*
* Walking the streets through the night
"Shut up, J.B.," said Tom Little, looking round as if seeking some
loophole of escape.
"Well, sir," said Bindle with an air of resignation, "it's your funeral,
but I'm sorry, I 'ope Gawd'll 'elp yer; but I know 'e won't."
Another evening Bindle had opened the proceedings by his customary "Miss
an' gentlemen, I got a warnin' to give yer. There's only two things wot
a cove 'as got to fight against, one is a wife in 'is bosom, an' the
other is various veins in 'is legs. An' now I'll call for the story."
*CHAPTER XV*
*A DRAMATIC ENGAGEMENT*
The Night Club has neither rules nor officials; that is what makes it
unique. Bindle, Dick Little and I form a sort of unofficial committee
of management. No one questions our rulings, because our rulings are so
infrequent as scarcely to be noticeable. One of our great trials,
almost our only trial, is the suppression of Angell Herald. He is for
ever proposing to introduce intimates of his own, and we are often hard
put to it to find excuses for his not being allowed to do so.
One evening he scored heavily against the "committee," by bringing with
him a tall man with long hair, a blue chin and an eye that spoke of a
thirst with long arrears to be worked off.
His first remark was "Good evening, gentlemen," as if he were entering
the commercial room of a hotel. Windover screwed his glass firmly into
his left eye. Windover's monocle is always a social barometer--it
"places" a man irrevocably. His face never shows the least expression;
but it is quite possible to see from his bearing whether or no a new
arrival be possible.
"Allow me to introduce my friend, Mr. Leonard Gimp, the actor," said
Angell Herald.
"Haaa! Very pleased to meet you, gentlemen, very pleased indeed, Haaa!"
came somewhere from Mr. Gimp's middle, via his mouth.
As host Dick Little came forward and shook hands: but it was clear from
the look in his eye that he shared our homicidal views with regard to
Angell Herald.
"Haaa! and how are you, Mr. Little?" enquired Gimp genially.
Little muttered something inaudible to the rest of us.
"That's right!" said Gimp in hearty but hollow tones. "What wonderful
weather we're having," he continued beaming upon the rest of us, as if
determined to put us at our ease.
"Wonderful weather," he repeated.
He was a strange creature, with ill-fitting garments and soiled linen.
Before he began to speak he said "Haaa!" When he had finished speaking
he said "Haaa!" If he had nothing at all to say, which was seldom, he
said "Haaa!" His air was confidential and his manner friendly. It was
obvious that he strove to model himself on the late Sir Henry Irving.
The world held for him only one thing--the Drama; and the Drama only one
interpreter--himself.
Gimp sat down and, stretching out his legs, bent over and stroked them
from instep to loins, beaming upon us the while.
"May I offer you a cigarette?" he queried, picking up a box from the
mantelpiece and proffering to Dick Little one of his own cigarettes.
Gimp seemed to be under the impression that he had come to entertain us
and he began to talk. His sentences invariably began with "Haaa! I
remember in 1885," or some other date, and we quickly learned that with
him dates were a danger signal.
His idea of conversation was a monologue. As we sat listening, we
wondered how we should ever stop the flow of eloquence. He plunged into
a memory involving a quotation from a drama in which, as far as we could
gather, he had made one of the greatest hits the theatrical world had
ever witnessed. His enthusiasm brought him to his feet. We sat and
smoked and listened, mutely conscious that the situation was beyond us.
Angell Herald was the only man present, besides Gimp himself, who seemed
to be satisfied. The rest of us felt that there was only one hope, and
that lay in Bindle, who was unaccountably late. Bindle, we felt sure,
would be able to rise to the occasion, and he did.
Gimp had reached a most impassioned scene in which the heroine denounces
the villain, who is a coiner. Bindle entered the room unobserved by
Gimp. For a few moments he stood watching the scene with intense
interest. Gimp had reached the climax of the scene in which the heroine
says to the villain, "Go! Your heart is as base as the coins you make."
He paused, pointing dramatically in the direction of Windover.
"'Ullo! 'Amlet," said Bindle genially from behind.
Gimp span round as if he had been shot, and gazed down at Bindle in
indignant surprise.
"Cheero! Where'd you spring from?" continued Bindle.
"Sir?" said Gimp.
"Your wrong," said Bindle, "it's plain Joe Bindle, Sir Joseph later
perhaps; but not yet."
Bindle smiled up innocently at Gimp, who gazed round him as if seeking
for some explanation of Bindle's presence, then a weak and weary smile
fluttered across his features, and he walked over to the side-board and
mixed himself a whisky and soda.
We seized the opportunity to break off Gimp's demonstrations of his
histrionic powers. We gave him a cigar, and every time he started "Haaa!
I remember in 18----" somebody butted in and cut him short.
That evening Bindle was in a wicked mood. He flagrantly encouraged Gimp
to talk "shop," "feeding the furnace of his self-conceit," as Dare
whispered across me to Sallie.
"I went to the theatre last week," said Bindle with guile, "but I didn't
see you there, sir."
"Haaa! no!" said Gimp, "I'm restin'."
"Sort o' worn out," said Bindle sympathetically.
Gimp looked sharply at Bindle, who gazed back with disarming innocence.
"Haaa! a nervous breakdown," he replied.
"To judge by his nose, neuritis of the elbow," said Carruthers sotto
voce.
"What was the piece you saw, J.B.?" enquired Roger Blint.
"_Frisky Florrie_. Them plays didn't ought to be allowed. Made me 'ot
all over, it did." Then turning to Gimp he added, "I'm surprised at
you, sir, sayin' there ain't nothink like the drama."
"That is not the Deraaama," cried Gimp. "That's a pollution," his filmy
eyes rolled and he jerked his head backwards in what was apparently the
dramatic conception of indignation.
"Fancy that, an' me not knowin' it," was Bindle's comment.
"Haaa!" said Gimp.
"Won't you say one o' your pieces for us, sir?" enquired Bindle. "I'd
like to 'ear real drama."
Gimp looked blankly at Bindle.
"J.B. means won't you recite," explained Dare in even tones.
Gimp was on his feet instantly, vowing that he was delighted. For a
moment he was plunged in deep thought, his chin cupped in his left hand,
the elbow supported by the palm of his right hand. It was extremely
effective. Suddenly he gave utterance to the inevitable "Haaa!" and we
knew that the gods had breathed inspiration upon him.
Straightening himself, he shot his hands still further through his
already short coat sleeves, and gazed round. Raising his left hand he
cried--
"Haaa! Shakespeare."