It took considerable argument before Bindle would agree to the inclusion
in this volume of the story of how Mr. Moggridge was cured of his
infatuation for Zeppelins.
I
Mr. Josiah Moggridge was haunted by Zeppelins! It is true that he had
not seen one, had never even heard a bomb explode, or a gun fired in
anger; still he was obsessed with the idea of the "Zeppelin Menace." He
read every article and paragraph dealing with the subject in all the
newspapers and magazines he came across. His children jackalled
industriously for this food for their parent. If Dorothy, who was as
pretty as she was romantic, arrived home late, her olive-branch would be
some story or article about Zeppelins. If Alan, who was sixteen and
endowed with imagination, got into a scrape, it was a Zeppelin "rumour"
that got him out of it.
Mr. Moggridge journeyed far and near in search of the destruction caused
by these air monsters. Had the British public known what Mr. Moggridge
knew "for a fact," the war would have collapsed suddenly. No nation
could be expected to stand up against the "frightfulness" that was to
come, according to Mr. Moggridge. In regard to Zeppelins the German
people themselves were sceptics compared with Mr. Moggridge.
The slightest hint or rumour of a Zeppelin raid would send him off
hot-foot in search of the ruin and desolation spread by these accursed
contrivances. The Moggridge girls came in for many delightful
excursions in consequence, for Mr. Moggridge was never happy unless he
had about him some of his numerous progeny. If Irene wanted to see the
daffydowndillies in Kew Gardens, it seemed almost an interposition of
providence that she should hear there had been a Zeppelin raid near
Richmond. In justice to her it must be admitted that she would
discredit the rumour; but nothing, not even an Act of Parliament, could
turn Mr. Moggridge from the pursuit of his hobby.
No amount of discouragement seemed to affect him. If he drew a blank at
Balham, he would set out for Stratford with undiminished ardour. Should
Holloway fail him, then Streatham would present the scene of desolation
he dreaded, yet sought so assiduously. "Man never is but always to be
blest," might have been the motto of Josiah Moggridge.
Mrs. Moggridge was the type of woman who regards her husband as
something between a god and a hero. To Mr. Moggridge she herself was
always "Mother," and as if in justification of the term, she had
presented him with one son, and eight daughters, whose ages ranged from
eleven to twenty-two. Having done this Mrs. Moggridge subsided into
oblivion. She had done her "bit," to use the expression of a later
generation.
Her attitude towards life was that of a hen that has reached the
dazzling heights of having produced from thirteen eggs thirteen pullets.
She was a comfortable body, as devoid of imagination as an ostrich. Her
interests were suburban, her name was Emma, and her waist measurement
thirty-eight inches on Sundays and forty-two inches during the rest of
the week.
Mr. Moggridge was forever on the alert for the detonation of bombs and
the boom of anti-aircraft guns. At night he would listen earnestly for
the sound of the trains that passed at the bottom of the Moggridge
garden. If the intervals between the dull rumblings seemed too
prolonged, he would start up and exclaim, "I believe they've stopped,"
which as everybody knows meant Zeppelins.
One night after the first Zeppelin raid (it is not permitted by the
Defence of the Realm Act to say where or when this occurred, or, for
that matter, in what part of the United Kingdom the Moggridges resided),
Patricia Moggridge, a petite brunette of twenty, all the Moggridge girls
were pretty, enquired, "What shall we do, dad, if Zeppelins come to
Cedar Avenue?"
Mr. Moggridge had sat up in sudden alarm. Here was he responsible for
the protection of a family, yet he had taken no steps to ensure its
safety. Patricia's remark set him thinking deeply. He loved his
family, and his family adored him. They regarded him as a child that
has to be humoured, rather than a parent who has to be feared. They
obeyed him because they wished to see him happy, and Mr. Moggridge's
conception of manhood was that "an Englishman's home is his castle."
He was short and round and fussy, as full of interest as a robin, as
explosive as a bomb; but with eyes that smiled and a nature that would
have warmed an ice-box. A crisis or a misadventure excited him almost
to the point of frenzy. Starting for the annual holiday drove him
nearly insane with worry lest someone or something be left behind, or
they lose the train.
When Patricia asked her innocent question she was sitting on her
father's knee "nuzzling his whiskers," as she called it, Mr. Moggridge
wore side whiskers and a clean shaven upper lip and chin, she was
unaware of what would grow out of her question.
Mr. Moggridge read industriously the advice tendered by various
newspapers as to what should be done during a Zeppelin raid. He read
with the seriousness of a man who knows that salvation lies somewhere in
the columns of the Press.
One night he gathered together the whole of his family in the
drawing-room, including the two maids and the cook, and instructed all
in what should be done at the sound of the first gun. He made many
references to a sheaf of notes and newspaper-cuttings he had before him,
which seemed to get terribly mixed. He then enquired if everyone
understood; but the half-hearted chorus of "Yeses" that answered him was
unconvincing.
"Cook," he said sternly, "what would you do if Zeppelins came?"
"Please, sir, faint," was the reply.
The interrogation of other members of his household convinced him that a
further exposition was necessary.
Stripped of their verbal adornments, Mr. Moggridge's instructions were
that on the first intimation that Zeppelins were at hand, the whole
household was to make for the basement.
Half-an-hour's further "instruction" left everyone still more hopelessly
befogged as to what was expected of them. The gist of Mr. Moggridge's
instructions was:
(1) That everyone should make for the cellar without bothering about
dressing.
(2) That every bath, portable or fixed, tub, jug, or other vessel was
each night to be filled with water, and placed on the landings as a
protection against incendiary bombs.
(3) That under no circumstances was any light to be turned on (as a
precaution Mr. Moggridge turned off the electric light each night) or
candle to be lit.
"But how shall we find our way downstairs?" enquired Allan, his son and
heir.
"You'll feel it, my boy," replied his father, unconsciously prophetic.
A few days later Mr. Moggridge read of the intention of the Germans to
use gas-bombs, and he immediately purchased at Harridges Stores fourteen
"Protective Face Masks." That night he returned home feeling that he
had saved fourteen lives, including his own.
After dinner the household was once more summoned to the drawing-room,
where Mr. Moggridge distributed the gas-masks, and gave a short lecture
upon how they were to be worn. When he illustrated his instructions by
donning a mask, the younger of the two maids giggled uncontrollably.
Mr. Moggridge glared at her volcanically. "Girl!" he thundered, "do you
know that I am trying to save your life."
Whereat the girl burst into tears.
Mr. Moggridge rustled about among his notes anxiously, whilst his
hearers watched him with breathless interest. He soon saw that no help
was to be expected from the Press, which appeared to be divided into two
camps. There was the bomb theory and the gas theory, the one demanding
descent and the other ascent.
Mr. Moggridge was nonplussed and referred to the gas-bomb article.
Suppose explosive bombs were dropped when they were prepared for
gas-bombs and conversely? Suddenly he had an inspiration.
"I've got it!" he shouted, as he danced excitedly from one foot to the
other. "If you smell gas you go up to the attics: if you----"
"But how shall we know it's gas unless we know what it smells like?"
questioned Alan.
Mr. Moggridge looked at his only son as at someone who had asked him the
riddle of the universe. Alan was notorious for the embarrassing nature
of his questions.
"I shall know how to find that out," was all that Mr. Moggridge could
reply, and Alan felt that he had obtained a tactical victory.
"In the meantime, if you smell anything you've never smelt before you'll
know it's gas."
This seemed to satisfy everyone. Nevertheless, Mr. Moggridge made
industrious enquiry as to what gas really smelt like. No one knew; but
many theories as to the exact odour were advanced, ranging from vinegar
to sewage. At last Mr. Moggridge heard of a man who had actually been
gassed. Eagerly he made a pilgrimage to the district in which the hero
resided and as eagerly put his question.
"Wot's gas smell like?" remarked the warrior, whose moustache was as yet
reluctant down upon his upper lip. "It beats the smell of army cheese
'ollow, an' that's the truth."
And with this Mr. Moggridge had to rest content. In the silent watches
of the night, many a member of the Moggridge household would awaken
suddenly and sniff expectantly for "a strange odour rather like strong
cheese," Mr. Moggridge's paraphrase of the soldier's words.
Mr. Moggridge decided to sleep at the top of the house--alone. He had
moved up there and sent down two of the girls to sleep with their
mother, because he regarded the upper rooms as the most dangerous, and
he was not lacking in courage. He regarded it as his mission in life to
protect those who looked to him for protection. In his mind's eye, Mr.
Moggridge saw himself the saviour of thirteen lives, possibly fourteen
if he had not to give up his own in the attempt.
Each night it was his self-imposed task to examine "the defences" as his
daughter, Mollie, called them. On every landing and outside every door
were baths, wash-tubs, basins, pails and other vessels containing water.
Even when the lights were on, it was a matter of some delicacy to thread
one's way through these watery entanglements. The servants grumbled at
the additional work involved; but Mr. Moggridge had silenced them with
"a Zeppelin bonus," as he called it, and furthermore he had mobilised
his whole family to assist in this work of protection against fire.
"When I've saved your worthless lives, you'll be grateful perhaps," he
had exploded, and it had taken "Mother" all the next morning to explain
to her domestic staff that "valuable" and not "worthless" was the
adjective her husband had used.
Outside his own bedroom-door Mr. Moggridge had placed the large dinner
gong on which to sound the alarm, and at the head of the stairs an
enormous tin-bath full of water. It was so placed that the slightest
push would send bath and contents streaming down the stairs. Mr.
Moggridge argued that no fire could live in such a deluge.
In time Mr. Moggridge came to regard himself as something between a
Sergeant O'Leary and the Roman Sentry, with a leaning towards the
sentry; for there would be no reward for him. He saw his family safe
and sound, whilst his neighbours lay maimed and dying.
"We are at war, my dears," he would inform his family, "and war is
different from peace," and there were none who felt they could question
this profound truth.
*II*
The night of November 5th was bleak and cold and misty, and as Mr.
Moggridge prepared for the night he shivered, and prayed that no
Zeppelins might come. He disliked the cold intensely, and pictured to
himself the unpleasantness of sitting for hours in a damp cellar with
very few clothes on. Sleep always came readily to Mr. Moggridge's
eye-lids, and within five minutes of extinguishing the light and
slipping into bed, his heavy breathing announced that he was in the land
of wonder that knows and yet does not know a Zeppelin.
How long he had slept Mr. Moggridge had no idea; but he was awakened by
what he afterwards described as "a terrific explosion" just beneath his
window.
"At last!" was his mental comment as he sprang out of bed, sniffing the
air like a cat that smells fish. He rushed to the window and looked
out. There were no search lights to be seen; but another explosion,
apparently in his own garden sent him bounding from the window to the
door. Seizing the handle he tore it open and, grasping the
leather-headed hammer, began to pound the dinner-gong as if his
salvation depended upon his efforts. "Zeppelins," he yelled,
"Zeppelins." There were sounds of doors opening, a babel of voices, a
scream and then a soft-padded rush upstairs. "Don't come up here! Go
down to the cellar," he shouted and, seizing the gong, he dashed for the
stairs. There was another report, and an "Oh my God!" from the cook,
followed by a peal of hysterical laughter from the younger of the maids.
There was a yelp, a swiiiiiish of rushing water, a pandemonium of
feminine shrieks, a tremendous clatter of metal and crockery, as bath
caught pail, and pail overset jug to add to the torrent that rushed down
the staircase like a flood. Mr. Moggridge had stumbled against the big
bath!
The avalanche caught the Moggridges in the rear, shriek followed
agonised shriek, as the cold water struck the slightly clad bodies, the
shrieks crystallised into yells of anguish as the baths, jugs and bowls
came thundering after the water. It seemed the object of animate and
inanimate alike to get to the ground floor first. At each landing there
was a momentary pause, just as a wave will poise itself before crashing
forward, then more crashes and shrieks and groans. All had lost their
foothold, and were inextricably mixed up with baths and bits of
crockery. At last the torrent reached the hall, where it lay gasping
and choking, wondering if this were death or the after punishment.
"My God!" shrieked Mr. Moggridge. "Gas!"
He had forgotten his mask.
He struggled to rise, but the cook and half a foot-bath were firmly
fixed upon his person. He could merely lie and sniff--and pray.
The air was foul with an acrid smell that seemed to have permeated
everything. To the Moggridges, heaped on the cold hall-tiles, saturated
and bruised, it carried a more conclusive proof of danger than the
buffeting received in the dash downstairs. It was Gas! Gas!! Gas!!!
They would be ruined for life, even if they escaped death.
Above the wails of the Moggridges and their retainers could be heard
explosion after explosion from without. Policemen's whistles were
singing their raucous, terrifying note. A female voice was heard
laughing and sobbing wildly--the cook was in hysterics, whilst at last
from an inextricable heap of human limbs and bodies rose the courageous
voice of Mr. Moggridge.
"Keep cool, keep calm," he besought. "You are quite safe here. You've
got your gas masks. We----"
He was interrupted by a heavy and imperious pounding upon the knocker,
and a continuous sounding of the spring bell. A disc of light could be
seen through the stained-glass windows of the hall. From the shivering
heap there was no movement to open the door, nothing but cries and sobs
and moans. The pounding continued, punctuated by occasional explosions
from without. It was Alan who at last crept out of the corner from
which he had watched the avalanche of his family and its servitors, and
went to the door, unbolting it and admitting what appeared to be two
rays of light. They ferreted about until they fell on the heap of
Moggridges.
Alan's first thought had been to turn on the electric light at the
meter. He now switched on the hall lights, discovering two policemen
and two special constables, who in turn discovered Mr. Moggridge. He
had wriggled into a sitting posture, where he remained grasping the
dinner gong, as Nero might have grasped his instrument when disaster
overtook Rome, surrounded and held down by his progeny.
"Oh, turn off the light, do, please!" pleaded a voice, and there was a
chorus of cries and endeavours to make scanty draperies cover opulent
limbs; but the water had done its work, and one of the policemen,
remembering that he had sisters, turned his head aside, and the
"specials," for the first time since they had been enrolled, decided
that it wasn't so lacking in incident after all, whilst owners and
possessors of Moggridge limbs sought to hide them beneath other
Moggridge limbs, and those who could not do so hid their faces.
*III*
"You done fine!" A happy grin spread itself over the features of the
speaker, a little man with a red nose, a green baize apron and a blue
and white cricket cap, much the worse for wear. "You done fine," he
repeated, and then as if to himself, "Yes, them big crackers do make an
'ell of a row." And Joseph Bindle looked at Alan Moggridge approvingly.
"Wasn't it lucky I went to help Aunt Mary move? If I hadn't I shouldn't
have seen you and----"
"And there wouldn't a been no Zeppelin raid round your way. Well you
'ave to thank Dr. Little for the stuff wot made 'em think it was
gas-bombs! Fancy them runnin' in your old dad for lettin' off
fireworks. So long, sonny," and with a nod and a grin Bindle passed on,
wondering if Mrs. Bindle had stewed-steak and onions for supper.
"Oh! Mr. Bindle!" expostulated Sallie when the story came to an end.
Then after a pause she added, "Don't you think it was a little cruel?"
There was concern upon Bindle's face: he was troubled that Sallie should
criticise him. He looked from her to me, as if desirous that I should
share some of the responsibility. It was the first time I had ever seen
Bindle abashed. The dear chap is in reality as tender-hearted as a
woman, and it was evident that, for the first time, he saw things as
they appeared to Sallie.
"Well, miss," he said at last. "I 'adn't thought of it that way. I'm
sorry for them gals," but in spite of himself the flicker of a grin
passed across his features. "I was only thinkin' o' the old man wot
didn't ought to be allowed to go about scarin' people out o' their
senses. I'm sorry, miss," and Bindle really was sorry. For the rest of
the evening it was easy to see that he regarded himself as in disgrace.
The way in which his eyes kept wandering to where Sallie was sitting,
reminded me of a dog that has been scolded, and watches wistfully for
the sign that shall tell him all is forgiven.
When Bindle returned from seeing Sallie into her taxi, I could see that
the cloud had been brushed aside; for he was once more his old jovial
self.
J.B. is a strange creature, as mischievous as a monkey; but as lovable
as--well, as a man who is white all through, and as incapable of hurting
the helpless as of harming the innocent. He has probably never heard of
the Public School Spirit; yet it has not much to teach him about playing
the game.
*CHAPTER XVII*
*SALLIE AT THE WHEEL*
It is one of Windover's pet theories that if a man will but be natural,
he can go anywhere and do anything. He claims that the Public School
benefits a man not by what it bestows; but rather by what it destroys.
"It clips the ragged edges of a man's ego," he would remark, "and
teaches him that as an entity he has no place in the universe."
Windover will talk for hours on this subject. Simplicity of nature and
the faculty of adapting himself to any environment are, according to
him, the ideal results the Public Schools achieve.
In all probability Bindle never had any ragged edges to his ego.
Simple-minded and large-hearted, as much at home with the denizens of
Mayfair as the inhabitants of Hounsditch, he seems never at a loss. He
is always just Bindle, and that is why everyone seems instinctively to
like him. He always does the right thing, because he knows no wrong
thing to do. Unlike Angell Herald, he is not burdened with two distinct
sets of "manners." Bindle would discuss regicides with Hamlet, or noses
with a Cyrano de Bergerac with entire unconsciousness of giving offence.
He is one thing to all men, as Dare once told him, whereat Bindle
remarked, "But don't forget the ladies, sir."
One Sunday evening, just as the Club was breaking up, Sallie remarked to
Bindle, "Next Saturday, Mr. Bindle, you must get a whole day's holiday
and come with me for a pic-nic."
"Me, miss?" enquired the astonished Bindle. "Me an' you at a pic-nic.
Well I'm blessed."
Bindle was taken by surprise. He looked from Sallie to Windover and
then to me, as if seeking an explanation of why Sallie should invite
him.
"Just we four," Sallie went on in that inimitable way of hers, which
would make purgatory a paradise. "We'll take the car and luncheon and
tea-baskets. It will be splendid. You will come Mr. Bindle, won't
you?" Sallie looked at him with sparkling eyes.
"Come, miss?" cried Bindle. "Come? I'll come if it costs me Mrs. B.'s
love. You did say a motor car, miss?" he enquired anxiously, and
Sallie's assurance that she had, seemed all that was necessary to
complete his happiness.
That evening Bindle and I left Dick Little's flat together. For some
time we walked along in silence, each engaged with his own thoughts.
Suddenly Bindle broke the silence.
"Wot did I ought to wear, sir?" he enquired. There was a look of anxiety
on his face, and unusual corrugations on his forehead.
"Well, J.B.," I remarked, "you'd look nice in muslin with a picture
hat." His reproachful look, however, showed me that I had made a
mistake.
"I can't wear them Oxford togs with 'er," he remarked.
It should be explained that when Bindle went to Oxford, impersonating
the millionaire uncle of an unpopular undergraduate, he had been fitted
out with a wardrobe to suit the part. Included in it were a loud black
and white check suit, a white waistcoat, a Homburg hat with a puggaree,
a red necktie and a cane heavily adorned with yellow metal.
Involuntarily I shuddered at the thought of what Sallie would suffer if
Bindle turned up in such a costume.
"No," I said with great seriousness, "they're not quite suited to
motoring. You must get a new rig out, J.B.," I added.
Still Bindle's face did not clear, and I guessed that it was a question
of finance.
I proffered assistance; but that did not help matters. It seemed to
make things worse: Bindle is very independent. For some time we walked
along in silence. Suddenly I had an inspiration.
"I'll sell one of your yarns to an unsuspecting editor," I said, "and
we'll share the plunder. I'll advance you something on account of your
share."
In a second the clouds disappeared.
"You're sure it'll earn enough?" he enquired suspiciously.
I proceed to swear that it would in a manner that would have made Lars
Porsena envious. I was interrupted by a taxi pulling up with a grind
just behind, and Windover jumped out, paid the man and joined us.
"I quite forget," Windover began. "Sallie told me to arrange to meet at
Putney Town Station, she'll run the car through and pick us up there."
Bindle explained to Windover that the question of his wardrobe had been
under discussion and the upshot was that Windover, who is a supreme
artist in the matter of clothes, undertook to see Bindle properly turned
out.
On Saturday morning I was at the appointed place a few minutes before
nine, I looked round for Bindle, and then forgot him in watching the
struggles of a horse to drag a heavily-laden coal-cart up the rise where
the High Street passes over the railway.
The level reached, the carter drew up to the curb where the horse stood
quivering and panting, bathed in sweat. Suddenly I became aware that
one of the men I had observed pushing behind the cart was Bindle; but
such a Bindle. No wonder I had at first failed to recognise a
blue-suited, brown-booted, dark-tied Bindle. Everything about him was
the perfection of fit and cut, from his simple crook cane to his
wash-leather gloves. Most wonderful of all, Bindle carried his clothes
as if accustomed to them every day of the week.
With perfect gravity he drew off his right glove before shaking hands.
"D'yer like it, sir?"
I drew a sigh of relief. The vernacular was unchanged; it was still the
same Bindle.
"J.B.," I said gravely, "I've never seen a better dressed man in my
life. It's an entire metamorphosis.";
"There you're sort o' wrong, sir. It's 'is Lordship. D'yer think
she'll like it, sir?" he enquired anxiously.
By "she" I knew he meant Sallie.
"Sure of it," I replied with confidence. Bindle seemed reassured.
Suddenly his eye caught the black line across the palm of his right
glove.
"Look wot I done." He held out the glove for my inspection as a child
might a torn pinafore. "Wot'll she think?" There was anxiety in his
voice.
"She'll be rather pleased when I tell her how it happened," I replied,
at which his face cleared.
"I wanted a red tie to sort o' give it a bite; but 'e wouldn't 'ave it,
so 'ere I am," and Bindle drew on his right glove once more.
"Tell me all about it," I urged. "Those clothes were made in the
West-End, I swear."
"Got it first time, sir," he remarked, as he drew from his breast-pocket
a suspicious-looking cigar with an enormous red and gold band round its
middle.
"Let me cut it for you," I broke in hastily, seizing the weed without
waiting for his acquiescence. That band would have killed Sallie, so I
ripped it off. As I did so Bindle made a movement as if to stop me, but
he said nothing. As I raised my eyes from the operation, I saw his
regretful gaze fixed upon the band lying on the pavement, a shameless
splash of crimson and of gold.
Bindle lighted his cigar and I manoeuvred to get to windward of him.
"You was talkin' about these 'ere duds, sir," remarked Bindle puffing
contentedly at what made me pray for Windover's swift arrival: I do not
carry cigars. "You was right, sir."
"In what?" I queried.
"They came from Savile Row, from 'is Lordship's own snips. You should a
seen 'is face when 'is Lordship said 'e was out for reach-me-downs for
yours truly."
It was easy to visualise the scene. Windover easy, courteous,
matter-of-fact. His tailor staggered, yet striving to disguise his
astonishment under a veneer of urbanity and "yes-my-lords." Windover is
the most perfectly bred creature I have ever met. If he were to order
riding breeches for a camel, he would do so in such a way that no one
would think of laughing, or even regarding it as strange.
"Took me round 'isself everywhere," continued Bindle. "We got this 'at
in Piccadilly, these boots an' gloves in Bond Street, also the tie."
Bindle looked round cautiously and then bending a little closer he
confided, "I'm silk underneath!" He leaned back upon his stick to see
the effect. I smiled. "Wi' funny things round me legs to keep me socks
up," and he grinned joyously at the thought of his own splendour.
"What did Mrs. Bindle say?" I enquired.
"'Ush, sir, 'ush! She said about every think she could think of, and a
good many things she didn't ought to know. She talked about Mammon,
keepin' 'oly the Sabbath day, about Abraham's bosom. Jest fancy a woman
married to a man like me a-talkin' about another cove's bosom. Why
can't she say chest and be respectable?"
"And what did you say?" I queried.
"Oh!" replied Bindle, "I jest asked 'er wot ole Abraham did when he got
a chill, an' if 'e called it a cold on 'is bosom?"
I laughed, but Bindle continued seriously, "She arst me where I'd be if
the end of the world was to come sudden like."
Scenting a good rejoinder I enquired what he had said.
"I told 'er to look in the saloon-bar first, an' if I wasn't there to
try the bottle-an'-jug department. I come away then. Mrs. B.'s a rummy
sort o' send-off for an 'oliday," he soliloquised.
After a pause he added, "I'd like to 'ave jest a peep at 'eaven to see
if Gawd is really like wot Mrs. B. says. Seems to me 'e must be like
one o' them quick-change coves I seen at the Granville. Ole
War-an-Whiskers [the Kayser] says 'E 'elps the Germans to kill kids an'
'ack women about, Mrs. B. says 'e's goin' to give me pickles when I die,
an ole 'Earty seems to think 'E's collectin' 'oly greengrocers. There
was one parson chap wot told me that 'E was kind an' just, with eyes wot
smiled. I don't see 'ow 'e can be the ole bloomin' lot cause----"
Bindle suddenly broke off, straightened himself, lifted his hat and
proceeded to pull off his glove. I turned and saw Sallie bringing her
"Mercedes" along at a thumping pace. She bore in towards us and brought
the car up in a workmanlike manner. Windover, who was seated behind
her, jumped out.
"Cheer-o!" said Bindle.
"Cheer-o!" replied Windover. Probably it was the first time in his life
that he had ever used the expression: he is inclined to be a purist.
"You been stealin' a march on us, sir," said Bindle.
"I was literally picked out of my taxi," explained Windover, "hardly
given time to pay the man, I should say over-pay the man, I had
forgotten the war."
I saw from the look in Sallie's eyes that she was pleased with Bindle's
appearance.
"Jump in," she said. Sallie is always brisk and business-like when
running "Mercy," as she calls her car.
"You must sit by me, Mr. Bindle."
Bindle's cup of happiness was now full to overflowing. When he took his
seat beside Sallie I caught his eye. In it was a look of triumph. It
said clearly, "Jest fancy 'er wantin' me when she could have a lord."
As we swung up Putney hill, Windover told me of his experiences in
clothing Bindle. At my particular request he also gave me an
approximate idea of the sum involved. It was worthy both of Windover
and the West End.
"But my dear Windover," I expostulated, "was silk underwear absolutely
necessary for this pic-nic?"
Windover turned upon me a pair of reproachful eyes. "Phillips is
sensitive," he remarked, "and if he knew that any of his 'creations'
were put over anything but silk, he would close my account."
With that I had to rest content. Personally I had seen no need to take
Bindle to Phillips at all; but Windover is an artist, he "composes" his
wearing-apparel as a painter composes a picture, or a poet a sonnet. If
providence be discriminating it will punish Windover in the next world
for his misdemeanours in this by making him wear odd socks, or a hard
hat with a morning coat. I told him so.
As we talked I noticed Windover snuffing the air like a hound. He
looked at me, then moved the rug to see if there were anything at the
bottom of the car. Finally he smelt the rug, still he seemed
dissatisfied, continuing to turn his head from side to side sniffing, as
if endeavouring to trace some evil smell. Finally his eyes fixed
themselves on Bindle sitting complacently smoking his cigar.
"Good God!" he muttered as he screwed his eye-glass into his eye. "I
thought it was a dead dog. He must have run out of 'coronels.'" I heard
him mutter.
"You can't raise a man from Fulham to Curzon Street in a few hours,
Windover," I remarked reproachfully. "You taught Bindle to remove his
glove before shaking hands, and you also gave him very creditable
instructions in how to lift his hat so as not to look like a third rate
actor in a Restoration melodrama; but you omitted to instruct him in the
choice of cigars."
Windover has as delicate a taste in tobacco as in women; in other words
he is extremely fastidious. I watched him as he turned the problem over
in his mind. I could follow his train of thought. It was obviously
impossible to sit inhaling the fumes of Bindle's cigar. It was
unthinkable again to tell the dear chap it was nothing short of a
pollution. In all probability it was a threepenny cigar, the extra
penny being in honour of the occasion. Therefore some other way out of
the difficulty must be devised. I, had every confidence in Windover and
his sense of delicacy. His eyeglass dropped from his eye, a sure sign
that the strain of deep-thinking was past.
Taking his cigar case from his pocket, he tapped Bindle on the shoulder
and whispered to him. Bindle gave a quick look at Sallie,
surreptitiously threw away his cigar and accepted one proffered by
Windover, the end of which he promptly bit off. Windover sank back into
his seat with a sigh, and I saw Bindle turn to Sallie, who changed speed
and put on the brakes. He then calmly proceeded to light his new cigar,
quite unconscious that, in asking her to stop a car going at nearly
forty miles an hour, he had transgressed against one of the "Thou shalt
nots" of motoring.
"How did you do it?" I asked Windover.
"I told him that Sallie would be mortally offended if she knew he was
smoking one of his own cigars, it was her pic-nic and she had given me
some cigars with which to keep him supplied."
Tactful Windover.
Lunch we had in a field well off the main road. Bindle's face was a
study as we unpacked the luncheon hamper. Sallie is very thorough, and
her pic-nic appointments are the most perfect I have ever encountered,
from the folding legless table to the dainty salt-spoons. For once
Bindle was silent; but his eyes were busy. When the champagne appeared
with the ice and the ice-cream cooler, his emotions overcame him. I
heard him mutter to himself, "Well I'm blowed."
During the meal the rest of us talked; but Bindle said little.
"You're very quiet, Mr. Bindle," said Sallie at last, smiling.
"I'm too 'appy to talk, miss," said Bindle with unusual gravity, and
there was a look in his eyes that was more eloquent than his words. "You
see, miss, you can do this any day yer likes, and yer gets sort o' used
to it; but I don't suppose I shall ever do it again, and I want to make
sure that I'm enjoyin' every bit of it. I can talk any time."
Sallie turned her head quickly, and I could see that her eyes were
moist. Bindle's remark was not without its pathos.
After lunch Sallie took Bindle off for a walk, whilst Windover and I
stayed by the car. During the half hour they were absent, only one
remark was made as we sat smoking, and that was by Windover.
"I have come to regard Bindle as a social antiseptic," he said.