THE GREAT CONSPIRACY
I
At Harridge's Stores Bindle had made himself very popular with the
manager of the Furniture Removing Department. His cheery outlook on
life, his racy speech and general trustworthiness resulted in his being
frequently entrusted with special jobs where reliability was required.
When the order was received to supply the refreshments for the Barton
Bridge Temperance Fete, Bindle was selected to go down to erect the
marquee and stalls, and be generally responsible for the safe transit
of the eatables and drinkables.
"Yer can always trust me wi' lemonade and religion," he had assured the
manager. "I don't touch neither; they sort of goes to me 'ead."
The Barton Bridge Temperance Society had determined to celebrate the
twenty-fifth anniversary of its foundation in a manner that should
attract to it the attention of the temperance world. After much
deliberation and heart-burning, an English Rustic Fete had been decided
upon.
The whole of the surrounding country had been put under contribution,
and everyone had responded either with generosity or with scorn. Old
Sir John Bilder, of Bilder's Entire, had replied with ponderous humour
that he "would supply all the ale required." When he received a
request for three gross of pint bottles of a particular kind of
temperance ale he had been surprised. "Well, I'm damned!" was his
comment; but being a sportsman he had sent the ale, which he regarded
as a fair price for a good story.
Barton Bridge was proud of its Temperance Society, but prouder still of
its breadth of mind. It had been a tradition for a quarter of a
century that the Society should be non-sectarian. It is nothing to the
discredit of Barton Bridge that the Temperance Society was the only
thing in the place that had not been warped from its orbit by sect.
For a churchman to be discovered eating bread of Mr. Lacey's baking,
Mr. Lacey being a nonconformist, would have meant social ostracism. He
must, by virtue of his beliefs, masticate none but bread kneaded and
baked by Mr. Carter, the church baker.
A one-time vicar had sought to demolish this "ridiculous wall of
prejudice" by dealing alternately with church and chapel tradesmen.
There had been no protest from the chapel people, but the indignation
of the church tradesmen had been so great, and their absence from
service so persistent, that the vicar had been forced to give way.
Tolerance was an acquired habit rather than an instinctive virtue in
Barton Bridge, and the temperance meetings were solemn minglings of
bodies accompanied by a warring of souls.
A witty Frenchman has said that, "In order to preserve the purity of
his home life, the Englishman invented the Continental excursion." It
is a cynicism; but at least it shows how dear tradition is to the
Englishman's heart. It was this same spirit of tradition that raised
above the strife of sect the Barton Bridge Temperance Society.
The question of the doctor was another instance of the effect of
tradition upon what, at first glance, might appear to be a grave
problem. There was not room for two doctors at Barton Bridge, and no
doctor could reasonably be expected to be a bi-religionist. It
therefore became the accepted thing that the Barton Bridge doctor
should attend neither church nor chapel; but it was incumbent upon him
to become a member of the Temperance Society.
The catering for the Temperance Fete had at first presented a serious
difficulty, and at one time had even threatened to divide the camp.
The church party recoiled in horror from the thought of eating
nonconformist sandwiches; whilst if the lemonade were of church
manufacture it would mean that scores of dissenters would have a
thirsty afternoon.
The problem had been solved by Lady Knob-Kerrick, who insisted that the
order should be placed with a London firm of caterers, which, as a
limited company, could not be expected to have religious convictions.
Thus it was that the order went to Harridge's Stores.
II
By eight o'clock on the morning of the Fete a pantechnicon was
lumbering its ungainly way along the Portsmouth Road. Bindle sat
meditatively on the tail-board, smoking and obviously bored.
With the wholesome contempt of an incorrigible cockney he contemplated
the landscape.
"'Edges, trees, an' fields, an' a mile to walk for a drink. Not me,"
he muttered, relighting his pipe with solemn gravity.
As the pantechnicon rumbled its ponderous way through hamlet and
village, Bindle lightly tossed a few pleasantries to the rustics who
stood aside to gaze at what, to them, constituted an incident in the
day's monotony of motor-cars and dust.
The morning advanced, and Bindle grew more direct in his criticisms on,
and contempt for, the bucolic life. At last out of sheer loneliness he
climbed up beside the driver.
"'Owd jer like to live 'ere, ole son?" he enquired pleasantly, as they
approached a tiny hamlet where a woman, a child, and some ducks and
chickens seemed to be the only living inhabitants.
"All right with a bit o' land," responded the driver, looking about him
appreciatively.
Bindle gazed at his colleague curiously, then, feeling that they had
nothing in common regarding the countryside, continued:
"Funny thing you an' me comin' to a temperance fete." Then regarding
the driver's face critically, he proceeded: "'Ope you've got yer
vanity-case wi' yer. You'll want to powder that nose o' yours 'fore
the ladies come. Course it's indigestion, only they mightn't believe
it."
The driver grunted.
"Fancy," continued Bindle, "'avin' to 'aul about chairs and make up
tables a day like this, an' on lemonade too. Can't yer see it, mate,
in glass bottles wi' lemons stuck in the tops and no froth?"
The driver grumbled in his throat.
The start had been an early one and he was dry, despite several
ineffectual attempts to allay his thirst at wayside inns.
It was nearly eleven o'clock before a sprinkling of houses warned them
that they were approaching Barton Bridge. Soon the pantechnicon was
awaking echoes in the drowsy old High Street. Half-way along what is
practically the only thoroughfare stands the Pack Horse, outside which
the driver instinctively pulled up, and he and Bindle clambered down
and entered, ostensibly to enquire the way to the Fete ground.
Behind the bar stood Mr. Cutts, wearing the inevitable red knitted cap
without which no one had ever seen him during business hours. He was
engaged in conversation with Dick Little, the doctor's son, and by
common consent the black sheep of Barton Bridge. The subject of their
talk was temperance. He showed no particular inclination to come
forward, and Bindle was extremely thirsty.
After regarding the red cap for a moment Bindle approached the landlord.
"No offence, your 'Oliness! Sorry to be a noosance, but can yer tell
me where the Temperance Fete is to be 'eld? Me and my mate is
delegates come all the way from London. No; your 'Oliness is wrong,
it's indigestion. That nose of 'is always takes a lot of explainin'."
Mr. Cutts flushed a deep purple at the reference to his cap. He wore
it to hide his baldness, and was extremely sensitive. Dick Little
laughed outright. It was he who answered Bindle.
"Half a mile up, and down the avenue of poplars."
"D' yer 'ear, mate?" Bindle turned to the driver. "D' yer know a
poplar when yer see it? Same for me." The last remark referred to the
driver's order for a pint of ale. After finishing his draught the
driver went out to see to the watering of his horses, whilst Mr. Cutts,
having cast at Bindle a look which he conceived to be of withering
scorn, retired to his parlour.
"Seem to 'ave 'urt Old Bung's feelin's," Bindle remarked genially to
Dick Little.
"You said you were going to the Temperance Fete?"
"Yes; we're carryin' along the buns, sangwidges, cakes, an' lemonade,
likewise tents and things."
"Like a drink?" enquired Little.
"Well!" grinned Bindle judicially, as he surveyed his empty glass, "it
would lay the dust a bit; provided," he added with mock gravity, "it
ain't a split soda. Never could digest split sodas. Where's 'is
'Oliness?" he enquired, looking round.
"Never mind him," responded Little, taking a flask from his pocket.
"Wash the glass out."
Bindle did so, and threw the water in a delicate line upon the floor.
Little emptied the greater part of the contents of the flask into the
glass held before him. With a happy look in his eyes Bindle took a
short drink, tasted the liquid critically, looked at Little, then with
a puzzled expression emptied the glass at the second attempt.
"Wot jer call it, sir? It's new to me," he remarked, as he replaced
his glass upon the counter.
"It hasn't got a name yet. I make it myself. It's not bad, eh?"
"It beats all I've ever tasted, sir. It ain't for suckin'-babes,
though. Pretty strong."
"Yes; you said you had lemonade for the Temperance Fete in there,
didn't you?" enquired Little.
"Well, not exactly, sir. It's got to be watered down, see? Ther'll be
about fifty gallons, 'sides bottled stuff."
"Are you open to earn a sovereign?" asked Little.
"Well, sir, it's funny you should arst that. Jest 'fore I came away
from 'ome this morning my missus told me the Income Tax paper 'ad come
in. That ole Lloyd George is fairly messin' up my estates. Yes, I
don't mind if I do."
At this moment the driver put his head in at the door and muttered
something about getting on.
"'Arf a mo', ole son," responded Bindle; then turning to Little added
with a grin, "I makes it a rule never to keep me 'orses waitin',
mister; the coachman gets so cross."
When Mr. Cutts returned to the bar he saw Dick Little in deep
conversation with Bindle, which surprised him. He saw Bindle's face
irradiating joy and heard him remark:
"'Old me, somebody, 'old me, I say! You jest leave it to me, sir."
Presently they both went out. A moment later the pantechnicon rumbled
off, leaving Mr. Cutts still wondering.
The pantechnicon lumbered on towards the meadow adjoining Kerrick
Castle, which had been placed at the disposal of the committee of the
Temperance Society by its owner. On the tail-board sat Bindle, a
metamorphosed Bindle. All the morning's gloom had vanished from his
features, giving place to a joy not entirely due to the partial
quenching of a persistent thirst.
Dick Little walked slowly home to an early lunch. He had many old
scores to settle with Barton Bridge, and he realised that there was an
excellent chance of a balance being struck that afternoon.
His one anxiety was lest his father should be involved. Between Dr.
Little and his two sons, Dick and Tom, there was little in common save
a great bond of affection. Dr. Little was serious-minded, inclined to
be fussy, but of a generous nature and a genial disposition that gained
for him the regard of all his patients. His son Dick was a rollicking
dandy, an inveterate practical joker, and the leader of every
mischievous escapade at St. Timothy's Hospital, known as "Tim's," where
he enjoyed an all-round popularity.
III
By half-past one o'clock everything was ready for the Temperance Fete.
The large marquee had been erected, the chairs and tables had been
dotted about the meadow. Rustic stalls, gay with greenery and bunting,
invited the visitor to refresh himself. In the centre of a roped-off
space stood a gaily beribboned maypole.
A "cokernut shy," a Punch-and-Judy Show, and the old English game of
Aunt Sally were some of the diversions provided. There was also to be
Morris dancing, the dancers having been trained by Miss Slocum, the
vicar's daughter, aided, for reasons of policy rather than individual
prowess, by Miss McFie, the sister of the Congregational minister. The
girl attendants in their gaily coloured dresses and sun-bonnets, and
the men in smock-frocks and large straw hats, added picturesqueness to
the scene.
Bindle's activity had been prodigious. With the ease of a man who is
thoroughly conversant with his subject, he had taken charge of the
drink department. The lemonade had been distributed to the various
stalls, and the right amount of water added, according to the
directions upon each cask. Every drop of water had been fetched under
the supervision of Bindle himself.
On arriving at the Fete ground Bindle had gone direct to a corner of
the meadow and brought forth half a dozen stone jars, each capable of
holding about two gallons. The contents of these he had carefully
poured into the casks containing the nucleus of the lemonade. These
same jars had been subsequently used for fetching water with which to
weaken the lemonade.
Finally they had been stowed away in the far end of the pantechnicon.
Bindle stood out in strong relief from the other workers, both on
account of his costume and personality. He wore the green baize apron
of his class. On his head was the inevitable cricket cap. His face
had taken on the same hue as his nose, and the smile that irradiated
his features transcended in its joyous abandon the smiles of all the
others. For everyone he had a merry word. In the short space of two
hours he had achieved an astonishing popularity.
By three o'clock the Fete was in full swing. Every stable in Barton
Bridge was full, and the High Street presented a curious appearance,
with its rows of horseless carriages, carts, and traps. The
coach-houses and available sheds had all been utilised to give shelter
to the scores of horses. The members of the committee, wearing big
dark-blue rosettes, smiled largely their satisfaction. They knew that
reporters were present from _The Blue Ribbon News_ and _The Pure Water
World_.
Bindle had entered into the spirit of the revelry in a way that
attracted to him the attention of many members of the organising
committee.
"An extremely droll fellow, quite a valuable addition to our
attendants," the vicar remarked to the Rev. Andrew McFie, the young
Congregational pastor, as they stood surveying the scene.
"An admeerable man, Meester Slocum," the cautious Scot had replied. "I
have no wish to be uncharitable, but I meestrust his nose."
Entirely unconscious that he was a subject of conversation between the
two shepherds of Barton Bridge, Bindle was standing behind a
refreshment stall that he had appropriated to himself, surrounded by an
amused crowd of revellers.
He was discoursing upon the virtues of lemonade upon a hot day. "Give
'er a drink, sir," he called to one sheepish-looking rustic, who stood
grasping in his the hand of a lumpy, red-faced girl. "Give 'er a
drink, sir, do, or she'll faint. 'Er tongue's almost 'anging out as it
is. Be a sport. No, miss, it's no use your looking at me; my wife
won't let me."
As they took their first sip of the much-praised lemonade, many looked
wonderingly at Bindle. There was about it an unaccustomed something
that they could not quite analyse or describe. Whatever it was, it was
pleasant to the taste, and it gave them courage. Eyes that had
previously been sheepish became merry, almost bold. The prospect of
joy seemed nearer.
The fame of the lemonade soon spread. The fringes about the stalls
deepened. The air became bright with shouts and laughter.
A spirit of wild revelry was abroad. The cokernut-shy was the centre
of an uproarious throng. Balls were bought and flung with such
wildness that none dared to replace the cokernuts that had been knocked
off, or to fetch what by rights was his own property.
Mr. Slocum and Mr. McFie strolled round the grounds, sedately benign.
They, the representatives of a Higher Power, must of necessity keep
aloof from such pleasures, even temperance pleasures; still, they were
glad to see about them evidences of such simple and wholesome gaiety.
With measured steps they approached a considerable group of young
people who were laughing and shouting boisterously. When within about
twenty yards of the crowd it suddenly opened out.
"It's a race, sir," shouted someone, and they smilingly stood aside to
see the sport. A moment after their smiles froze upon their faces and
gave place to a look of wonder and of horror. It was indeed a race;
but such a race! Coming towards them were five youths, each bearing,
pick-a-back fashion, a girl. There was an exhibition of feminine
frilleries that caused the reverend gentlemen to gasp, to look at each
other quickly and then turn hurriedly aside. When just opposite to
where they stood, one couple came to the ground and the pair following
immediately behind fell over the others. Mr. McFie blushed, and Mr.
Slocum, remembering his companion's youth, gripped him by the arm and
hurried him away with a muttered, "Dreadful, dreadful!"
No other word was spoken until they reached the refreshment-stall over
which Bindle presided, and then the vicar once more murmured,
"Dreadful!"
"Have you any tea?" enquired Mr. McFie, more from a desire to say
something than a feeling of thirst.
"No, sir," responded Bindle, "tea's over there, sir. Try the lemonade,
sir; it's A-1. It'll pull yer together, sir. Do try it, sir," Bindle
added eagerly. "You look 'ot and tired, sir. It'll do yer good."
The two pastors looked curiously at Bindle, but accepted each without
comment a glass of lemonade. They put it to their lips, tasted it,
looked at each other and then drank greedily.
"Another, sir?" enquired Bindle of the vicar when he had finished his
glass.
"Er ... no," murmured Mr. Slocum; but Bindle had already refilled his
glass and was doing a like service for Mr. McFie. When they left the
stall it was arm-in-arm, and Mr. McFie directed his steps to the spot
where, a few minutes previously, he had received so severe a shock; but
the sport was over and the crowd had dispersed.