MR. HEARTY PRAYS FOR BINDLE
Mrs. Bindle had just returned from evening chapel. On Sundays,
especially on Sunday evenings, when there had been time for the
cumulative effect of her devotions to manifest itself, Mrs. Bindle was
always in a chastened mood. She controlled those gusts of temper which
plunged her back into the Doric and precipitated Bindle "into 'ell,
dust an' all."
On this particular evening she was almost gentle. The bangs with which
she accentuated the placing of each plate and dish upon the table were
_piano_ bangs, and Bindle duly noted the circumstance.
With him Sunday was always a day of intellectual freedom. He aired his
views more freely on that than on other days.
Having laid the supper, Mrs. Bindle began to remove her bonnet. With a
hat-pin in her mouth and her hands stretched behind her head in the act
of untying an obstreperous veil that rested like a black line across
the bridge of her nose, she remarked, in that casual tone which with
her betokened an item of great interest and importance:
"Mr. Hearty prayed for you to-night, Bindle."
Bindle sat up in his chair as if he had been shot.
"'Earty wot?" he interrogated, with unaccustomed anger in his voice,
and an unwonted flash in his eye. "'Earty wot?"
"He prayed for you," replied Mrs. Bindle in what was for her a hushed
voice; "a beautiful prayer about a brother who had fallen by the
wayside, a wheat-ear among thorns."
"'_E_ prayed for _me--'im_?"
Bindle removed his pipe from his mouth, and gripping the bowl between
thumb and finger, pointed what remained of the stem at Mrs. Bindle, as
she stuck a hat-pin through her bonnet and placed it on the dresser.
"'_E_ prayed for _me_?" The words came with such deliberation and
intensity that Mrs. Bindle glanced round sharply.
"Yes!" she snapped, "an' you want it. You're nothin' but an 'eathen."
Mrs. Bindle was forgetting her careful articulation.
"A brother fallen by the roadside----"
"Wayside," corrected Mrs. Bindle, as she banged a loaf on the table.
"A brother 'oo 'as fallen by the wayside, a wheat-ear among thorns,"
murmured Bindle as if to himself. Suddenly he grinned; the humour of
the thing seemed to strike him. "Prayed for in church--leastwise
chapel--jest like the Royal Family an' rain. You're comin' on, Joe
Bindle," he chuckled.
"Seems to amuse you," remarked Mrs. Bindle as she took her place at the
table.
"Yer've 'it it," replied Bindle, as he skilfully opened the tin of
salmon. "Yer've just 'it it. Alfred 'Earty was sent to annoy 'eaven
with 'is 'ymns and tickle up Joe Bindle with 'is prayers."
"If you was more like what he is, you'd be a better man."
"'Earty is as 'Earty does," flashed Bindle with a grin. Then after a
pause to enable him to reduce a particularly large mouthful of bread
and salmon to conversational proportions, he continued:
"If I 'ad the runnin' of this 'ere world, there'd be some rather big
alterations, with a sort of 'end o' the season' sale, an' there'd be
some pretty cheap lines in parsons an' greengrocers, not to speak of
chapel-goers."
"I'm surprised at you, Bindle, talking such blasphemies in a Christian
'ome. Unless you stop I'll go out."
"Not while there's any salmon left, Mrs. B.," remarked Bindle
oracularly.
"You're a bad man. I done my best, I'm sure----"
"You 'ave; if yer'd done yer second best or yer third best, Joe Bindle
might 'a been a better man than wot 'e is." Bindle dug a morsel of
salmon out of the tin with the point of his knife. "I been too well
brought up, that's wot's the matter wi' me."
"You're always scoffin' and sneerin' at me an' the chapel," responded
Mrs. Bindle tartly. "It don't hurt me, whatever you may think."
"There you're wrong, me blossom." Bindle was in high spirits. His
mind had been busily at work, and he saw a way of "bein' a bloomin'
thorn in 'Earty's wheat-ear 'ole."
"I ain't a scoffer; it's just that I don't understan' 'ow a thing wot
was meant to make people 'appy, seems to make 'em about as joyful as a
winkle wot feels the pin."
"Winkles are boiled first," retorted the literal Mrs. Bindle, wiping
round her plate with a piece of bread; "an' bein' dead don't feel pins.
I wouldn't eat them if it hurt. Besides, winkles haven't anythin' to
do with religion."
"That's wot makes 'em so tasty," retorted Bindle. "You an' 'Earty 'ave
sort o' spoiled me appetite for religion; but winkles still 'old me."
After a short silence he continued, "I never see a religious cove yet
wot I 'ad any likin' for, leastwise, wot said 'e was religious. It's a
funny thing, but as soon as people become good they seems to get about
as comfortable to live with as an 'edge'og in bed.
"Funny thing, religion," Bindle continued. "There was one cove I
know'd 'oo spent 'is time in 'avin' D.T.'s and gettin' saved, about
'alf an' 'alf, with a slight leanin' to D.T.'s. We called 'im Suds an'
Salvation, 'suds' bein' 'is name for beer.
"Look at 'Earty, now. 'E's always talkin' of 'eaven, but 'e ain't in
no 'urry to get there. 'E's as nippy as a cat if 'e 'ears a motor
'ooter when 'e's crossin' the road; and 'e 'ustles like 'ell to get
inside of a bus when it's rainin'."
"His life is not 'is own, and he's waitin' his call."
Bindle looked up with a laugh.
"'Ow'll 'e know it's for 'im an' not next door?" he asked.
"I won't listen to your evil talk," announced Mrs. Bindle, half rising
from her chair, and then resuming her seat again as if thinking better
of her determination.
"When," continued Bindle imperturbably, "I 'ears of a place where the
beer's better an' cheaper than wot I gets 'ere, orf I goes like a bunny
after a lettuce. Now you an' 'Earty knows that in 'eaven 'appiness is
better an' cheaper than wot it is 'ere, yet yer does all yer can to
keep away from it; and they're all the same. That's wot does me."
"If you wasn't such an 'eathen you'd understand," stormed Mrs. Bindle,
"and my life would be 'appier. You won't go to chapel, an' you won't
'ave a bath, and----"
"I don't 'old with all this talk o' washin'. It ain't natural," broke
in Bindle cheerfully. "Look at the ladies. Wot do they do? When they
gets sort o' soiled, do they wash? Not a bit of it; they shoves on
another coat of powder to cover it up. I seen 'em doin' it."
"Scarlet women!" Mrs. Bindle's jaws snapped loudly.
"Yes, an' pink an' white 'uns too. I seen all sorts doin' it--which
reminds me of 'ow ole Snooker lorst 'is job. 'E wos sent round by 'is
guv'nor to a lady with an estimate for white-washin' and paper-'angin'.
When she saw the price she gives a sort of screech o' surprise.
"'This is very expensive,' she says. 'It didn't cost little more than
'alf this last time.'
"'It's the right price, mum,' says Snooker. 'I been through it
myself,' 'e says.
"'But I don't understand,' says she.
"'Well, mum,' says Snooker, 'there's the ceilin's to be washed off,' 'e
says, 'an' the old paper to be stripped off the walls,' 'e says, 'and
it all takes time.'
"'But is that necessary?' says the lady.
"'Well, mum,' says Snooker, quiet like, 'yer wouldn't put clean
stockin's on dirty legs, would yer?' says 'e.
"She was as angry as an 'en, and wrote in that Snooker 'ad been sayin'
disgustin' things, 'im wot blows a cornet in the Salvation Band o'
Sundays. Why, 'e ain't got enough wind left on week-days to be
disgustin' with. Any'ow 'e lorst 'is job, and the lady went to someone
else as didn't talk about legs."
"Y' ought to be ashamed of yourself, Joseph Bindle, telling me such
lewd tales."
"'Lewd!' Wot's that?" queried Bindle.
"An abomination in the sight of the Lord," replied Mrs. Bindle
sententiously. "Your talk ain't fit for a woman to listen to. Last
time we was at Mr. Hearty's you was speakin' of babies in front of
Millie. I went hot all over."
"Is babies lewd then?" enquired Bindle innocently.
"They're born in sin."
"Oh, Lord!" grinned Bindle, "I'm always doin' it. Fancy babies bein'
as bad as that."
"You shouldn't speak about them before a young girl like Millie."
"Babies is funny things," remarked Bindle, replacing his empty glass on
the table, and wiping his mouth with the back of his disengaged hand.
"Babies is funny things. If yer want one it never seems to come; but
if yer don't want 'em it rains babies, an' 'fore yer know it you've got
a dose or two o' triplets at three pound a bunch from the King. There
wos 'Arry Brown; 'e wanted a kid, and 'e 'ated kittens. Yet 'is missis
never 'ad a baby, though the cat was always 'avin' kittens, which shows
as there wasn't anythink wrong wi' the 'ouse."
"I'm goin' to bed," announced Mrs. Bindle, as she rose. "Your talk
ain't fit for decent ears to listen to. If it wasn't the Sabbath I'd
tell you wot I think of you."
"I'm goin' out," announced Bindle with decision.
"At this time? You ain't goin' round to Mr. Hearty's?" There was a
note of anxiety in Mrs. Bindle's voice. "It's past nine o'clock."
"I ain't decided whether I'll punch 'Earty's 'ead or go an' get drunk.
I'm sick of all this 'umbug."
Whilst speaking, Bindle had seized his coat and cap, and made for the
door. The utterance of the last word synchronised with the banging of
the door itself.
Bindle walked to the Fulham Road, where he boarded an east-bound bus.
At Beaufort Street he alighted, and a few minutes later was ringing the
bell at 550 Beaufort Mansions, the address given to him by Dick Little.
The door was opened by Little himself.
"Why, it's Aristophanes," he said with obvious pleasure.
"No, sir, Joe Bindle."
"Come in, man, whoever you are. Come in, you're just the man we want,"
said Dick Little heartily.
At that moment there was a gust of laughter from an adjoining room.
"I'm afraid you got friends, sir," said Bindle, hesitating on the mat.
"I'll call round another night, sir. Shouldn't like to interrupt you."
"Rot! Come in," Little replied, dragging Bindle towards the room from
whence the laughter came. Through the door he cried out:
"Shut up that damned row. Here's Bindle, the immortal Bindle."
The momentary hush that Little's command had produced was followed by
yells of delight which crystallised into, "For he's a Jolly Good
Fellow!"
Bindle stood at the door listening in amazement; then with a grin
remarked to Little:
"Seem to know me, sir; seem sort o' fond of me."
"Know you, Bindle, my boy? There's not a fellow in Tim's that doesn't
know and love you. A toast, you fellows," he cried.
Little seized a glass half-full of whisky-and-soda. "A toast," he
cried, "to Bindle the Incomparable, rival of Aristophanes as a maker of
mirth."
Cries of "Bindle! Bindle!" echoed from all parts of the smoke-dimmed
room, and again there broke out what Dick Little called "the National
Anthem of Good Fellowship," followed by calls for a speech.
Before he knew it Bindle was hoisted upon the table, where he stood
gazing down upon some eight or ten flushed faces.
"Gentlemen, chair, please." Little rapped a glass on the table.
Silence ensued. "Now, Aristophanes," to Bindle.
"Bindle, sir, plain Joe Bindle, _if_ you please." Then turning to the
expectant faces round him Bindle began his first speech.
"Gentlemen--leastways, I 'ope so. You all seem to know me, and
likewise to be very fond o' me; well, p'r'aps I might become fond o'
you if I don't get to know too much about yer 'abits. I'm sorry to
break up this 'ere prayer-meetin', but I come to 'ave a word with Mr.
Little." (Cries of "Have it with us.") "Very well, then," continued
Bindle. "I got a brother-in-law, 'Earty by name." (There were cries
of "Good old Hearty!") "Seem to know 'im too. P'r'aps yer sings in
the choir at 'is chapel. Any'ow, 'Earty's been prayin' for me to-night
at 'is chapel, an' I come to arst Mr. Little wot I'd better do."
Bindle's announcement caused a sensation and something of an uproar.
His voice was drowned in cries of "Shame!"
"Just a moment, gentlemen, and I've done. 'E called me 'a brother
fallen by the wayside, a wheat-ear among thorns.'"
Yells of laughter followed this announcement, and Bindle was pulled
down and drink forced upon him. Soon he was sitting in the most
comfortable armchair in the room, smoking a colossal cigar, with a
large kitchen jug full of beer at his elbow. He saw before him nearly
a dozen of the most riotous spirits in London listening with eager
interest to his stories and opinions, which they punctuated with gusts
of laughter. The night was far advanced when at length he rose to go.
"Well, gentlemen," he said, "I never thought that doctors was such
sports. Now I understand why it is that the ladies is always gettin'
ill. S' long, and thanks for this friendly little evenin'. If I've
talked too much you jest come and 'ear Mrs. Bindle one evenin' and
yer'll be glad it's me and not 'er."
As Dick Little showed him out Bindle enquired:
"'Ow am I to get 'ome on that psalm-singin' brother-in-law o'
mine?--that's wot I wants to know. Prayin' for me in chapel." Bindle
wreaked his disgust on the match he was striking.
"I'll think it over," said Little, "and let you know. Good-night, and
thanks for coming. We shall always be glad to see you any Sunday
night."
"Different from 'Earty's Sunday nights," muttered Bindle, as he walked
away. "I wonder which makes the best men. It's a good job I ain't got
anythink to do with 'eaven, or them wheat-ears might sort o' get mixed
wi' the thorns."