MR. HEARTY BECOMES EXTREMELY UNPOPULAR
"'Earty may be all 'ymns an' whiskers," Bindle had said, "an' I 'ate
'is 'oly look an' oily ways; but 'e sticks to his job an' works like a
blackleg. It don't seem to give 'im no pleasure though. 'E don't
often smile, an' when 'e does it's as if 'e thought Gawd was a-goin' to
charge it up against 'im."
Mr. Hearty was an excellent tradesman; he sold nothing that he had not
bought himself, and Covent Garden knew no shrewder judge of what to buy
and what not to buy, or, as Bindle phrased it:
"'E's so used to lookin' for sin in the soul that 'e can see a rotten
apple in the middle of a barrel without knockin' the top off. Yes,
I'll give 'Earty 'is due. There ain't many as can knock spots off 'im
as a greengrocer, though as far as bein' a man, I seen better things
than 'im come out o' cheese."
On the Saturday morning after Bindle's visit to Dick Little, Mr. Hearty
was busily engaged in superintending the arrangement of his Fulham High
Street shop, giving an order here and a touch there, always with
excellent results.
According to his wont he had returned from market before eight o'clock,
breakfasted, hurried round to his other shop in the Wandsworth Bridge
Road, and before ten was back again at Fulham.
He was occupied in putting the finishing touches to a honey-coloured
pyramid of apples, each in its nest of pink paper like a setting hen,
when an ill-favoured man entered leading an enormous dog, in which the
salient points of the mastiff, bull-terrier, and French poodle
struggled for expression. The man looked at a dirty piece of paper he
held in his hand.
"Name of 'Earty?" he interrogated.
"I am Mr. Hearty," was the reply, uttered in a voice that was intended
to suggest dignity with just a dash of Christian forbearance.
"I brought your dawg," said the man with ingratiating geniality, baring
three dark-brown stumps that had once been teeth; "I brought your
dawg," he repeated, looking down at what appeared to be four enormous
legs loosely attached to a long, sinuous body.
"You're mistaken," said Mr. Hearty. "It's not mine; I don't keep a
dog."
"My mistake, guv'nor," replied the man with a grin; "I should 'a said
the dawg wot you're a-lookin' for. 'Ere, Lily, drop it."
This last remark was addressed to the dog, who, seeing Mr. Hearty's
soft black felt hat lying on a box, had seized it in her enormous jaws.
She looked up at her master and shook the hat roguishly with a gurgle
of joy; but a sharp cuff on the muzzle caused her to drop what her
teeth and saliva had already ruined.
"This is just the dawg you're wantin'," continued the man pleasantly,
indicating Lily, who had lain down and was now occupying the entire
centre of the shop, looking about her with distended jaws and a great
flap of whitey-red tongue hanging out amiably. "Playful as a kitten,
and an 'ouse-dog as 'ud eat a burglar an' then go back to dawg-biscuit
wivout a murmur. She's some dawg, is Lily!"
"But I don't want a dog," replied Mr. Hearty, eyeing his hat, which the
man was endeavouring to clean with his coat-sleeve. "Will you please
take it away?" There was a note of asperity in his voice.
"Don't want a dawg? Don't want a dawg?" There was menace in the man's
manner that caused Mr. Hearty some anxiety, and he looked appealingly
at Smith, his chief assistant, and the boy, who stood regarding the
episode with an enjoyment they dare not express.
"Don't want a dawg?" repeated the man for the third time. "You jest
read this," thrusting out towards Mr. Hearty the dirty piece of paper
he held in his hand. "You jest read this an' you'll ruddy well see
that yer do want a dawg, an' this 'ere is the dawg yer want."
Mr. Hearty mechanically took the piece of paper the man thrust towards
him. It was a cutting of an advertisement, which read:
"DOG WANTED, breed not important, provided it is a large and good
house-dog. Not to cost more than L4. Apply personally with animal to
Alfred Hearty, 530 Fulham High Street, S.W., on Saturday at 10.30 a.m."
Mr. Hearty looked from the paper to Lily's owner in an uncomprehending
way and then back to the advertisement again.
"The breed ain't important in Lily," remarked the man. "She's took
prizes as a mastiff, a French poodle, a bull-terrier, and a pom., and
she got hon'ble mention as a grey'ound once. She'll chaw up a man she
don't like, won't yer, Lily, old gal?"
Lily looked up with a ridiculously amiable expression for a dog
possessed of such qualities.
"But I don't want a dog," repeated Mr. Hearty, looking helplessly at
Smith.
"Then wot the grumblin' 'ereafter do yer put in this advertisement
for?" growled the man angrily.
"But I didn't."
"Is your name 'Earty?"
"I am Mr. Hearty."
"Then you want a dawg, an' Lily's your dawg, an' I want four pound.
Now, 'and it over, guv'nor. I'm in a 'urry. I ain't a bloomin'
non-stop."
At that moment a middle-aged woman entered, followed by a very small
boy with a very large dog, as indeterminate as to pedigree as Lily
herself. The woman looked about her and approached Smith.
"Mr. Hearty?" she almost whispered.
Smith, a man of few words, jerked his thumb in the direction of his
employer. The woman walked over to him. Meanwhile the new dog had
growled ominously at Lily, who, throwing out her forepaws and
depressing her head upon them, had playfully challenged it to a romp.
"Mr. Hearty?" meekly enquired the woman.
As she spoke a woman and two more men with other dogs entered the shop.
These were quickly followed by another woman of a
I
-know-what-I-want-and-'Uggins-is-my-name-an'-I've-got-me-marriage-lines
appearance. Following her came a mild-mannered man with yet another
dog, larger and more bewildering in the matter of breed than Lily and
the other animal combined.
"I want to see Mr. 'Earty," announced the third woman to Smith. Smith
indicated Mr. Hearty in his usual manner by a jerk of the thumb.
"I come in answer to the advertisement," she announced.
"For a dawg?" enquired Lily's owner suspiciously.
"For an 'ousekeeper," replied the woman aggressively. "Wot's that got
to do wi' you? You ain't Mr. 'Earty, are yer? You jest shut yer ugly
face."
The man subsided.
The shop was now full. Lily and the second dog had decided to be
friends, and had formed an alliance against the third dog. In their
gambols they had already upset a basket of apples.
Whilst Mr. Hearty was endeavouring to convince Lily's owner that not
only did he not require a dog, but that as a matter of fact he had a
marked antipathy for the whole species, other animals continued to
arrive. They grouped themselves outside with their owners, together
with a nondescript collection of men, women, and boys, with and without
dogs. All seemed inspired with the same ambition--to interview Mr.
Hearty.
Mr. Hearty looked at the sea of faces outside as an actor suffering
from stage-fright might gaze at the audience that had bereft him of the
power to speak or move. He felt that he must act promptly, even
sternly; but he was not a brave man and saw that he was faced by a
crowd of potential enemies. Summoning up all his courage he turned to
Lily's owner.
"Kindly remove that dog," he ordered in what he meant to be a stern
voice, indicating Lily, who was playing a game of hide-and-seek round
an apple-barrel with a pomeranian-Irish-terrier.
"'Oo are you talkin' to? Just answer me that," demanded Lily's owner.
Mr. Hearty saw clearly that the man intended to be awkward, even
insolent.
"I am speaking to you, and unless you take that dog away, I--I----"
Mr. Hearty stopped, wondering what he really would do. What ought he
to do under such circumstances?
"Why did yer advertise?" demanded the aggressive woman.
"I didn't," replied Mr. Hearty miserably, turning to his new assailant.
"I have advertised for nothing."
"Didn't yer advertise for a 'ousekeeper?" continued the woman.
"No!"
"Yer a blinkin' liar."
At this uncompromising rejoinder Mr. Hearty started. He was
unaccustomed to such directness of speech.
"Unless you are civil I shall order you out of my shop," retorted Mr.
Hearty angrily.
"An' if yer do I shan't go; see?" The woman placed her hands on her
hips and looked at Mr. Hearty insultingly. "Look at 'im," she
continued, addressing the crowd, "playin' 'is dirty jokes on pore
people. I paid eightpence return to get 'ere all the way from Brixton,
then 'e says it's a joke."
There was an ominous murmur from the others. All sorts of epithets
were hurled at Mr. Hearty.
"Will yer pay our fares?"
"I'll punch 'is bloomin' 'ead till it aches!"
"Let me get at 'im!"
"Yer dirty tyke!"
"You goin' to buy my dawg?" demanded Lily's owner, thrusting his face
so close to Mr. Hearty's that their noses almost touched.
"No, I'm not," shouted Mr. Hearty in desperation. "Smith, put this man
and his dog out."
Smith looked embarrassed and Lily's owner laughed outright, a sneering,
insulting laugh, which his black stumps of teeth seemed to render more
sinister and menacing.
Mr. Hearty felt that the situation was passing beyond his control. How
had it all happened and what did it mean? Events had followed upon one
another so swiftly that he was bewildered. Where were the police?
What did he pay rates and taxes for if he were to be subjected to this?
What would be the end of it all? Would they kill him?
Just as he saw himself being bruised and buffeted by a furious crowd, a
shadow fell across the shop as a pantechnicon drew up outside. It was
one of three, and from the tail-board of the last Bindle slipped off
and began forcing his way towards the shop entrance.
"Now then," he called out cheerfully, "make way there. I'm the brother
o' the corpse. Wot's it all about--a fire or a dog-show?"
The crowd good-humouredly made room. Pushing his way into the shop he
hailed his brother-in-law.
"'Ullo, 'Earty; 'oldin' a levee? What-oh!"
"'E wants a dawg," broke in the dog man, indicating Lily with a jerk of
his thumb.
"I come all the way from Brixton," shouted the would-be housekeeper.
"An' very nice, too," replied Bindle, as he pushed his way to the side
of Mr. Hearty, who was listening with anguished intentness to an eager
group of women whose one desire seemed to caretake for him.
Bindle looked round the shop with a puzzled expression, his eyes
finally resting on Lily.
"Call that a dawg?" he enquired of Lily's owner with an incredulous
grin.
"Yus, I do," replied the man aggressively. "What 'ud you call it? A
rosy kitten?"
"Well," remarked Bindle imperturbably, regarding Lily critically,
"since you arsts me, I'd call it a bloomin' 'istory o' dawgs in one
volume."
"Where'll yer 'ave the coal, guv'nor?" bawled a voice from the fringe
of the crowd.
At that moment Mrs. Hearty entered from the parlour behind the shop.
She gazed about her in mild wonderment.
"We don't want any coals, Alf. We had them in last week." Mrs. Hearty
subsided into a chair. Suddenly her eyes fell upon Lily, who was
trying to shake off her head Mr. Hearty's hat, which someone had placed
there, and she collapsed, helpless with laughter.
"'Ere, get out of it," cried Bindle, giving Lily a cuff, whereat she
yelped dismally. Providence had evidently intended her for doughty
deeds, having endowed her with the frame of an Amazon, but had then
lost interest and given her the heart of a craven.
By dint of threats, badinage, and persuasion Bindle at last cleared the
shop of all save Mr. and Mrs. Hearty, Smith, and the boy. Posting the
staff at the door with instructions to admit no one, Bindle approached
his brother-in-law.
"Wot jer been doin', 'Earty? The 'ole bloomin' street's full o' carts
and people wantin' to see yer. I brought three vans. What's it all
about?"
Never had Mr. Hearty been so genuinely pleased to see Bindle. Before
he had time to reply to his question, a big man pushed his way past
Smith and entered the shop.
"Where'll yer 'ave the beer, guv'nor?" he shouted in a thick, hearty
voice redolent of the Trade.
"'Ere, come out of the way," shouted a small wiry man who had followed
him in. "All this little lot goin'?" he asked, nodding in the
direction of the crowd that blocked the street. "I only got three
brakes, an' they won't take 'em all."
"What's _your_ little game?" Bindle enquired of the newcomer.
The brakeman eyed him with scornful contempt.
"You Mr. 'Earty?" he enquired.
"I'm 'is brother; 'e's been took ill. There's a mistake. You better
get 'ome."
"Get 'ome!" shouted the man. "'Oo's goin' to pay?"
"Try Lloyd George!" suggested Bindle cheerfully.
A policeman pushed his way into the shop and Bindle slipped out. The
real drama was being enacted outside. From all directions a steady
stream of people was pouring towards Mr. Hearty's shop.
"'Earty, 'Earty," murmured Bindle joyously to himself, as he surveyed
the High Street, "wot 'ave yer been an' done?"
The place presented an extraordinary appearance.
There were coal-carts, strings of them, brewers'-drays, laundry-carts,
railway-vans, huge two-horse affairs, pantechnicons, char-a-bancs,
large carts, small carts, and medium-sized carts. There were vehicles
with one, two, and three horses. There were motor-cars, motor-vans,
motor-lorries, and motor-cycles. There were donkey-carts,
spring-carts, push-carts, and pull-carts. Everything capable of
delivering goods was represented, and all were locked together in a
hopelessly congested mass.
Everything had come to a standstill and the trams strove in vain to
clang their way through the inextricable tangle.
The footpaths were crowded with men, women, boys, and dogs, all
endeavouring to reach Mr. Hearty's shop, the Mecca of their pilgrimage.
Crowds overflowed the paths into the roadway and seemed to cement
together the traffic.
Bindle passed along the line intent on gleaning all the information he
could.
"'Ave yer come after the job o' 'ousekeeper, nurse, or dawg?" he asked
one seedy-looking man with an alarming growth of nose.
"'Ow about my railway fare?"' enquired Lily's owner, recognising
Bindle. "'Oo's goin' to pay it?"
"You're a-goin' to pay it yerself, ole sport, unless you're goin' to
walk." Then eyeing the man critically he added, "A little exercise
might ease yer figure a bit."
Bindle pushed among the throng of disappointed applicants for
employment and deliverers of goods. Fate had been kind to him in
sending him this glorious jest.
"Might 'a been foundin' a colony," he muttered, as he passed from group
to group; "'e ain't forgot nothink: plumbers, bricklayers, vans,
'ousekeepers, dawgs, kids to adopt, 'orses, carpenters, caretakers,
shovers; an' 'e's ordered everythink what ever growed or was made,
_includin'_ beer, enough to keep the Guards drunk for a year. 'Earty's
mad, pore chap. Religion do take some that way."
At first Bindle had been puzzled to account for the throngs of
applicants; but enquiry made things very clear. In every case the
advertisements--and they had appeared in every daily and innumerable
weekly papers--stated the wages, which were unusually high. A vanman
was offered fifty shillings a week, a housekeeper thirty shillings a
week all found; for an errand-boy fifteen shillings a week was
suggested, and ten pounds as a bonus to the parents of the child that
was to be adopted.
The officials at Putney Bridge station were puzzled to account for the
extraordinary increase in the westward-bound traffic on that Saturday
morning; but what particularly surprised them was the stream of dogs
that each train seemed to pour forth.
The run upon dog-tickets at certain East-end stations broke all
records, and three stationmasters had to telephone to headquarters for
a further supply.
Dogs occupied the gangways of every train arriving at Putney Bridge
station between 10 a.m. and 10.40 a.m. Dogs growled, fawned, and
quarrelled.
The stream of dogs, however, was as nothing to the stream of men, women
and boys, and small children for adoption. The station officials and
the bus-men outside wearied of instructing people how to get to Fulham
High Street.
The congestion of traffic in Fulham High Street was felt as far east as
Piccadilly and the Strand, where the police on point duty were at a
loss to account for it. The disorganisation in the tram service was in
evidence equally at Wood Green and Wandsworth.
Certain elements in the crowd, notably the younger and more
light-hearted sections, in particular those who lived in the
neighbourhood and were not out of pocket for railway fares, were
inclined to regard the whole affair as a huge joke, and badinage flowed
freely. There was, however, another section that thirsted for
somebody's blood, and was inclined to regard Mr. Hearty as the person
most suitable to supply this.
In the immediate vicinity of the shop-door the excitement was intense,
everyone pushing and striving to get nearer. There was no suggestion
of personal feeling save in the case of those who were bent on the same
errand. Thus a potential housekeeper felt nothing but friendliness for
a would-be dog-seller, whilst a hopeful housemaid was capable of
experiencing almost an affection for a mother who had a spare offspring
she was wishful of having adopted.
When the first brewers' dray drew up it was greeted with cheers, and
one man who drove up in a donkey-cart with a flashily-dressed young
woman was greeted with the inevitable:
"Who's your lady friend? I am surprised at you,
It isn't the one I saw you with at 'Ampstead,"
sung by a score of robust voices.
Cries, cat-calls, and advice to those inside to "save a drop for
uncle," and "'urry up," were continuous. Many crude jokes were
levelled at Mr. Hearty's name.
When the helmets of the police were seen bobbing their way through the
crowd there were prolonged cheers.
The first policeman to arrive, having foreseen the possibility of
trouble, had promptly telephoned for assistance. At the time the
reinforcements arrived, including an inspector and two mounted
constables, the attitude of the crowd was beginning to assume an ugly
look. One of the more aggressive spirits had endeavoured to single out
Mr. Hearty as a target for one of his own potatoes; but he had,
unfortunately for him, hit the policeman, whose action had been so
swift and uncompromising that there was no further attempt at disorder.
The inspector quickly saw that very little that was coherent could be
obtained from Mr. Hearty. It was Bindle who supplied the details of
what had occurred.
"'Earty's me brother-in-law," he replied. "'E's either gone off 'is
onion or someone's been pullin' 'is leg. All this 'ere little lot,"
and Bindle indicated the congested High Street, "'as brought 'im things
they says 'e's ordered, and 'e says 'e ain't, an' them crowds of men,
women, and dogs and kids 'as come sayin' he wants to give 'em jobs or
'omes."
The inspector asked a few questions, and gleaned sufficient information
to convince him that this was a huge practical joke, and that prompt
action was imperative. He telephoned for more men and set to work in
an endeavour to organise the traffic and reduce it to manageable
proportions.
Constables were placed at different points along the main thoroughfare
leading to Fulham High Street, asking all drivers and chauffeurs if
they were bound for Mr. Alfred Hearty's shop in Fulham High Street, and
if so sending them back. Men were stationed at Hammersmith and Putney
High Street to divert the streams of traffic that still poured towards
Fulham.
Putney and Fulham had never seen anything like it. Families went
dinnerless because housewives either could not get to the shops, or
could not get away from them again. Telephones rang, and irate
housekeepers enquired when the materials for lunch were coming.
Taxicab drivers with fares sat stolidly at the wheel, conscious that
their income was increasing automatically, whilst the fares themselves
fumed and fussed as they saw their twopences vanish.
It was not until past one o'clock that the trams restarted, and it was
2.30 before Bindle got back to the yard with his three pantechnicons.
"Poor ole 'Earty's got it in the neck this time," he muttered as he
turned back towards Fulham High Street to lend a hand in putting things
straight. Mr. Hearty was distracted at the thought that none of his
customers had received their fruit and vegetables, and Bindle was
genuinely sorry for him. All that afternoon and late into the night he
worked, helping to weigh up and deliver orders; and when he eventually
left the shop at a few minutes before midnight, he was "as tired as a
performin' flea."
"I like 'Earty when 'e goes mad," he muttered to himself as he left the
shop. "It sort o' wakes up sleepy old Fulham. I wonder 'oo it was.
Shouldn't be surprised if I could spot 'im. If it ain't Mr. Dick
Little call me Jack Johnson. I wish 'e 'adn't done it, though."
Bindle was thinking of the pathetic figure Mr. Hearty had cut, and of
the feverish manner in which he had worked to make up for the lost
hours, Bindle had been genuinely touched when, as he was about to leave
the shop, his brother-in-law had shaken him warmly by the hand and, in
an unsteady voice, thanked him for his help. Then looking round as if
searching for something, he had suddenly seized the largest pineapple
from the brass rail in the window, thrust it upon the astonished
Bindle, and fled into the back room.
For some seconds Bindle had stood looking from the fruit to the door
through which his brother-in-law had disappeared, then, replacing it on
the rack, he had quietly left the shop, muttering: "It takes a long
time to get to know even yer own relations. Queer ole card, 'Earty."