OXFORD'S WELCOME TO BINDLE
I
At three o'clock on the following day the down platform at Oxford
station presented an almost gala appearance. Not only were the men of
St. Joseph's there, but hundreds of undergraduates from other colleges,
with rattles, whistles, horns, flags, and every other attribute of
great rejoicing.
Outside the station was a carriage with four horses, a piebald, a
skewbald, a white, and another horse that seemed to have set out in
life with a determination to be pink. Tom Little had himself selected
the animals with elaborate care.
A little distance away, standing in groups, was a band clothed
gorgeously in scarlet and gold tunics and caps, and nondescript
trousers, ranging from light grey to black.
Tom Little had given careful instructions that as soon as Josiah
Williams should emerge from the station, the band was to strike up "See
the Conquering Hero Comes," and they were to put into it all they knew.
If they produced a really good effect they were to have unlimited beer.
Reginald Graves stood in the centre of the platform, some of the
leading spirits of St. Joseph's keeping a clear space so that the
meeting between uncle and nephew might be dramatic. A more
wretched-looking nephew of a millionaire uncle never existed.
Round him were scores of men with cameras, whom Graves instinctively
knew to be newspaper men; and perched high above the crowd occupying
important strategical positions he counted eight cinematograph cameras,
each with its attendant operator.
St. Joseph's men had been good customers to a well-known London
perruquier for false wigs, whiskers, and moustaches, with the aid of
which an unlimited supply of "newspaper" and "cinematograph-men" had
been produced.
Ignorant of all this, Graves groaned in spirit.
At four minutes past three the London train, amid a general buzz of
excitement, steamed into the station. Pandemonium seemed to have
broken out. Whistles shrilled, bugles blew, voices roared, and rattles
added their share to the general uproar.
The passengers in the train were at first startled, and then became
deeply interested. From the platform hundreds of eyes searched the
opening carriage doors. Presently there was seen to alight a small
man, dressed in a black-and-white check suit, with a pale grey homburg
hat adorned with a white puggaree, a Ted tie, patent boots, and white
spats. Over his left arm he carried a light dust-coat, and in his hand
a gold-mounted malacca cane with a broad gold band. In the right hand
was an enormous cigar adorned with a red-and-gold band.
It was Bindle.
"That's him," cried a hundred voices.
"Good old Josh!"
"What price wallabys?"
"Where's your lady friend?" and other irrelevant remarks were hurled
from all quarters.
The "cinematograph-men" turned their handles. The "newspaper-men"
swarmed down upon Bindle and levelled their cameras from every possible
angle. Graves was hastened to the spot where Bindle was endeavouring
to avoid looking into the barrel of a huge "camera."
Men hit him on the back, poked him in the ribs, shouted their welcomes
and generally cheer-oh'd him.
After a desperate effort Tom Little fought his way through the crowd,
followed by Travers and Guggers dragging the reluctant Graves.
Suddenly Tom Little jumped up on Guggers' back.
"Mr. Josiah Williams, we welcome you to Oxford, we, the men of St.
Joseph's."
Bindle looked at the laughing faces and remarked, "And very nice, too.
Cheer-oh the lot!"
"This," continued Tom Little, when a space had been cleared, largely
due to Guggers' magnificent tackling, "this is your distinguished
nephew, Reginald Graves, whom to know is to love."
The unhappy Graves was dragged forward. Bindle extended two fingers of
his left hand.
"So you're Polly's boy?"
Graves started. His mother's name had been Mary Williams, and his
father had always called her Polly. Was he dreaming, or could it be
possible that it was all true, and that fame and fortune were before
him? A brother of his mother's had gone to Australia when quite a
little lad. He was roused from his reverie by somebody shouting:
"Say how-d'ye-do to uncle," and he found himself clasping Bindle's two
fingers with a warmth that surprised himself.
He looked round him. There was a dense crowd waving flags, and all in
honour of this man who greeted him as nephew. A new prospect opened
itself to his bewildered brain. If only it prove to be true!
"Now, come along, Mr. Williams." It was Tom Little's voice again that
broke in upon his thoughts. "We've got a carriage waiting for you."
Travers had slipped out and found the band split up into three groups.
He went up to each in turn; the first two he reminded that they were
playing "See the Conquering Hero Comes," and the third group he told
that the clash of welcome had been changed to "Auld Lang Syne." They
must start at once, as Mr. Williams was just leaving the station.
Urged by Travers the band formed up with incredible speed. Just then
Bindle emerged, with Tom Little on one side and Guggers on the other.
He was saying to Guggers:
"Look 'ere, young feller, if you can't talk without spittin' in my ear,
you just dry up."
At that second the band broke out, every man doing his utmost.
Everyone looked a little surprised, for the two melodies combined
badly. The drummer was the first to discover that something was wrong.
Recognising that the instruments round him were playing "Auld Lang
Syne" he changed the time of his thumps. Then hearing the other tune,
he paused and with inspiration finished up by trying to combine the two
melodies by putting in thumps from both.
Some of the Conquering Heroes stopped and became Auld Lang Syners,
whilst several Auld Lang Syners went over to the enemy. It was
pandemonium.
"What's up wi' the band?" enquired Bindle. "Sounds like a Crystal
Palace competition; I 'ope nothink busts."
Still the band went on.
"Gawd Almighty! wot's that?" Bindle's eyes dilated with something like
horror at the sight of a huge brown shape sitting on the box of the
carriage. He stopped as if electrified.
"That," said Tom Little, "is a kangaroo. Your national animal."
"Me national wot?" said Bindle.
"The national animal of Australia."
"Oh!" said Bindle, keeping a wary eye on the beast, whose tail hung
down into the body of the carriage. "Well, I'm jiggered! It looks
like a circus," he muttered. "Look at them 'osses!" he exclaimed,
pointing with the hand that held the cigar to the steeds which had just
caught his eye. "Look at them 'osses!"
Bindle eventually entered the carriage with Reginald Graves on his left
hand, Dick Little and Travers opposite. Guggers had intended to sit
opposite also, but Bindle had asked in a whisper which nobody failed to
hear:
"'Ere, can't yer put that syphon somewhere else? 'E'll soak me to the
skin."
Amid cheers the procession started. The band, which had a few minutes
before blown itself to silence, was now devoting itself
enthusiastically to "The Washington Post." On the box the kangaroo,
known in private life as Horace Trent, the cox of the St. Joseph's
boat, performed a few innocent tricks, to the great diversion of the
crowd, whilst Bindle, drawing from his pocket a red pocket-handkerchief
with the five stars of Australia upon it, alternately waved his
acknowledgments and lifted his hat.
"I never knew young fellers like this could be so friendly," he
muttered.
Graves spent his time alternately in praying that no one might see him
and that Bindle would become less uproariously genial.
Having passed up and down every street of importance, the procession
finally made its way to the Sceptre, where Bindle alighted and was
conducted to his apartments by the bland manager. At every turn were
to be seen obsequious and deferential servants, who had one eye on him
and the other on the day of reckoning.
A late edition of that evening's _Oxford Courier_ contained a piquant
account of the reception accorded to Mr. Josiah Williams. It referred
to the generous if boisterous humour of the undergraduates. It went on
to state how
"our representative called at the Sceptre, where he was so fortunate as
to catch the distinguished visitor just as he was entering. Mr.
Williams is delighted with Oxford, his welcome, and everybody he has
met. 'They say English people are stiff and stand-offish--why, I've
had to change my collar. Kicking kangaroos!' exclaimed Mr. Williams,
'this is some country.'
"The first thing that struck our representative about Mr. Williams was
his genial and pleasant bearing and entire absence of self-importance.
He is obviously a simple man, unspoiled by his great success."
Reginald Graves shuddered as he read this in the privacy of his own
rooms, remembering Bindle's accent and deportment.
"Although he would neither confess nor deny it, we understand that Mr.
Williams is in England in connection with certain philanthropic
schemes. We congratulate Mr. Reginald Graves on possessing as an uncle
Mr. Josiah Williams, and Oxford on possessing Mr. Reginald Graves, if
only for a short time."
II
"So you're Polly's boy." Bindle was receiving in his sitting-room at
the Sceptre, surrounded by the leading spirits of St. Joseph's,
including the kangaroo, which was clutching a large glass of
shandygaff. In the public bar below the band was busy realising what
hitherto had been little more than an ambition, and about "the High"
the remains of the crowd lingered.
"Reginald's your name, ain't it?" Bindle continued. "Reg will do for
me. Mother livin'? 'Ow's yer father? Still in the grocery business?"
Graves burst into an assurance that they were quite well, then added
that his mother was dead.
"Poor ole Poll," murmured Bindle, looking anything but doleful, and
hiding a grin in the huge tankard that he raised to his lips. "She was
a rare ole sport. Never met yer father. Quaint ole bird, ain't 'e?"
Mr. Graves was thankful when the conversation took a less domestic
turn. That afternoon he felt that the eyes of all Oxford were upon
him, and deep down in his soul he cursed St. Joseph, the college, and
every man therein.
Worse was in store for Graves. When he returned to his rooms a message
was brought by his "scout" that the Master would like to see him. In
an agony of apprehension he made his way to the Master's study. He was
relieved at the cordiality of his reception.
"I understand that your uncle has arrived, Graves? I shall be very
pleased to make his acquaintance. Perhaps you will bring him to
luncheon to-morrow."
Even Reginald Graves's self-repression could not disguise his agony of
mind. He saw the luncheon-table, Dr. Peter playing the conventionally
cordial host, and Mrs. Peter, with her frigid mid-Victorian austerity,
endeavouring to pose as a great lady.
Was fate conspiring against him? There was the supper that evening at
Bungem's, which he knew would be a torture, and the martyrdom of the
morrow. Human flesh was too frail to withstand it!
He found himself again saying that he should be delighted; at least, he
assumed that was what he said. Dr. Peter seemed satisfied. Just as he
was taking his leave he remarked:
"Were you responsible for this ill-conceived demonstration to-day at
the station?"
"No, sir, most certainly not," replied Graves, in a voice that carried
conviction.
"Very deplorable, most deplorable. It will probably give Mr. Williams
a very bad impression of English culture. I shall look into the
matter, and find out who was guilty of this most unseemly exhibition.
I am glad to hear that you are not in any way implicated, Graves. Most
deplorable, most."
With a murmur of thanks Graves left the Master's study, praying that
Dr. Peter might visit his wrath upon those responsible for what had
caused him so much anguish and suffering.
III
Oxford without Bungem's would not be Oxford. "St. Bungem the
Hospitable" was known throughout the Empire. His fame reached from
east to west and north to south. Up the staircase leading to the
famous dining-hall many illustrious men, as yet unillustrious, had
passed with firm and confident step. On the walls were innumerable
flashlight photographs of famous suppers, suppers that had reduced
potential judges and incipient statesmen to helpless imbecility. Prime
ministers-to-be, generals of the future, and admirals of the next
generation had lost their bearings and their equilibrium as a result of
the good fare, liquid fare, that is, dispensed by the immortal Bungem.
Colonial governors, viceroys, and archbishops could have recalled
uproarious nights spent beneath the hospitable roof of Bungem's, had
their memories not been subject to severe censorship.
Framed above the head of the table was the quatrain, written by a
future Poet Laureate, that was the pride of Bungem's heart:
"Take from me all I have: my friends,
My songs, for no one's ever sung 'em;
One crowded hour of glorious life
I crave, but let it be with Bungem."
Never had Bungem's presented so gay and glorious an appearance as on
the Wednesday evening of the famous supper to Josiah Williams.
Applications for tickets had poured in upon the Dinner Committee
hastily organised by the men of St. Joseph's. Many ideas, in which
originality and insanity were happily blended, had been offered to the
Committee. One man had even suggested that the waiters should be
dressed as kangaroos; but the idea had been discarded owing to the
difficulty of jumping with plates of soup. Another suggestion had been
that nothing but Mr. Williams's mutton should be eaten, whilst a third
had proposed a bushman's menu. An Australian Rhodes man had, however,
with great gravity of countenance, assured the Committee that the
Bushmen were cannibals, and the project had been abandoned.
The banquet was limited to two hundred covers, and the applications had
exceeded twice that number. Preference was given to men of St.
Joseph's, and after that to the Australian Rhodes scholars, who had
kindly undertaken during the course of the evening to reproduce the
battle-cry of the Bushmen.
One Rhodes scholar, more serious than the rest, suggested that the
Bushmen had no battle-cry; but he was promptly told that they would
possess one after that evening.
Tom Little had taken upon himself the guarding of Reginald Graves, as a
suspicion had flitted through the minds of the organisers of the feast
that he might fail them at the last moment. As a matter of fact he did
venture a remark that he felt very ill, and would go to bed. That was
during the afternoon. But the Committee of Management had made it
clear that he was to be at the dinner, and that if he went to bed he
would probably be there in pyjamas.
The Committee called for Mr. Josiah Williams at the Sceptre at 8.30,
formally to escort him to Bungem's. They discovered Bindle in the
happiest of moods and full evening-dress. In his shirt-front blazed
the "Moonagoona star, the second finest diamond that Australia had ever
produced." On his head was an opera hat, and over his arm a light
overcoat. The party walked over to Bungem's, passing through a
considerable crowd that had collected outside the Sceptre.
At Bungem's the guests lined up on each side from the pavement up the
stairs into the reception-room, and as the guest of honour arrived
arm-in-arm with Tom Little they broke out into "For He's a Jolly Good
Fellow," led by an impromptu band consisting of a concertina, three
mouth-organs, six whistles, eighteen combs, and a tea-tray.
Dick Little, who had arrived by a later train than that carrying
Bindle, was in the chair. He was an old St. Joseph's man and his
memory was still green, although he had gone down some years
previously. On his right sat Bindle, the guest of the evening; next to
him were Reginald Graves and Guggers.
When all the guests were seated the chairman's mallet called for order.
"Gentlemen, you are too graceless a crew for grace, but you understand
the laws of hospitality, that much I grant you. It is our object to
make our distinguished visitor, Mr. Josiah Williams of Moonagoona,
thoroughly welcome and at home, and to remind him of the sylvan glades
of Moonagoona." Then, turning to Bindle, "Am I right, sir, in assuming
that Moonagoona has sylvan glades?"
"'It it first time," replied Bindle. "Mooniest place I was ever in.
It used to be called Moonaspoona till the birth-rate dropped." This
remark was greeted with a roar of approval.
"We will open the proceedings with a representation of the Australian
Bushmen's war-cry, kindly contributed by certain Rhodes scholars and
others from the Antipodes."
The war-cry was not a success, but the meal that followed savoured of
the palmiest days of Bungem's. The food was plentiful and excellently
cooked; the wine more plentiful and generously served.
Bindle's greatest concern was his white shirt-front. He had tucked his
napkin in his collar, but that did not reassure him, because he then
became alarmed lest the napkin should be soiled. However, he watched
very carefully the careless, well-bred eating of Little and the
finicking deportment of Graves, and managed to strike the middle
course. It is true he absorbed his soup with sibilance and from the
point of the spoon; but apart from that he acquitted himself
excellently until the arrival of the asparagus. When the waiter
presented it Bindle eyed the long, slender stems suspiciously. Then he
looked at the waiter and back again at the stems and shook his head.
"Nonsense!" said Dick Little; "nobody ever refuses asparagus at
Bungem's."
_Asperge a la Bungem_ is a dish the memory of which every Oxford man
cherishes to the end of his days.
Bindle weakened, and helped himself liberally, a circumstance which he
soon regretted.
"How do I eat it?" he enquired of Dick Little in an anxious whisper.
"Watch me," replied Little.
The asparagus was tired and refused to preserve an erect position.
Each stem seemed desirous of forming itself into an inverted "U."
Little selected a particularly wilted stem and threw his head well back
in the position of a man about to be shaved, and lowered the asparagus
slowly into his mouth.
Nobody took any particular notice of this, and Little had been very
careful to take only two or three stems. To the horror of Graves,
Bindle followed Dick Little's lead.
"Funny sort o' stuff, Reggie, ain't it?" said Bindle, resuming an
upright position in order to select another stick. "Seems as if yer
'ad to 'ave somebody rubbin' yer while it goes down."
Never in the history of Bungem's had the famous asparagus been so
neglected. Everybody was watching alternately Bindle and Graves.
Bindle was enjoying himself; but on the face of Graves was painted an
anguish so poignant that more than one man present pitied him his
ordeal.
Dick Little's mallet fell with a thump, and the attention of the guests
became diverted from Graves to the chairman, amidst cries of "Chair,"
"Order," "Shame," and "Chuck him out."
"Gentlemen--a mere euphemism, I confess," began Dick Little; "men of
St. Joseph's never propose the toast of the King; that is a toast that
we all drink silently and without reminder. The toast of the evening
is naturally that of the health and happiness of the guest of the
evening, Mr. Josiah Williams of Moonagoona--a man, need I say more?"
There were loud cheers, in which Bindle joined.
In proposing the toast of the evening, Dick Little dwelt upon the
distinction conferred upon Oxford in general and St. Joseph's in
particular by Reginald Graves in selecting it from out of the myriad
other universities and colleges. He touched lightly upon the love
Graves had inspired in the hearts of his contemporaries; but never
greater than when he had generously decided to share with them his
uncle.
"This uncle," he continued, "has raised mutton and a nephew, and it is
difficult to decide which of the two the men of St. Joseph's love the
more: Josiah's mutton, or Josiah's nephew.
"Gentlemen, fellow-wanderers along the paths of knowledge, I give you
the toast, Mr. Josiah Williams of Moonagoona, and with that toast I
crave your permission to associate all his bleating sheep."
The whole assembly sprang to its feet, cheering wildly, among the
others Bindle, who drank his own health with gusto and enthusiasm.
The shouts that greeted Bindle when he rose to respond to the toast
created a record even for Bungem's. Bindle gazed round him
imperturbably, as if the making of a speech were to him an everyday
matter.
In his right hand he held a cigar, and three fingers of his left hand
rested lightly upon the edge of the table. When the din had subsided
he began.
"Gentlemen, I never knew 'ow fortunate I was until now. I been raisin'
sheep and 'ell in Moonagoona for years, forgettin' all about this 'ere
little cherub," Bindle indicated Graves with a wave of his hand, "and
all the jolly times I might 'ave 'ad through 'im. Moonagoona ain't
exactly a paradise, it's too 'ot for that; still, if any of yer ever
manages to find yer way there you'll be lucky, and you'll be luckier
still if yer finds yours truly there at the same time. No; I done
raisin' 'ell an' mutton, bein' too old for one an' too tired for the
other.
"When I decided to 'ave a nephew I prayed 'ard for a good 'un, an' they
sent me this little chap." Bindle patted Reggie's head affectionately
amidst resounding cheers. "'E ain't much to look at," continued
Bindle, with a grin, "'e ain't the beauty 'is uncle was at 'is age;
still, 'e seems to 'ave a rare lot o' pals."
More eyes were watching Graves than Bindle. His face was very white
and set, and he strove to smile; but it was a sickly effort. His
immediate neighbours noticed that his glass, which those around him
were careful to keep filled, was raised frequently to his lips. From
time to time he looked round him like a hunted animal who seeks but
fails to find some avenue of escape.
"'E was always a good boy to 'is mother, my sister Polly, an' now 'e's
a gentleman, 'im wot once took round oil an' sausages for 'is father
when 'e kep' a general shop.
"Everyone," proceeded Bindle, referring to a scrap of paper he held,
"'as heard o' Tom Graves, grocer, of 60 'Igh Street, Bingley. 'E don't
mix sand with 'is sugar and sell it at threepence a pound, not 'im; 'e
mixes it wi' the tea at one-an'-eight a pound. There ain't no flies on
old Tom.
"'Is mother, when she was in service, 'fore she married Tom, 'ad a face
almost as pretty as Reggie's." Bindle placed his hand beneath Graves's
chin and elevated his flushed face and gazed down into his nephew's
watery eyes.
Graves half rose from his seat, an ugly look on his face, but someone
dragged him down again. He looked round the room with unseeing eyes,
making vain endeavours to moisten his lips. Once or twice he seemed
determined to get up and go, but Guggers' brawny arm was always there
to restrain him. There was nothing for it but to sit and listen.
"Now, gentlemen," continued Bindle, "I mustn't keep yer." (There were
loud cries of "Go on," "The night is young," and similar
encouragements.) "Although," continued Bindle, "I could tell yer
things yer might like to know about 'orses, beer, women, an' other
things wot 'urt." (Loud cries of "No!") "Well, wait till you're
married, then yer'll see. As I was sayin', this is an 'appy evenin'.
"Lord, I seen things in Moonagoona," continued Bindle reminiscently,
"that 'ud make yer 'air stand on end. There's the Moonagoona linnet,
big as an eagle, and you 'ave to plug yer ears when it sings. Then
there's the Moonagoona beetle, wot'll swallow a lamb 'ole, an' then sit
up an' beg for the mint-sauce.
"We got eels that big that yer wouldn't believe it. We once caught a
eel at Moonagoona, and it pulled an' pulled so, that 'fore long we'd
got the 'ole bloomin' population on the end o' the rope. We 'auled in
miles of it, an' presently we see comin' along the river a crowd o'
people; they was the in'abitants of Gumbacooe, the next town. They'd
caught the other end o' the eel, wot 'ad two 'eads, an' we was
a-'aulin' of 'em as well as Mister Eel. Moonagoona's the place to see
things.
"I been very 'appy this evenin'," proceeded Bindle, "so's Reggie. No
one would know yer was gents, yer behave so nicely." Bindle grinned
broadly as he raised his glass. "Well, 'ere's to us, mates," he cried.
With a roar the company once more sprang to its feet and, assisted by
bells, rattles, whistles, a tray, a phonograph which played "You Made
Me Love You," combs and mouth-organs, sang in various keys, "For He's a
Jolly Good Fellow."
Bindle was at that moment the most popular man in Oxford. He was one
of the greatest successes that Bungem's had ever known. He was hoisted
on brawny shoulders and borne in triumph round the room. In his hand
he held a finger-bowl full of champagne, the contents of which slopped
over the heads and persons of his bearers at every step.
"If only 'Earty could see me now," he murmured happily. "These chaps
'ud make a man of 'Earty 'fore 'e knew it. Leggo my leg!" he yelled
suddenly, as one enthusiast seized his right leg and strove to divert
the procession from its course. "You funny 'Uggins, you! Think I'm
made o' rubber? Leggo!"
Too excited for mere words to penetrate to his brain, the youth
continued to pull, and Bindle poured the rest of the champagne over his
upturned face. With a yelp the youth released Bindle's leg.
In the excitement that followed Bindle's speech Graves saw his
opportunity. Guggers' eye was momentarily off him and he slipped
towards the door unnoticed. He had almost reached safety when Bindle,
who was the first to observe the manoeuvre, uttered a yell.
"Stop 'im! stop 'im! 'Ere, let me down," he shouted, and by pounding
on the head of one of his bearers with the finger-bowl and with a kick
that found the stomach of another, he disengaged himself.
Bindle's cry had attracted general attention to Graves, but too late to
stop him. With a bound he reached the door and tore down the stairs.
"After him, you chaps," cried Guggers, and with yells and cries ranging
from "Tally-ho!" to the "Bushmen's war-cry" the whole company streamed
out of Bungem's and tore down "the High" in hot pursuit.
That night those who were late out beheld the strange sight of a
white-faced man in evening-dress running apparently for his life,
pursued by a pack of some two hundred other men similarly garbed and
uttering the most horrible shouts and threats. Windows were thrown up
and heads thrust out, and all wondered what could be the meaning of
what the oldest, and consequently longest-suffering, townsman
subsequently described as defying even his recollection.
Late that night the porter at St. Joseph's was aroused by a furious
ringing of the bell, accompanied by a tremendous pounding at the door.
On the doorstep he found, to his astonishment, the dishevelled figure
of Graves, sobbing for breath and sanctuary, and with terror in his
eyes. In the distance he heard a terrible outcry, which next morning
he was told was the Australian Bushmen's war-cry.
IV
Bindle was awakened next morning by a continuous hammering at his
bedroom door.
"Who the 'oppin' robin are yer?" he shouted; "shut up and go 'ome."
The door burst open, and Tom Little, Guggers, and Travers entered.
"Up you gug-gug-get," cried Guggers. "You must catch the 11.6."
"Look 'ere, ole Spit and Speak, if you're wantin' to get 'urt you're on
the right road." Bindle grinned up at Guggers impudently. "I'm as
tired as yer mother must be o' you."
"Up you get, you merry wight," cried Tom Little, laughing; "there's the
devil to pay."
"There always is, exceptin' sometimes it's a woman," remarked Bindle,
yawning. "Devils are cheaper, on the 'ole. What's the trouble?"
"The Master has invited you to lunch," broke in Travers, "and that ass
Gravy never told us."
"You must be recalled to town," said Tom Little, "or we shall all be
sent down. Now up you get."
Bindle climbed out of bed resplendent in pyjamas with alternate broad
stripes of pale blue and white.
"'Oo's the Master? I'll lunch with anybody wot's not temperance."
Bindle was sleepy.
"It's the Master of St. Joseph's, and you've got to clear out."
"We've sent him a letter in your name regretting that you have to
return to town at once."
"Oh, you 'ave, 'ave yer?" remarked Bindle drily. "I 'ope you told 'im
that I got ter call at Buckingham Palace."
Bindle dressed, shaved, and kept his visitors amused by turn. He
caught the 11.6, accompanied by Dick Little. The two men spent their
time in reading the long accounts in the Oxford papers of the previous
evening's "banquet." They were both full and flattering. Bindle
chuckled to find that his speech had been reported verbatim, and
wondered how Reggie was enjoying the biographical particulars.
Dick Little and Bindle were unaware that in his rooms at St. Joseph's
Reginald Graves also was reading these selfsame accounts with an
anguish too great for expression. The accounts of his early life in
particular caused him something akin to horror.
"It didn't last long," murmured Bindle regretfully, "but it was
top-'ole (your words, sir) while it did. I wonder 'oo's 'oldin'
Reggie's 'ead this mornin'?" and he chuckled gleefully.