MR. HEARTY GIVES A PARTY
I
"I'm surprised at 'Earty," remarked Bindle to Millie one Friday evening
as they walked across Putney Bridge on the way to meet Charlie Dixon.
"Fancy 'im givin' a party! It'll be all 'ymns an' misery, wi' some
oranges thrown in to give it the right smell. There won't be no
Kiss-in-the-ring an' Postman's-knock for the likes o' you an' me,
Millikins."
Millie blushed. She had no illusions as to the nature of the
festivity: she knew who were to be invited.
"I'm glad you're coming, Uncle Joe," she cried, dancing along beside
him. "It would be hateful without you."
"Well, o' course I am a bit of an attraction," replied Bindle. "Lord!
how the ladies fight for me in the kissin' games!"
It was rarely that Mr. Hearty unbent to the extent of entertaining. He
was usually content with the mild pleasures that the chapel provided,
in the shape of teas, the annual bazaar, and occasional
lantern-lectures bearing such titles as "Jerusalem Revisited," "The
Bible in the East," "A Christian Abroad," delivered by enthusiastic but
prosy amateurs and illustrated by hired lantern-slides.
One day, however, Mr. Hearty came to the determination that it was
quite compatible with his beliefs to give a party. Not one of the
stupid gatherings where the gramophone vied with round-games, and
round-games with music-hall songs; but one where the spirit of revelry
would be chastened by Christian sobriety. Mr. Hearty did not object to
music as music, and there were certain songs, such as "The Village
Blacksmith" and "The Chorister" that in his opinion were calculated to
exercise a beneficial effect upon those who heard them.
When Mr. Hearty had at length come to his momentous decision, he was
faced with the problem of the Bindles. He felt that as a
fellow-chapel-goer he could not very well omit Mrs. Bindle from the
list of the invited; but Bindle would be impossible where Mr. Sopley,
the pastor of the chapel, was to be an honoured guest.
One evening at supper he had, as he thought with consummate tact,
broached the matter to his family.
"Not have Joe?" wheezed Mrs. Hearty.
"Not ask Uncle Joe?" Millie had exclaimed in a tone that her father
thought scarcely filial.
"He is not interested in parties," Mr. Hearty had explained feebly.
"We can't leave Joe out," panted Mrs. Hearty with a decisiveness
unusual to her. "Why, he'll be the life and soul of the evening."
This was exactly what Mr. Hearty feared; but seeing that his women-folk
were united against him, and after a further feeble protest, he
conceded the point, and the Bindles received their invitation. Mr.
Hearty had, however, taken the precaution of "dropping a hint" to Mrs.
Bindle, the "hint" in actual words being: "I hope that if Joseph comes
he--he won't----"
"I'll see that he doesn't," was Mrs. Bindle's reply, uttered with a
snap of the jaws that had seemed to reassure her brother-in-law.
II
Mrs. Bindle was engaged in removing curl-papers from her front hair.
On the bed lay her best dress of black alpaca with a bright green satin
yoke covered with black lace. Beside it lay her best bonnet, also of
black, an affair of a very narrow gauge and built high up at the back,
having the appearance of being several sizes too small for its wearer.
Mrs. Bindle was dressing with great care and deliberation for Mr.
Hearty's party. Her conception of dress embodied the middle-class
ideals of mid-Victorian neatness, blended with a standard of modesty
and correctness peculiarly her own.
It had cost Mrs. Bindle many anxious days of thought before she had
been able to justify to herself the green satin yoke in her best dress.
With her, to be fashionable was to be fast. A short skirt and a
pneumonia-blouse were in her eyes the contrivances of the devil to show
what no modest woman would think of exhibiting to the public gaze.
As she proceeded with her toilette Mrs. Bindle was thinking of the
shamelessness of women who bared their arms and shoulders to every
man's gaze. On principle she disapproved of parties and festivities of
any description that were not more or less concerned with the chapel;
but to her Mr. Hearty could do no wrong, and the fact that their pastor
was to be present removed from her mind any scruples that she might
otherwise have felt.
She was slowly brushing her thin sandy hair when Bindle entered the
bedroom in full evening-dress, the large imitation diamond stud in the
centre of his shirt, patent boots, a red silk handkerchief stuck in the
opening of his waistcoat, the light coat over his arm, and an opera hat
stuck at a rakish angle on his head. Between his lips was a cigar, one
of the last remaining from the Oxford adventure.
Mrs. Bindle knew nothing of that, and consequently was unaware that
Bindle's wardrobe had been considerably enlarged.
Mrs. Bindle caught sight of him in the looking-glass. For a moment she
stared at the reflection in helpless amazement, then turning round with
startling suddenness, she continued to regard him with such fixity as
he stood complacently smoking his cigar, that Bindle could not resist
replying with the broadest of grins.
"Where'd you get that dress-suit?" she asked at length, in the tone a
policeman might adopt to a navvy found wearing a diamond tiara.
"It's me own, o' course," replied Bindle cheerily.
"Your own!" gasped Mrs. Bindle.
"O' course it is. Your ole man's a bit of a blood, Mrs. B., and you're
a lucky woman. Won't ole 'Earty open them merry eyes of 'is when 'e
sees me to-night. What-oh!" and Bindle executed a few impromptu steps,
holding his overcoat at arm's-length.
Mrs. Bindle continued to regard him with wonder. She glanced at her
own rather shabby black dress lying on the bed, and then her eyes
returned to Bindle. She examined with grim intentness his well-cut
clothes.
"Where'd you get them from?" she rapped.
"Don't you worry where your peacock got 'is tail; you just feel proud,"
replied Bindle, seating himself on the only chair the bedroom boasted.
"Your ole man is goin' to be the belle of the ball to-night."
"You been buyin' them things, an' me doin' my own housework an' keepin'
you when you're out of work!" Mrs. Bindle's voice rose as the full
sense of the injustice of it all began to dawn upon her. "You spendin'
money on dress-suits and beer, an' me inchin' an' pinchin' to keep you
in food. It's a shame. I won't stand it, I won't." Mrs. Bindle
looked about her helplessly. "I'll leave you, I will, you--you----"
"Oh no, yer won't," remarked Bindle complacently; "women like you don't
leave men like me. That's wot matrimony's for, to keep two people
together wot ought to be kept apart by Act o' Parliament."
"Where'd you get that dress-suit?" broke in Mrs. Bindle tenaciously.
"As I was sayin'," continued Bindle imperturbably, "matrimony's a funny
thing."
"Where'd you get that dress-suit?" Mrs. Bindle broke in again.
Bindle sighed, and cast up his eyes in mock appeal. "I 'ad it give to
me so that I might be worthy o' wot the Lord 'as sent me an' won't 'ave
back at no price--that is to say, yerself, Mrs. B. If marriages is
really made in 'eaven, then there ought to be a 'Returned with thanks'
department. That's my view." The happy smile with which Bindle
accompanied the remark robbed it of its sting.
For some time Mrs. Bindle continued her toilette in silence, and Bindle
puffed contentedly at his cigar. Mrs. Bindle was the first to speak.
"I hope you'll be careful what you say to-night." She had just put on
her bonnet and with many strange grimaces had at last adjusted it and
the veil to her satisfaction.
As she spoke she began to draw on a pair of tight brown kid gloves,
which so contracted her palms as to render her hands practically
useless.
"Our minister is to be there," she continued, "and I don't want to feel
ashamed."
"You ain't a-goin' to feel ashamed o' this, are yer?" enquired Bindle,
as he rose and looked down at himself with obvious appreciation.
"There ain't a-goin' to be nothin' tastier at 'Earty's to-night than
yours truly."
As Mrs. Bindle turned towards the door Bindle lifted his hat with
elaborate courtesy and offered her his left arm. With a sniff of
disdain Mrs. Bindle passed out of the room.
"I'll find out where you got it, see if I don't," she called out over
her shoulder.
"Well, well!" muttered Bindle as he leisurely followed her. "I never
was able to lose anythink I wanted to, nor keep anythink I didn't want
ter lose. 'Ow a cove can commit bigamy does me. Fancy two Mrs. B.'s!
'Old me, 'Orace!"
The Bindles' progress from Fenton Street to the Heartys' private door
was something of a triumph for Mrs. Bindle. The neighbours turned out
in force, and Bindle exchanged pleasantries with them, whilst Mrs.
Bindle smiled in what was to her an entirely prodigal manner.
"Funny thing me wearin' a top 'at," Bindle had remarked, as he lifted
it for about the twentieth time, this time to a policeman, who stared
hard at him. Bindle was in a mood to be extremely pleasant with
everybody, and he raised his hat impartially to those he knew and those
he did not know.
The Bindles were late. The invitation had been for seven o'clock, and
it was fully half-past seven when they arrived. They were admitted by
the maid-of-all-work, resplendent in a befrilled cap and apron. Bindle
winked at her, the girl giggled, and Mrs. Bindle glared.
When Mr. and Mrs. Bindle were announced, a hush fell upon the fifteen
or twenty guests who sat in rigid attitudes round the Heartys'
drawing-room. Conversation had been carried on in constrained and
self-conscious undertones. Milly, looking very pretty in a simple
white frock with an orange sash, ran across to greet the newcomers,
kissing her uncle heartily and Mrs. Bindle dutifully.
"My!" said Bindle, "ain't we pretty to-night. You an' me'll go off
with the biscuit, Millikins." Then he added, after surveying the
circle of vacant faces, "Looks to me as if they want a bit o' ginger.
"'Ullo, 'Earty," said Bindle, advancing towards his brother-in-law,
"sorry we're late, but the coachman was drunk."
Mr. Hearty shuddered.
As he led the Bindles round the room, introducing them with great
elaboration to each and every guest, he marvelled at Bindle's clothes.
He himself wore a black frock-coat, very shiny at the edges, with
trousers that seemed far too long and hung in folds over his boots.
"'Ullo, Martha," Bindle cried, regarding Mrs. Hearty, whose ample
person was clothed in a black skirt and a pale yellow bodice, the neck
of which was cut in a puritan "V." "You looks like a little
canary-bird." Then bending down and regarding her earnestly: "Yes, I'm
blowed! why, there's two chins wot I ain't seen before."
Whereat Mrs. Hearty collapsed into ripples and wheezes. Bindle was the
only self-possessed person in the room. He regarded his fellow-guests
with keen interest, noted the odour of camphor and mustiness and the
obvious creases in the men's coats. "Smells like a pawn-shop," he
muttered. Then he came to the Rev. Mr. Sopley, a gaunt, elderly man,
with ragged beard that covered his entire face, save the cheeks which,
like two little hillocks of flesh, peeped out from a riot of whiskered
undergrowth.
"'Ow are yer, sir?" asked Bindle.
Mr. Sopley raised a pair of agonised eyes. Before he had time to reply
Mr. Hearty had dragged Bindle on to the next guest.
"Who's 'e?" enquired Bindle in a hoarse whisper, easily heard by
everyone in the room. "'E seems to 'ave sort o' let his face grow
wild."
Mr. Hearty, who had completed the introductions, coughed loudly.
"Won't you have an orange, Joseph?" he enquired.
Bindle came to a dead stop.
"'Ave a wot?" he asked with great emphasis. "'Ave a _wot_?"
"An--an--orange, or--or--perhaps you'd sooner have an apple?" Mr.
Hearty was painfully nervous.
"Now look 'ere, 'Earty," said Bindle, taking his brother-in-law by the
lapel of his coat, "do I look like oranges? Me wot 'asn't got a bib
wi' me."
Mr. Hearty looked about him. Everybody seemed to be looking at Bindle
with marked disapproval. Bindle, on the other hand, gazed about him
with manifest appreciation.
Mrs. Hearty's drawing-room was in its gala attire. From the gasolier
in the centre chains of coloured paper were festooned to the corners of
the room. Two large bunches of artificial flowers had been carefully
dusted and renovated and placed in ornaments on the mantel-piece, at
each corner of which stood a rather insignificant-looking lustre
containing a large pink candle. In the fireplace were white shavings
through which ran threads of gold tinsel. On a mahogany sideboard was
the first-aid equipment, the preliminary to the more elaborate
refreshments to be served in the dining-room.
There were oranges and apples cut into halves, a pineapple, uncut, and
which it was Mr. Hearty's intention never should be cut, a large plate
of bananas, another of almonds and raisins, several plates of sweets,
which seemed anxious to challenge their hardness against the teeth of
those courageous enough to attack them, three different kinds of nuts,
some syphons, and two large jugs of home-made lemonade. There were
also plates of figs and oval boxes of dates, looking ashamed of their
own stickiness, and two high piles of blue and white plates.
As Bindle surveyed the refreshments he gave vent to an involuntary sigh.
"There are times," he muttered, "when I wishes I was the brother-in-law
of a bloomin' drunkard."
Mr. Hearty was anxious. He moved from one guest to another, to some
merely baring his teeth, to others uttering a few meaningless phrases.
Mrs. Hearty sat still, breathing heavily. Her favourite topic of
conversation was her breath, vast quantities of which were expended in
explaining how little of it she possessed.
Millie flitted about like a disappointed butterfly, finding no place
where she might rest and fold her wings.
At the suggestion of Mr. Hearty two maiden ladies essayed a pianoforte
duet, but with marked unsuccess. They seemed unable to get off
together. After several unsuccessful attempts Bindle walked over to
the piano.
"Look 'ere," he remarked, "I'll be starter. When I say 'three,' off
yer go like giddy-o."
Without a word the duettists rose from the piano and returned to their
seats, their heads held high. Bindle looked at them in wonderment. A
silence had fallen over the whole room. Mr. Sopley looked at the
culprit with an agonised expression, or, as Bindle afterwards expressed
it, "Like a calf wot's lost 'is mother and found a nanny-goat, an'
wonders wot 'e'll do at tea-time."
After a whispered conversation between Millie and Mr. Hearty, they both
bore down upon Mr. Flinders, a small man seated next to a very large
wife, and began an animated conversation with him in undertones. Mr.
Hearty was genial, Millie pleading, and Mr. Flinders protesting and
shrinking. Mrs. Flinders eventually terminated the discussion by
giving his arm an upward push, accompanied by a whispered, "Yes,
George, do," whereat George did. He walked towards the piano, looking
back at his wife and protesting all the while.
Bindle started clapping loudly, which still further embarrassed the
victim. After much preparation and searching for music, Millie played
the opening chords of "Queen of the Earth," peering anxiously forward
at the music, praying that she should make no mistake. Mr. Flinders
was an excellent grocer, but a bad singer. His voice was weak and
erratic. Each time he reached the chorus, in which everybody joined in
various keys, Bindle in no key at all, it was as if a drowning man were
making a last despairing effort to reach the shore.
At the conclusion of the song things seemed to sink back again into the
slough from which Mr. Flinders had valiantly rescued them.
Unconsciously Mr. Hearty was defeating his object and infecting his
guests with his own nervousness. Every time he moved across the room
he was followed by the eyes of the whole assembly. It seemed that only
one thing was capable of happening at a time. When Millie brought in
her Persian kitten, "Tibbins," everyone became absorbed in it. Those
who were not near enough to stroke and caress it turned to each other
almost eagerly and said how pretty it was, and what a beautiful tail it
had.
When Tibbins showed with voice and claw that it had exhausted any
capacity for interest that the company may have possessed for it, and
had been let out, another terrible silence fell upon the room. In
desperation Mr. Hearty seized a plate of figs and another of
half-oranges and handed them round to everyone in turn. Again interest
centred in him. Those who had refused watched with the keenest
interest those who were about to refuse, and Mr. Hearty returned the
plates to the sideboard without having disembarrassed them of a single
fig or half-orange.
In desperation he took a fig himself and began to eat it. Suddenly he
became conscious that all eyes were upon him, watching each bite and
every movement of the curiously large adam's-apple in his throat, which
always jumped about so when he ate. Nervously he picked up a plate and
placed the remains of the fig upon it, wishing he had not taken it.
Suddenly he had an inspiration. "We must have a game," he said with
ponderous geniality, putting down the plate containing the half-eaten
fig. "We'll play 'Here We Go Looping, Looping.'" With unaccustomed
energy and much labour and persuasion he marshalled all his guests in a
ring, all save Mrs. Hearty and Mr. Sopley.
After much persuasion, arrangement, and explanation, the ring was got
into joyless motion, the guests droning:
"Here we go looping, looping.
Here we go looping light.
Here we go looping, looping.
Looping all the night.
Put your noses in,
Put your noses out,
Shake them a little, a little, a little.
And then turn round about."
When they had shaken "a little, a little, a little" such portions of
their anatomy as Mr. Hearty thought it quite proper to mention, the
game ended with the same mirthlessness with which it had begun, and the
players resumed their seats with an air that seemed to say, "We are our
host's guests and must do as he bids us."
"They none of 'em seems to know wot to do wi' their 'ands," whispered
Bindle to Millie. "They're a rummy crowd. 'Earty must 'ave 'ad a rare
job to pick up such a little lot."
An awkward silence fell over the room.
"'Ave you ever played Kiss-in-the-ring, or Postman's-knock, sir?"
enquired Bindle of Mr. Sopley, at a moment when all attempts at
conversation seemed to have languished.
Mr. Sopley raised his eyes, and Mr. Hearty moved swiftly to his
assistance. At that moment the door opened and a fair-haired young
man, wearing the turndown collar and white tie of nonconformity,
entered. For a moment Mr. Hearty hesitated between his desire to save
Mr. Sopley and his duties as host, then with sudden decision threw his
pastor overboard, and turned to welcome the new arrival.
At the Alton Road Chapel a week's mission had been held by a young
missionary, whose remarkable preaching had been the sensation of the
hour. Mr. Hearty had summoned up sufficient courage to invite him to
the party, and the Rev. Edward Winch had accepted with a cordiality
which still further increased Mr. Hearty's embarrassment.
When the ceremony of introduction and greeting was over, Mr. Winch
seated himself between Mr. Sopley and Bindle, who had been much
interested to hear that the new arrival was a missionary.
"Do yer live in the jungle, sir?" enquired Bindle of Mr. Winch.
"Well, I live in the interior, miles away from any other white men,"
replied Mr. Winch. "Why do you ask?"
Bindle was thoughtful for a moment.
"Did yer 'appen to take a double-bed with yer, sir?" enquired Bindle.
"A double-bed?" Mr. Winch looked surprised. "Why, no."
Mr. Hearty coughed, Mr. Sopley lifted his eyes to the ceiling as if
seeking explanation from heaven. Mrs. Hearty wheezed, and Mrs.
Bindle's lips entirely disappeared. Bindle looked round at the
embarrassed faces.
"I only knew one missionary," he remarked, "an' 'e wanted to take a
double-bed into the jungle. Seemed a bit funny like----"
"You must have some lemonade," interrupted Mr. Hearty with forced
geniality.
Mr. Winch smilingly declined, then turning to Bindle, he said:
"No, I have a camp-bedstead, which does not err on the side of luxury
or comfort."
Bindle liked this young man with the blue eyes and ready laugh. After
watching him for some time, he remarked:
"Yer seem sort of 'appy, sir, if I may say so."
"I am," replied Mr. Winch with a smile.
"Funny," murmured Bindle, half to himself, "an' you a parson, leastwise
a missionary."
"But what has that got to do with it?" Mr. Winch looked at Bindle in
surprise.
Bindle cast his eyes round the room. "They don't look wot yer'd call a
jolly crowd, do they? Look at ole Woe an' Whiskers." Bindle's glance
left no doubt in Mr. Winch's mind as to whom he referred.
The missionary bit his lip to hide a smile.
"Mr. Sopley has had a lot of trouble," he said quietly.
"It seems to 'ave gone to 'is face," was Bindle's comment. "'E might
be a bigamist from the look of 'im."
Mr. Winch laughed aloud. "Why?" he asked.
"You married?" enquired Bindle.
"No."
"Yer'll know when yer are," was the laconic reply.
The arrival of Mr. Winch seemed to transform the whole assembly. He
and Bindle quickly became the leaders of the revels. Faces that had
hitherto been shrouded in gloom broke into slow and hesitant smiles.
Several of the men laughed, arguing that if so devout a man as Mr.
Winch could find it in him to laugh, as he very frequently did, then
surely they, being merely laymen, might allow themselves the same
privilege.
It was Mr. Winch who proposed "Blind Man's Buff," and it was Bindle who
when blindfolded caught Mr. Sopley, who was not playing, and after
feeling all over his be-whiskered face guessed him as Millie; and it
was Mr. Winch who laughed so loudly that the others joined in.
Later, at Mr. Winch's suggestion, Bindle led a game of "Follow my
Leader," in which Mr. Sopley had been persuaded to join, and only Mrs.
Hearty remained sitting out. Bindle's imagination ran riot, and he led
his unwilling tail into many grotesque pranks. He crawled about on all
fours, barked like a dog, mewed like a cat, jumped and howled, laughed
and sang. In everything he was faithfully followed by Mr. Winch, who
seemed to enjoy himself with a thoroughness that astonished his
fellow-guests.
The riot culminated in Bindle kissing Millie, who was next to him. Mr.
Winch, who was third in the living tail, left no doubt in Millie's mind
that she was intended to pass on the compliment. Bindle watched with
keen enjoyment the embarrassment of his victims, in particular that of
Mrs. Bindle, who was next to Mr. Sopley, as she looked up enquiringly
at the pastor, who bent his head towards her with a weary smile.
"Look at my missis a-burrowin' in all them whiskers," whispered Bindle
to Mr. Winch.
Other games followed, and even Mr. Hearty's face lost that anxious,
haunted look that it had worn during the earlier part of the evening.
When Millie, Bindle, and Mr. Winch handed round the refreshments
everybody took something, and Mr. Hearty beamed. He became quite
conversational. His party was a success. His heart warmed towards Mr.
Winch and Bindle, and--he cut the pineapple.
At supper tongues became loosed, and everyone found that there was more
joy in the world than he or she had thought possible. Mr. Sopley's
grace had cast a momentary gloom over the table; but this quickly
passed away. After the meal Mr. Winch said "a few words," and told of
some native customs at similar gatherings, keeping his hearers in a
constant titter. It was he who suggested that Bindle, whom he
described as "our merry master-of-the-ceremonies," should propose a
vote of thanks to their host.
As Bindle rose with obvious satisfaction, Mr. Hearty caught Mrs.
Bindle's eye, and each knew what were the other's thoughts.
"Ladies an' gentlemen," began Bindle with all the assurance of an
inveterate after-dinner speaker, "I seen some funny things in me time,
includin' a stuffed kangaroo, an' a temperance meetin' where they was
as drunk as dooks; but I never yet see a missionary as could laugh and
enjoy 'isself as Mr. Winch can."
There were looks of consternation on the faces of some of the guests
which Mr. Winch's hearty laugh quickly caused to vanish.
"I almost wish I was one of them funny beggars wot wear only a smile o'
week-days, an' add a bead for Sundays."
Mr. Hearty coughed and Mr. Sopley gazed up at the ceiling. Mrs. Bindle
had shown no sign of lips since Bindle had risen.
"I never liked missionaries till to-night, though me an' Mrs. Bindle
'ave slep' in a missionary's bed for five year or more. It never made
no difference to me, though. If I wasn't in the furniture movin'
business I think I'd be a missionary.
"But I'm up on my 'ind legs to propose the 'ealth of 'Earty, Alfred
'Earty, who's a credit to the vegetables 'e sells for more'n they're
worth. 'E's a bit solemn-like at times, but 'e's got as good a 'eart
as 'is own cabbages. I known 'Earty since 'e was a young man, and me
an' 'im was arter the same gal once. She's sittin' over there."
Bindle indicated Mrs. Bindle with a jerk of his thumb. Mrs. Bindle and
Mr. Hearty grew very red, and Mrs. Hearty wheezed painfully. "I won,
though; 'Earty warn't nippy enough. 'E could sing 'ymns an' I
couldn't; but yer don't get round gals with 'ymns, leastways not young
gals. So 'Earty lost one gal an' got another, one of the best."
Bindle pointed to Mrs. Hearty.
"We've all 'ad a pleasant evenin', thanks to Mr. Winch an 'Earty's
lemonade; an' if some of us gets a jar by goin' to the wrong place when
we turns up our toes, I don't mind bettin' a quid it won't be Mr.
Winch. 'E may be a missionary, but 'e's one o' the bhoys."
With that Bindle sat down. For a moment there was a hush of
consternation, but Mr. Winch came to the rescue with a "Thank you, Mr.
Bindle, I hope you're right."
After that everyone applauded and "Auld Lang Syne" was sung and the
company dispersed, conscious that they had enjoyed themselves as they
had never thought it possible. They were aware of a feeling that
seemed to be perilously near the mammon of unrighteousness; but they
argued that no blame could attach itself to the flock for doing what
the shepherd acquiesced in.
Mr. Hearty was astonished at the cordiality of the good-nights extended
to Bindle; but when Mr. Sopley said that he hoped to see him at the
Chapel Bazaar to be held a fortnight hence, he was amazed.
He was even more astonished when he heard himself saying, as he shook
Bindle warmly by the hand, "Thank you, Joseph, for--for----" And then
he lapsed into silence, wondering what it really was for which he was
thankful.
That night Mrs. Bindle had much food for thought. She had heard Mr.
Sopley's invitation.