CHAPTER X
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 thecumulative effect of her devotions to manifest itself, Mrs. Bindle wasalways in a chastened mood. She controlled those gusts of temper whichplunged her back into the Doric and precipitated Bindle "into 'ell,dust an' all."
On this particular evening she was almost gentle. The bangs with whichshe 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 hisviews more freely on that than on other days.
Having laid the supper, Mrs. Bindle began to remove her bonnet. With ahat-pin in her mouth and her hands stretched behind her head in the actof untying an obstreperous veil that rested like a black line acrossthe bridge of her nose, she remarked, in that casual tone which withher 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 hushedvoice; "a beautiful prayer about a brother who had fallen by thewayside, a wheat-ear among thorns."
"'_E_ prayed for _me--'im_?"
Bindle removed his pipe from his mouth, and gripping the bowl betweenthumb and finger, pointed what remained of the stem at Mrs. Bindle, asshe stuck a hat-pin through her bonnet and placed it on the dresser.
"'_E_ prayed for _me_?" The words came with such deliberation andintensity 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 ofthe thing seemed to strike him. "Prayed for in church--leastwisechapel--jest like the Royal Family an' rain. You're comin' on, JoeBindle," he chuckled.
"Seems to amuse you," remarked Mrs. Bindle as she took her place at thetable.
"Yer've 'it it," replied Bindle, as he skilfully opened the tin ofsalmon. "Yer've just 'it it. Alfred 'Earty was sent to annoy 'eavenwith '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 apause to enable him to reduce a particularly large mouthful of breadand salmon to conversational proportions, he continued:
"If I 'ad the runnin' of this 'ere world, there'd be some rather bigalterations, with a sort of 'end o' the season' sale, an' there'd besome pretty cheap lines in parsons an' greengrocers, not to speak ofchapel-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 Bindleoracularly.
"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 Bindlemight 'a been a better man than wot 'e is." Bindle dug a morsel ofsalmon out of the tin with the point of his knife. "I been too wellbrought up, that's wot's the matter wi' me."
"You're always scoffin' and sneerin' at me an' the chapel," respondedMrs. Bindle tartly. "It don't hurt me, whatever you may think."
"There you're wrong, me blossom." Bindle was in high spirits. Hismind 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 wotwas meant to make people 'appy, seems to make 'em about as joyful as awinkle wot feels the pin."
"Winkles are boiled first," retorted the literal Mrs. Bindle, wipinground 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' todo with religion."
"That's wot makes 'em so tasty," retorted Bindle. "You an' 'Earty 'avesort o' spoiled me appetite for religion; but winkles still 'old me."After a short silence he continued, "I never see a religious cove yetwot I 'ad any likin' for, leastwise, wot said 'e was religious. It's afunny thing, but as soon as people become good they seems to get aboutas comfortable to live with as an 'edge'og in bed.
"Funny thing, religion," Bindle continued. "There was one cove Iknow'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 inno '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 getinside 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 risingfrom her chair, and then resuming her seat again as if thinking betterof her determination.
"When," continued Bindle imperturbably, "I 'ears of a place where thebeer's better an' cheaper than wot I gets 'ere, orf I goes like a bunnyafter a lettuce. Now you an' 'Earty knows that in 'eaven 'appiness isbetter an' cheaper than wot it is 'ere, yet yer does all yer can tokeep 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," brokein Bindle cheerfully. "Look at the ladies. Wot do they do? When theygets sort o' soiled, do they wash? Not a bit of it; they shoves onanother 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--whichreminds me of 'ow ole Snooker lorst 'is job. 'E wos sent round by 'isguv'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 itmyself,' 'e says.
"'But I don't understand,' says she.
"'Well, mum,' says Snooker, 'there's the ceilin's to be washed off,' 'esays, 'an' the old paper to be stripped off the walls,' 'e says, 'andit all takes time.'
"'But is that necessary?' says the lady.
"'Well, mum,' says Snooker, quiet like, 'yer wouldn't put cleanstockin'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 bedisgustin' with. Any'ow 'e lorst 'is job, and the lady went to someoneelse as didn't talk about legs."
"Y' ought to be ashamed of yourself, Joseph Bindle, telling me suchlewd tales."
"'Lewd!' Wot's that?" queried Bindle.
"An abomination in the sight of the Lord," replied Mrs. Bindlesententiously. "Your talk ain't fit for a woman to listen to. Lasttime we was at Mr. Hearty's you was speakin' of babies in front ofMillie. 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 th
ings," remarked Bindle, replacing his empty glass onthe 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; butif yer don't want 'em it rains babies, an' 'fore yer know it you've gota dose or two o' triplets at three pound a bunch from the King. Therewos 'Arry Brown; 'e wanted a kid, and 'e 'ated kittens. Yet 'is missisnever 'ad a baby, though the cat was always 'avin' kittens, which showsas there wasn't anythink wrong wi' the 'ouse."
"I'm goin' to bed," announced Mrs. Bindle, as she rose. "Your talkain't fit for decent ears to listen to. If it wasn't the Sabbath I'dtell 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 anote 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 thedoor. The utterance of the last word synchronised with the banging ofthe 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 thebell 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 fromwhence 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 byyells of delight which crystallised into, "For he's a Jolly GoodFellow!"
Bindle stood at the door listening in amazement; then with a grinremarked 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'tknow and love you. A toast, you fellows," he cried.
Little seized a glass half-full of whisky-and-soda. "A toast," hecried, "to Bindle the Incomparable, rival of Aristophanes as a maker ofmirth."
Cries of "Bindle! Bindle!" echoed from all parts of the smoke-dimmedroom, and again there broke out what Dick Little called "the NationalAnthem of Good Fellowship," followed by calls for a speech.
Before he knew it Bindle was hoisted upon the table, where he stoodgazing 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 theexpectant faces round him Bindle began his first speech.
"Gentlemen--leastways, I 'ope so. You all seem to know me, andlikewise 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 tobreak up this 'ere prayer-meetin', but I come to 'ave a word with Mr.Little." (Cries of "Have it with us.") "Very well, then," continuedBindle. "I got a brother-in-law, 'Earty by name." (There were criesof "Good old Hearty!") "Seem to know 'im too. P'r'aps yer sings inthe choir at 'is chapel. Any'ow, 'Earty's been prayin' for me to-nightat '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 brotherfallen by the wayside, a wheat-ear among thorns.'"
Yells of laughter followed this announcement, and Bindle was pulleddown and drink forced upon him. Soon he was sitting in the mostcomfortable armchair in the room, smoking a colossal cigar, with alarge kitchen jug full of beer at his elbow. He saw before him nearlya dozen of the most riotous spirits in London listening with eagerinterest to his stories and opinions, which they punctuated with gustsof laughter. The night was far advanced when at length he rose to go.
"Well, gentlemen," he said, "I never thought that doctors was suchsports. Now I understand why it is that the ladies is always gettin'ill. S' long, and thanks for this friendly little evenin'. If I'vetalked too much you jest come and 'ear Mrs. Bindle one evenin' andyer'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." Bindlewreaked his disgust on the match he was striking.
"I'll think it over," said Little, "and let you know. Good-night, andthanks for coming. We shall always be glad to see you any Sundaynight."
"Different from 'Earty's Sunday nights," muttered Bindle, as he walkedaway. "I wonder which makes the best men. It's a good job I ain't gotanythink to do with 'eaven, or them wheat-ears might sort o' get mixedwi' the thorns."