Bindle: Some Chapters in the Life of Joseph Bindle by Herbert George Jenkins (new reading .TXT) 📕

ole fool I been to-night. See?"

They parted with mutual regard and promises to meet again next Friday, when Charlie Dixon was to bring such documents as would vouch for his respectability.

"Yes; I been an ole fool," muttered Bindle, as he walked home. "This 'ere business is goin' to lead to trouble between me an' 'Earty. What a pity people gets it as bad as 'Earty. No man didn't ought to be religious all the week. It ain't natural."

That night Bindle entered his house whistling "Gospel Bells" with unaccustomed abandon.

"Been enjoyin' yerself, leavin' me at 'ome to slave and get yer meals ready," snapped Mrs. Bindle. "One o' these days you'll come 'ome and find me gone."

"'Oo's the man?" interrogated Bindle with a temerity that surprised himself.

That night Bindle lay awake for some time thinking over life in general and the events of the evening in particular. He never could quite understand why he had been precipitated into an atmosphere so foreign to his nature as that surrounding Mrs. Bindle and Mr. Hearty. He had striven very hard to stem the tide of religious gloom as it spread itself over Mrs. Bindle. Unaware of the cause, he not unnaturally selected the wrong methods, which were those of endeavouring to make her "cheer up."

"The idea of goin' to 'eaven seems to make her low-spirited," was Bindle's view.

Even Mrs. Bindle was not entirely proof against his sallies, and there were times when a reluctant smile would momentarily relieve the grim severity of her features. There were occasions even when they chatted quite amiably, until the recollection of Mr. Hearty, and the mental comparison of his success with Bindle's failure, threw her back into the slough from which she had temporarily been rescued.

"There must be somethink funny about me," Bindle had once confided to Mrs. Hearty. "My father was as religious as a woman wi' one leg, then I gets Lizzie an' she turns away from me an' 'Mammon'—I don't rightly know 'oo 'e is, but she's always talkin' about 'im—then you goes back on me an' gives me a sort of brother-in-law 'oo's as 'oly as ointment. You ain't been a real pal, Martha, really you ain't."

If called upon to expound his philosophy of life Bindle would have found himself in difficulties. He was a man whose sympathies were quickly aroused, and it never troubled him whether the object of his charity were a heathen, a Christian, or a Mormon. On one occasion when a girl had been turned out of doors at night by an outraged father who had discovered his daughter's frailty, it was Bindle who found her weeping convulsively near Putney Pier. It was he who secured her a night's lodging, and stood her friend throughout the troubled weeks that followed, although it meant neither beer nor tobacco for some months.

On another occasion a mate had been ill, and it was Bindle who each week collected what pence he could from his fellow-workmen and made up from his own pocket the amount necessary to keep the man, his wife, and child. To do this he had done work as a whitewasher and labourer, never working less than one whole night a week in addition to his regular occupation, until his mate was well again.

No one knew of these little acts, which Bindle kept profound secrets. He would have felt ashamed had they become known, more particularly had Mrs. Bindle or Mr. Hearty heard of them.

Once he had remarked, apropos some remark of Mr. Hearty's regarding what in his opinion would be Heaven's attitude towards some unfortunate wretch who had stolen food for his wife, "I shouldn't like to 'ave a Gawd I'd sometimes 'ave to feel ashamed of," whereat Mr. Hearty had become very red and embarrassed.

CHAPTER VIII THE GREAT CONSPIRACY
I

At Harridge's Stores Bindle had made himself very popular with the manager of the Furniture Removing Department. His cheery outlook on life, his racy speech and general trustworthiness resulted in his being frequently entrusted with special jobs where reliability was required.

When the order was received to supply the refreshments for the Barton Bridge Temperance F�te, Bindle was selected to go down to erect the marquee and stalls, and be generally responsible for the safe transit of the eatables and drinkables.

"Yer can always trust me wi' lemonade and religion," he had assured the manager. "I don't touch neither; they sort of goes to me 'ead."

The Barton Bridge Temperance Society had determined to celebrate the twenty-fifth anniversary of its foundation in a manner that should attract to it the attention of the temperance world. After much deliberation and heart-burning, an English Rustic F�te had been decided upon.

The whole of the surrounding country had been put under contribution, and everyone had responded either with generosity or with scorn. Old Sir John Bilder, of Bilder's Entire, had replied with ponderous humour that he "would supply all the ale required." When he received a request for three gross of pint bottles of a particular kind of temperance ale he had been surprised. "Well, I'm damned!" was his comment; but being a sportsman he had sent the ale, which he regarded as a fair price for a good story.

Barton Bridge was proud of its Temperance Society, but prouder still of its breadth of mind. It had been a tradition for a quarter of a century that the Society should be non-sectarian. It is nothing to the discredit of Barton Bridge that the Temperance Society was the only thing in the place that had not been warped from its orbit by sect.

For a churchman to be discovered eating bread of Mr. Lacey's baking, Mr. Lacey being a nonconformist, would have meant social ostracism. He must, by virtue of his beliefs, masticate none but bread kneaded and baked by Mr. Carter, the church baker.

A one-time vicar had sought to demolish this "ridiculous wall of prejudice" by dealing alternately with church and chapel tradesmen. There had been no protest from the chapel people, but the indignation of the church tradesmen had been so great, and their absence from service so persistent, that the vicar had been forced to give way. Tolerance was an acquired habit rather than an instinctive virtue in Barton Bridge, and the temperance meetings were solemn minglings of bodies accompanied by a warring of souls.

A witty Frenchman has said that, "In order to preserve the purity of his home life, the Englishman invented the Continental excursion." It is a cynicism; but at least it shows how dear tradition is to the Englishman's heart. It was this same spirit of tradition that raised above the strife of sect the Barton Bridge Temperance Society.

The question of the doctor was another instance of the effect of tradition upon what, at first glance, might appear to be a grave problem. There was not room for two doctors at Barton Bridge, and no doctor could reasonably be expected to be a bi-religionist. It therefore became the accepted thing that the Barton Bridge doctor should attend neither church nor chapel; but it was incumbent upon him to become a member of the Temperance Society.

The catering for the Temperance F�te had at first presented a serious difficulty, and at one time had even threatened to divide the camp. The church party recoiled in horror from the thought of eating nonconformist sandwiches; whilst if the lemonade were of church manufacture it would mean that scores of dissenters would have a thirsty afternoon.

The problem had been solved by Lady Knob-Kerrick, who insisted that the order should be placed with a London firm of caterers, which, as a limited company, could not be expected to have religious convictions. Thus it was that the order went to Harridge's Stores.

II

By eight o'clock on the morning of the F�te a pantechnicon was lumbering its ungainly way along the Portsmouth Road. Bindle sat meditatively on the tail-board, smoking and obviously bored.

With the wholesome contempt of an incorrigible cockney he contemplated the landscape.

"'Edges, trees, an' fields, an' a mile to walk for a drink. Not me," he muttered, relighting his pipe with solemn gravity.

As the pantechnicon rumbled its ponderous way through hamlet and village, Bindle lightly tossed a few pleasantries to the rustics who stood aside to gaze at what, to them, constituted an incident in the day's monotony of motor-cars and dust.

The morning advanced, and Bindle grew more direct in his criticisms on, and contempt for, the bucolic life. At last out of sheer loneliness he climbed up beside the driver.

"'Owd jer like to live 'ere, ole son?" he enquired pleasantly, as they approached a tiny hamlet where a woman, a child, and some ducks and chickens seemed to be the only living inhabitants.

"All right with a bit o' land," responded the driver, looking about him appreciatively.

Bindle gazed at his colleague curiously, then, feeling that they had nothing in common regarding the countryside, continued:

"Funny thing you an' me comin' to a temperance f�te." Then regarding the driver's face critically, he proceeded: "'Ope you've got yer vanity-case wi' yer. You'll want to powder that nose o' yours 'fore the ladies come. Course it's indigestion, only they mightn't believe it."

The driver grunted.

"Fancy," continued Bindle, "'avin' to 'aul about chairs and make up tables a day like this, an' on lemonade too. Can't yer see it, mate, in glass bottles wi' lemons stuck in the tops and no froth?"

The driver grumbled in his throat.

The start had been an early one and he was dry, despite several ineffectual attempts to allay his thirst at wayside inns.

It was nearly eleven o'clock before a sprinkling of houses warned them that they were approaching Barton Bridge. Soon the pantechnicon was awaking echoes in the drowsy old High Street. Half-way along what is practically the only thoroughfare stands the Pack Horse, outside which the driver instinctively pulled up, and he and Bindle clambered down and entered, ostensibly to enquire the way to the F�te ground.

Behind the bar stood Mr. Cutts, wearing the inevitable red knitted cap without which no one had ever seen him during business hours. He was engaged in conversation with Dick Little, the doctor's son, and by common consent the black sheep of Barton Bridge. The subject of their talk was temperance. He showed no particular inclination to come forward, and Bindle was extremely thirsty.

After regarding the red cap for a moment Bindle approached the landlord.

"No offence, your 'Oliness! Sorry to be a noosance, but can yer tell me where the Temperance F�te is to be 'eld? Me and my mate is delegates come all the way from London. No; your 'Oliness is wrong, it's indigestion. That nose of 'is always takes a lot of explainin'."

Mr. Cutts flushed a deep purple at the reference to his cap. He wore it to hide his baldness, and was extremely sensitive. Dick Little laughed outright. It was he who answered Bindle.

"Half a mile up, and down the avenue of poplars."

"D' yer 'ear, mate?" Bindle turned to the driver. "D' yer know a poplar when yer see it? Same for me." The last remark referred to the driver's order for a pint of ale. After finishing his draught the driver went out to see to the watering of his horses, whilst Mr. Cutts, having cast at Bindle a look which he conceived to be of withering scorn, retired to his parlour.

"Seem to 'ave 'urt Old Bung's feelin's," Bindle remarked genially to Dick Little.

"You said you were going to the Temperance F�te?"

"Yes; we're carryin' along the buns, sangwidges, cakes, an' lemonade, likewise tents and things."

"Like a drink?" enquired Little.

"Well!" grinned Bindle judicially, as he surveyed his empty glass, "it would lay the dust a bit; provided," he added with mock gravity, "it ain't a split soda. Never could digest split sodas. Where's 'is 'Oliness?" he enquired, looking round.

"Never mind him," responded Little, taking a flask from his pocket. "Wash the glass out."

Bindle did so, and threw the water in a delicate line upon the floor. Little emptied the greater part of the contents of the flask into the glass held before him. With a happy look in his eyes Bindle took a short drink, tasted the liquid critically, looked at Little, then with a puzzled expression emptied the glass at the second attempt.

"Wot jer call it, sir? It's new to me," he remarked, as he replaced his glass upon the counter.

"It hasn't got a name yet. I make it myself. It's not bad, eh?"

"It beats all I've ever tasted, sir. It ain't for suckin'-babes, though. Pretty strong."

"Yes; you said you had lemonade for the Temperance