Adventures of Bindle

The shock released a considerable portion of the food adhering to Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino on to the chief superintendent. Whitebait forsook the ebon locks of the waiter and dived into the magnificent Dundrearys of Herr Smith, and on his shirt-front was the impression of Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino's features in tomato soup.

Without a moment's hesitation Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino was on his feet once more; but Bindle, feeling that the time had arrived for action, was equally quick. Taking him from behind by the collar he worked his right arm up as high as it would go behind his back. The Italian screamed with the pain; but Bindle held fast.

"You ain't safe to be trusted about, ole sport," he remarked, "an' I got to 'old you, until Ole Whiskers decides wot's goin' to be done. You'll get six months for wastin' food like this. Why, you looks like a bloomin' restaurant. Look at 'im!" Bindle gazed down at the prostrate superintendent. "Knocked 'is wind out, you 'ave. Struck 'im bang in the solar-plexus, blowed if you didn't!"

With rolling eyes and foaming mouth Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino screamed his maledictions. A group of waiters was bending over Herr Smith. One was administering brandy, another was plucking whitebait out of his whiskers, a third was trying to wipe the tomato soup from his shirt-front, an operation which transformed a red archipelago into a flaming continent.

When eventually the superintendent sat up, he looked like a whiskered robin redbreast. He gazed from one to the other of the waiters engaged upon his renovation. Then his eye fell upon Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino. He uttered the one significant British word.

"Berlice!"

When Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino left Napolini's that evening, it was in the charge of two policemen, with two more following to be prepared for eventualities. Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino was what is known professionally as "violent." Not satisfied with the food that was plastered upon his person, he endeavoured by means of his teeth to detach a portion of the right thigh of Police-constable Higgins, and with his feet to raise bruises where he could on the persons of his captors.

"Pore ole 'Okey-Pokey!" remarked Bindle, as he returned to the dining-room, where he had now been allotted two tables, for which he was to be entirely responsible. "Pore ole 'Okey-Pokey. I'm afraid I got 'is goat; but didn't 'e make a mess of Ole Whiskers!"

Herr Smith had gone home. When a man is sixty years of age and, furthermore, when he has been a superintendent of a restaurant for upwards of twenty-five years, he cannot with impunity be rammed in the solar-plexus by a hard-headed and vigorous Italian.

While Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino in a cell at Vine Street Police Station was forecasting the downfall of the Allies by the secession of Italy from the Entente, Bindle was striving to satisfy the demands of the two sets of customers that sat at his tables. He made mistakes, errors of commission and omission; but his obviously genuine desire to satisfy everybody inclined people to be indulgent.

The man who was waiting for pancakes received with a smile half-a-dozen oysters; whilst another customer was bewildered at finding himself expected to commence his meal with pancakes and jam. When such errors were pointed out, Bindle would scratch his head in perplexity, then, as light dawned upon him, he would break out into a grin, make a dive for the pancakes and quickly exchange them for the oysters.

The names of the various dishes he found almost beyond him and, to overcome the difficulty, he asked the customers to point out on the menu what they required. Then again he found himself expected to carry a multiplicity of plates and dishes.

At first he endeavoured to emulate his confrères. On one occasion he set out from the dining-room with three dishes containing respectively "caille en casserole," a Welsh rarebit, and a steak and fried potatoes. The steak and fried potatoes were for a lady of ample proportions with an almost alarmingly low-cut blouse. In placing the steak and metal dish of potatoes before her, Bindle's eye for a second left the other two plates, which began to tilt.

The proprietor of the large-bosomed lady was, with the aid of a fish-knife, able to hold in place the Welsh rarebit; but he was too late in his endeavour to reach the under-plate on which reposed the "caille en casserole," which suddenly made a dive for the apex of the V of the lady's blouse.

As she felt the hot, moist bird touch her, she gave a shriek and started back. Bindle also started, and the lady's possessor lost his grip on the Welsh rarebit, which slid off the plate on to his lap.

Greatly concerned, Bindle placed the empty Welsh rarebit plate quickly on the table and, seizing a fork, stabbed the errant and romantic quail, replacing it upon its plate. He then went to the assistance of the gentleman who had received the Welsh rarebit face downwards on his lap.

With great care Bindle returned it to the plate, with the exception of such portions as clung affectionately to the customer's person.

To confound confusion the superintendent dashed up full of apologies for the customers and threatening looks for the cause of the mishap. Bindle turned to the lady, who was hysterically dabbing her chest with a napkin.

"I 'ope you ain't 'urt, mum," he said with genuine solicitude; "I didn't see where 'e was goin', slippery little devil!" and Bindle regarded the bird reproachfully. Then remembering that another was waiting for it, he crossed over to the table at which sat the customer who had ordered "caille en casserole" and placed the plate before him.

The man looked up in surprise.

"You'd better take that away," he said. "That bird's a bit too enterprising for me."

"A bit too wot, sir?" interrogated Bindle, lifting the plate to his nose. "I don't smell it, sir," he added seriously.

"I ordered 'caille en casserole,'" responded the man. "You bring me 'caille en cocotte.'"

"D'you mind saying that in English, sir?" asked Bindle, wholly at sea.

At that moment he was pushed aside by the owner of the lady of generous proportions. Thrusting his face forward until it almost touched that of the "caille" guest, he launched out into a volley of reproaches.

"Mon Dieu!" he shouted, "you have insulted that lady. You are a scoundrel, a wretch, a traducer of fair women;" and he went on in French to describe the customer's ancestry and possible progeny.

Throughout the dining-room the guests rose to see what was happening. Many came to the scene of the mishap. By almost superhuman efforts and an apology from the customer who had ordered "caille en casserole," peace was restored and, at a motion from the superintendent, Bindle carried the offending bird to the kitchen to exchange it for another, a simple process that was achieved by having it re-heated and returned on a clean plate.

"This 'ere all comes about through these coves wantin' foreign food," muttered Bindle to himself. "If they'd all 'ave a cut from the joint and two veges, it 'ud be jest as simple as drinkin' beer. An' ain't they touchy too," he continued. "Can't say a word to 'em, but what they flies up and wants to scratch each other's eyes out."

Tranquillity restored, Bindle continued his ministrations. For half an hour everything went quietly until two customers ordered ginger beer, one electing to drink it neat, and the other in conjunction with a double gin. Bindle managed to confuse the two glasses. The customer who had been forced to break his pledge was greatly distressed, and much official tact on the part of a superintendent was required to soothe his injured feelings.

"Seems to me," muttered Bindle, "that I gets all the crocks. If there's anythink funny about, it comes and sits down at one o' my tables. Right-o, sir, comin'!" he called to an impatient customer, who, accompanied by a girl clothed principally in white boots, rouge and peroxide, had seated himself at the table just vacated by a couple from the suburbs.

The man ordered a generous meal, including a bottle of champagne. Bindle attentively wrote down a phonetic version of the customer's requirements. The wine offered no difficulty, it was numbered.

Bindle had observed that wine was frequently carried to customers in a white metal receptacle, sometimes containing hot water, at others powdered ice. No one had told him of the different treatment accorded to red and white wines. Desirous of giving as little trouble as possible to his fellows, he determined on this occasion to act on his own initiative. Obtaining a wine-cooler, he had it filled with hot water and, placing the bottle of champagne in it, hurried back to the customer.

Placing the wine-cooler on a service-table, he left it for a few minutes, whilst he laid covers for the new arrivals.

The lady thirstily demanded the wine. Bindle lifted it from its receptacle, wound a napkin round it as he had seen others do and, nippers in hand, carried it to the table.

He cut the wires. Suddenly about half a dozen different things seemed to happen at the same moment. The cork leapt joyously from the neck of the bottle and, careering across the room, caught the edge of the monocle of a diner and planted it in the soup of another at the next table, just as he was bending down to take a spoonful. The liquid sprayed his face. He looked up surprised, not having seen the cause. He who had lost the monocle began searching about in a short-sighted manner for his lost property.

The cork, continuing on its way, took full in the right eye a customer of gigantic proportions. He dropped his knife and fork and roared with pain. Bindle watched the course of the cork in amazement, holding the bottle as a fireman does the nozzle of a hose. From the neck squirted a stream of white foam, catching the lady of the white boots, rouge and peroxide full in the face. She screamed.

"You damn fool!" yelled the man to Bindle.

In his amazement Bindle turned suddenly to see from what quarter this rebuke had come, and the wine caught the man just beneath the chin. Never had champagne behaved so in the whole history of Napolini's. A superintendent rushed up and, with marvellous presence of mind, seized a napkin and stopped the stream. Then he snatched the bottle from Bindle's hands, at the same time calling down curses upon his head for his stupidity.

The lady in white boots, rouge and peroxide was gasping and dabbing her face with a napkin, which was now a study in pink and white. Her escort was feeling the limpness of his collar and endeavouring to detach his shirt from his chest. The gentleman who had lost his monocle was explaining to the owner of the soup what had happened, and asking permission to fish for the missing crystal that was lying somewhere in the depths of the stranger's mulligatawny.

Bindle was gazing from one to the other in astonishment. "Fancy champagne be'avin' like that," he muttered. "Might 'ave been a stone-ginger in 'ot weather."

At that moment the superintendent discovered the wine-cooler full of hot water. One passionate question he levelled at Bindle, who nodded cheerfully in reply. Yes, it was he who had put the champagne bottle in hot water.

This sealed Bindle's fate as a waiter. Determined not to allow him out of his sight again, the superintendent haled him off to the manager's room, there to be formally discharged.

"Ah! this is the man," said the manager to an inspector of police with whom he was engaged in conversation as Bindle and the superintendent entered.

The inspector took a note-book from his pocket.

"What is your name and address?" he asked of Bindle.

Bindle gave the necessary details, adding, "I'm a special, Fulham District. Wot's up?"

"You will be wanted at Marlborough Street Police Court to-morrow at ten with regard to" – he referred to his note-book – "a charge against Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino," said the inspector.

"Wot's 'e goin' to be charged with, assault an' battery?" enquired Bindle curiously.

"Under the Defence of the Realm Act," replied the inspector. "Documents were found on him."

Bindle whistled. "Well, I'm blowed! A spy! I never did trust them sort o' whiskers," he muttered as he left the manager's room.

Five minutes later he left Napolini's for ever, whistling at the stretch of his powers "So the Lodger Pawned His Second Pair of Boots."

CHAPTER XIII
THE RETURN OF CHARLIE DIXON

"Oh, Uncle Joe! Charlie's back, and he's going to take us out to-night, and I'm so happy."

Bindle regarded the flushed and radiant face of Millie Hearty, who had just rushed up to him and now stood holding on to his arm with both hands.

"I thought I should catch you as you were going home," she cried. "Uncle Joe, I – I think I want to cry."

"Well," remarked Bindle, "if you'll give your pore ole uncle a chance to get a word in edgeways, 'e'd like to ask why you wants to cry."

"Because I'm so happy," cried Millie, dancing along beside him, her hands still clasping his arm.

"I see," replied Bindle drily; "still, it's a funny sort o' reason for wantin' to cry, Millikins;" and he squeezed against his side the arm she had now slipped through his.

"You will come, Uncle Joe, won't you?" There was eager entreaty in her voice. "We shall be at Putney Bridge at seven."

"I'm afraid I can't to-night, Millikins," replied Bindle. "I got a job on."

"Oh, Uncle Joe!" The disappointment in Millie's voice was too obvious to need the confirmation of the sudden downward droop of the corners of her pretty mouth. "You must come;" and Bindle saw a hint of tears in the moisture that gathered in her eyes.

He coughed and blew his nose vigorously before replying.

"You young love-birds won't miss me," he remarked rather lamely.

"But we shan't go unless you do," said Millie with an air of decision that was sweet to Bindle's ears, "and I've been so looking forward to it. Oh, Uncle Joe! can't you really manage it just to please meeee?"

Bindle looked into the pleading face turned eagerly towards him, at the parted lips ready to smile, or to pout their disappointment and, in a flash, he realised the blank in his own life.

"P'raps 'is Nibs might like to 'ave you all to 'imself for once," he suggested tentatively. "There ain't much chance with a gal for another cove when your Uncle Joe's about."

Millie laughed. "Why, it was Charlie who sent me to ask you, and to say if you couldn't come to-night we would put it off. Oh! do come, Uncle Joe. Charlie's going to take us to dinner at the Universal Café, and they've got a band, and, oh! it will be lovely just having you two."

"Well!" began Bindle, but discovering a slight huskiness in his voice he coughed again loudly. "Seem to 'ave caught cold," he muttered, then added, "Of course I might be able to put that job orf."

"But don't you want to come, Uncle Joe?" asked Millie, anxiety in her voice.

"Want to come!" repeated Bindle. "Of course I want to come; but, well, I wanted to be sure you wasn't jest askin' me because you thought it 'ud please your ole uncle," he concluded somewhat lamely.

"Oh, Uncle Joe!" cried Millie, "how could you think anything so dreadful. Why, wasn't it you who gave me Charlie?"

Bindle looked curiously at her. He was always discovering in his niece naïve little touches that betokened the dawn of womanhood.

"Ain't we becomin' a woman, Millikins!" he cried, whereat Millie blushed.

"Thank you so much for promising to come," she cried. "Seven o'clock at Putney Bridge Station. Don't be late, and don't forget," she cried and, with a nod and a smile, she was gone.

Bindle watched her neat little figure as she tripped away. At the corner she turned and waved her hand to him, then disappeared.

"Now I don't remember promisin' nothink," he muttered. "Ain't that jest Millikins all over, a-twistin' 'er pore ole uncle round 'er little finger. Fancy 'Earty 'avin' a gal like that." He turned in the direction of Fenton Street. "It's like an old 'en 'avin' a canary. Funny place 'eaven," he remarked, shaking his head dolefully. "They may make marriages there, but they make bloomers as well."

At five minutes to seven Bindle was at Putney Bridge Station.

"Makes me feel like five pound a week," he murmured, looking down at his well-cut blue suit, terminating in patent boots, the result of his historical visit to Lord Windover's tailor. "A pair o' yellow gloves and an 'ard 'at 'ud make a dook out of a drain-man. Ullo, general!" he cried as Sergeant Charles Dixon entered the station with a more than ever radiant Millie clinging to his arm.

"'Ere, steady now, young feller," cautioned Bindle as he hesitatingly extended his hand. "No pinchin'!"

Charlie Dixon laughed. The heartiness of his grip was notorious among his friends.

"I'm far too glad to see you to want to hurt you, Uncle Joe," he said.

"Uncle Joe!" exclaimed Bindle in surprise, "Uncle Joe!"

"I told him to, Uncle Joe," explained Millie. "You see," she added with a wise air of possession, "you belong to us both now."

"Wot-o!" remarked Bindle. "Goin'-goin' gone, an' cheap at 'alf the price. 'Ere, no you don't!" By a dexterous dive he anticipated Charlie Dixon's move towards the ticket-window. A moment later he returned with three white tickets.

"Oh, Uncle Joe!" cried Millie in awe, "you've booked first-class."

"We're a first-class party to-night, ain't we, Charlie?" was Bindle's only comment.

As the two lovers walked up the stairs leading to the up-platform, Bindle found it difficult to recognise in Sergeant Charles Dixon the youth Millie had introduced to him two years previously at the cinema.

"Wonder wot 'Earty thinks of 'im now?" muttered Bindle. "Filled out, 'e 'as. Wonderful wot the army can do for a feller," he continued, regretfully thinking of the "various veins" that had debarred him from the life of a soldier.

"Well, Millikins!" he cried, as they stood waiting for the train, "an' wot d'you think of 'is Nibs?"

"I think he's lovely, Uncle Joe!" said Millie, blushing and nestling closer to her lover.

"Not much chance for your ole uncle now, eh?" There was a note of simulated regret in Bindle's voice.

"Oh, Uncle Joe!" she cried, releasing Charlie Dixon's arm to clasp with both hands that of Bindle. "Oh, Uncle Joe!" There was entreaty in her look and distress in her voice. "You don't think that, do you, reeeeeally!"

Bindle's reassurances were interrupted by the arrival of the train. Millie became very silent, as if awed by the unaccustomed splendour of travelling in a first-class compartment with a first-class ticket. She had with her the two heroes of her Valhalla and, woman-like, she was content to worship in silence. As Bindle and Charlie Dixon discussed the war, she glanced from one to the other, then with a slight contraction of her eyes, she sighed her happiness.

To Millie Hearty the world that evening had become transformed into a place of roses and of honey. If life held a thorn, she was not conscious of it. For her there was no yesterday, and there would be no to-morrow.

"My! ain't we a little mouse!" cried Bindle as they passed down the moving-stairway at Earl's Court.

"Oh, Uncle Joe, I'm so happy!" she cried, giving his arm that affectionate squeeze with both her hands that never failed to thrill him. "Please go on talking to Charlie; I love to hear you – and think."

"Now I wonder wot she's thinkin' about?" Bindle muttered. "Right-o, Millikins!" he said aloud. "You got two young men to-night, an' you needn't be afraid of 'em scrappin'."

As they entered the Universal Café, with its brilliant lights and gaily chattering groups of diners Millie caught her breath. To her it seemed a Nirvana. Brought up in the narrow circle of Mr. Hearty's theological limitations, she saw in the long dining-room a gilded-palace of sin against which Mr. Hearty pronounced his anathemas. As they stood waiting for a vacant table, she gazed about her eagerly. How wonderful it would be to eat whilst a band was playing – and playing such music! It made her want to dance.

Many glances of admiration were cast at the young girl who, with flushed cheeks and parted lips, was drinking in a scene which, to them, was as familiar as their own finger-nails.

When at last a table was obtained, due to the zeal of a susceptible young superintendent, and she heard Charlie Dixon order the three-and-sixpenny dinner for all, she seemed to have reached the pinnacle of wonder; but when Charlie Dixon demanded the wine-list and ordered a bottle of "Number 68," the pinnacle broke into a thousand scintillating flashes of light.

She was ignorant of the fact that Charlie was as blissfully unaware as she of what "Number 68" was, and that he was praying fervently that it would prove to be something drinkable. Some wines were abominably sour.

"I've ordered the dinner; I suppose that'll do," he remarked with a man-of-the-world air.

Millie smiled her acquiescence. Bindle, not to be outdone in savoir-faire, picked up the menu and regarded it with wrinkled brow.

"Well, Charlie," he remarked at length, "it's beyond me. I s'pose it's all right; but it might be the German for cat an' dog for all I know. I 'opes," he added anxiously, "there ain't none o' them long white sticks with green tops, wot's always tryin' to kiss their tails. Them things does me."

"Asparagus," cried Millie, proud of her knowledge, "I love it."

"I ain't nothink against it," said Bindle, recalling his experience at Oxford, "if they didn't expect you to suck it like a sugar stick. You wants a mouth as big as a dustbin, if you're a-goin' to catch the end."

When the wine arrived Charlie Dixon breathed a sigh of relief, as he recognised in its foam and amber an old friend with which he had become acquainted in France.

"Oh! what is it?" cried Millie, clasping her hands in excitement.

"Champagne!" said Charlie Dixon.

"Oh, Charlie!" cried Millie, gazing at her lover in proud wonder. "Isn't it – isn't it most awfully expensive?"

Charlie Dixon laughed. Bindle looked at him quizzically.

"Ain't 'e a knockout?" he cried. "Might be a dook a-orderin' champagne as if it was lemonade, or a 'aporth an' a pen'orth."

"But ought I to drink it, Uncle Joe?" questioned Millie doubtfully, looking at the bubbles rising through the amber liquid.

"If you wants to be temperance you didn't ought to – "

"I don't, Uncle Joe," interrupted Millie eagerly; "but father – "

"That ain't nothink to do with it," replied Bindle. "You're grown up now, Millikins, an' you got to decide things for yourself."

And Millie Hearty drank champagne for the first time.

When coffee arrived, Charlie Dixon, who had been singularly quiet during the meal, exploded his mine. It came about as the result of Bindle's enquiry as to how long his leave would last.

"Ten days," he replied, "and – and I want – " He paused hesitatingly.

"Out with it, young feller," demanded Bindle. "Wot is it that you wants?"

"I want Millie to marry me before I go back." The words came out with a rush.

Millie looked at Charlie Dixon, wide-eyed with astonishment; then, as she realised what it really was he asked, the blood flamed to her cheeks and she cast down her eyes.

"Oh! but I couldn't, Charlie. Father wouldn't let me, and – and – "

Bindle looked at Charlie Dixon.

"Millie, you will, won't you, dear?" said Charlie Dixon. "I've got to go back in ten days, and – and – "

"Oh, Charlie, I – I – " began Millie, then her voice broke.

"Look 'ere, you kids," broke in Bindle. "It ain't no good you two settin' a-stutterin' there like a couple of machine-guns; you know right enough that you both want to get married, that you was made for each other, that you been lying awake o' nights wonderin' when you'd 'ave the pluck to tell each other so, and 'ere you are – " He broke off. "Now look 'ere, Millikins, do you want to marry Charlie Dixon?"

Millie's wide-open eyes contracted into a smile.

"Yes, Uncle Joe, please," she answered demurely.

"Now, Charlie, do you want to marry Millikins?" demanded Bindle.

"Rather," responded Charlie Dixon with alacrity.

"Then wot d'you want to make all this bloomin' fuss about?" demanded Bindle.

"But – but it's so little time," protested Millie, blushing.

"So much the better," said Bindle practically. "You can't change your minds. You see, Millikins, if you wait too long, Charlie may meet someone 'e likes better, or you may see a cove wot takes your fancy more."

The lovers exchanged glances and meaning smiles.

"Oh, yes! I understand all about that," said Bindle knowingly. "You're very clever, ain't you, you two kids? You know everythink there is to be known about weddin's, an' lovin' and all the rest of it. Now look 'ere, Millikins, are you goin' to send this 'ere boy back to France un'appy?"

"Oh, Uncle Joe!" quavered Millie.

"Well, you say you want to marry 'im, and 'e wants to marry you. If you don't marry 'im before 'e goes back to the front, 'e'll be un'appy, won't you, Charlie?"

"It will be rotten," said Charlie Dixon with conviction.

"There you are, Millikins. 'Ow's 'e goin' to beat the Kayser if 'e's miserable? Now it's up against you to beat the Kayser by marryin' Charlie Dixon. Are you goin' to do it, or are you not?"

They both laughed. Bindle was irresistible to them.

"It's a question of patriotism. If you can't buy War Bonds, marry Charlie Dixon, and do the ole Kayser in."

"But father, Uncle Joe?" protested Millie. "What will he say?"

"'Earty," responded Bindle with conviction, "will say about all the most unpleasant and uncomfortable things wot any man can think of; but you leave 'im to me."

There was a grim note in his voice, which caused Charlie Dixon to look at him curiously.

"I ain't been your daddy's brother-in-law for nineteen years without knowing 'ow to manage 'im, Millikins," Bindle continued. "Now you be a good gal and go 'ome and ask 'im if you can marry Charlie Dixon at once."

"Oh! but I can't, Uncle Joe," Millie protested; "I simply can't. Father can be – " She broke off.

"Very well then," remarked Bindle resignedly, "the Germans'll beat us."

Millie smiled in spite of herself.

"I'll – I'll try, Uncle Joe," she conceded.

"Now look 'ere, Millikins, you goes 'ome to-night and you says to that 'appy-'earted ole dad o' yours 'Father, I'm goin' to marry Charlie Dixon next Toosday,' or whatever day you fix. 'E'll say you ain't goin' to do no such thing." Millie nodded her head in agreement. "Well," continued Bindle, "wot you'll say is, 'I won't marry no one else, an' I'm goin' to marry Charlie Dixon.' Then you jest nips round to Fenton Street an' leaves the rest to me. If you two kids ain't married on the day wot you fix on, then I'll eat my 'at, – yes, the one I'm wearin' an' the concertina-'at I got at 'ome; eat 'em both I will!"

Millie and Charlie Dixon looked at Bindle admiringly.

"You are wonderful, Uncle Joe!" she said. Then turning to Charlie Dixon she asked, "What should we have done, Charlie, if we hadn't had Uncle Joe?"

Charlie Dixon shook his head. The question was beyond him.

"We shall never be able to thank you, Uncle Joe," said Millie.

"You'll thank me by bein' jest as 'appy as you know 'ow; and if ever you wants to scrap, you'll kiss and make it up. Ain't that right, Charlie?"

Charlie Dixon nodded his head violently. He was too busily occupied gazing into Millie's eyes to pay much attention to the question asked him.

"Oh, you are a darling, Uncle Joe!" said Millie. Then with a sigh she added, "I wish I could give every girl an Uncle Joe."

"Well, now we must be orf, 'ere's the band a-goin' 'ome, and they'll be puttin' the lights out soon," said Bindle, as Charlie Dixon called for his bill.

As they said good night at Earl's Court Station, Charlie Dixon going on to Hammersmith, Millie whispered to him, "It's been such a wonderful evening, Charlie dear;" then rather dreamily she added, "The most wonderful evening I've ever known. Good-bye, darling; I'll write to-morrow."

"And you will, Millie?" enquired Charlie Dixon eagerly.

She turned away towards the incoming Putney train, then looking over her shoulder nodded her head shyly, and ran forward to join Bindle, who was standing at the entrance of a first-class carriage.

As she entered the carriage Bindle stepped back to Charlie Dixon.

"You jest make all your plans, young feller," he said. "Let me know the day an' she'll be there."

Charlie Dixon gripped Bindle's hand. Bindle winced and drew up one leg in obvious pain at the heartiness of the young lover's grasp.

"There are times, young feller, when I wish I was your enemy," he said as he gazed ruefully at his knuckles. "Your friendship 'urts like 'ell."