When, therefore, Mrs. Bindle referred to what Bindle widower would suffer on account of what Bindle benedict had neglected to do, he rose, picking up the faded blue-and-white cricket-cap he invariably wore, and walked towards the door.

"There'll be a lot o' tips, ole Charlie says," he remarked, "an' I'll buy you somethink. I'll run in every day to see you ain't gone off with 'Guppy.'"

"You're a dirty-minded beast, Bindle," raged Mrs. Bindle; but her words beat up against the back door, through which Bindle had vanished. He had become a master of strategical retreat.

Whistling shrilly, he proceeded along the Fulham Road in the direction of Fulham Square Mansions. Bindle was in a happy frame of mind. It would be strange if a fortnight as porter at Fulham Square Mansions did not produce something in the way of a diversion.

"Cheer-o, uncle!" The remark came from a brazen-faced girl waiting for a bus.

Bindle frowned as he looked her up and down, from the low-cut transparent blouse to the short skirt, reaching little below her knees.

"If I _was_ your uncle, young woman," he remarked, "I'd slap you into becomin' decent."

The girl jumped on to a bus that had just drawn up, and with a swirl of skirt and wealth of limb, waved her hand as she climbed the stairs.

"So long, old dear!" she cried.

"Got enough powder on 'er face to whitewash 'er feet," remarked a workman to Bindle as he resumed his walk.

"Women is funny things," responded Bindle. "They never seems to be wearin' so little, but wot they can't leave orf a bit more."

"You're right, mate," replied the man when he had digested the remark.

"If I was the police I'd run 'em in."

"Well," said Bindle philosophically, "there is some wot likes to see all the goods in the window. S'long!" and he turned off the Fulham Road, leaving the workman to pursue his journey puzzling over Bindle's enigmatical utterance.

"'Ullo, Charlie!" greeted Bindle, as he entered the porter's lodge of Fulham Square Mansions. "'Ere I am, come to take care of all the little birds in the nest wot you're a-leavin' behind."

Charlie Hart was a big man with a heavy moustache, a brow whereon the creases of worry had a perpetual abiding-place, and an indeterminate chin. "Charlie ought to wear a beard," was Bindle's verdict.

"Glad you come, Joe. I'll 'ave time to go over things again. Train don't go till four."

During the next few hours Bindle was once more taken over the salient features of the life of a porter at a block of residential flats.

Charlie Hart had no system or order in conveying his instructions, and Bindle saw that he would have to depend upon his own wits to meet such crises as arose.

Mrs. Sedge, Mrs. Hart's mother, would look after those tenants who did not possess servants.

"She's all right when she ain't after 'Royal Richard,'" explained Charlie Hart.

"An' who's Royal Richard?" enquired Bindle with interest.

"Gin!" was Charlie Hart's laconic response.

Charlie enumerated the numbers of the flats, the occupants of which were to be "done for." One thing he particularly emphasised, Number Six was temporarily vacant. The owner was away; but it was let furnished from the following Monday to a Miss Cissie Boye, who was one of those to be "done for." Bindle was particularly cautioned to see that there were no "carryings on," whereat he winked rea.s.suringly.

Mrs. Sedge was a stolid matron, whose outlook on life had reached the dregs of pessimism.

"Oh! don't ask me," was the phrase with which she warded off any attempt at conversation. Hers was a soul dedicated to Royal Richard and silence.

"Cheery little thing," was Bindle's summing up of the gloomy Mrs.

Sedge.

Bindle had not been in charge an hour before Number Seven began to get troublesome. He was a choleric ex-Indian civil servant.

"Where's that d.a.m.ned fellow Hart?" he roared, thrusting his head into the porter's lodge.

"'E's gone to the d.a.m.ned seaside," replied Bindle imperturbably, as he proceeded to light his pipe with elaborate calm. "Taken 'is d.a.m.ned wife with 'im," he added.

Number Seven gasped.

"And who the devil are you?" he demanded.

"Well," replied Bindle with a grin, "on the 'Alls I'm Little Tich; but 'ere I calls myself Joe Bindle, known as "Oly Joe.'"

For a moment Number Seven, his customary redness of face transformed to purple, stood regarding Bindle fiercely.

"Then be d.a.m.ned to you!" he burst out, and turning on his heel, dashed upstairs.

"I ain't lived with Mrs. B. nineteen years without learnin' 'ow to 'andle explosives," remarked Bindle as he settled down to read an evening newspaper he had discovered in the letter box.

Bindle soon discovered that the life of a porter at residential flats is strangely lacking in repose. Everybody seemed either to want something sent up, or came to complain that their instructions had not been carried out.

The day pa.s.sed with amazing rapidity. At eight o'clock Bindle stepped round to The Ancient Earl for a gla.s.s of beer. When he returned at nine-thirty he found his room in a state of siege.

"Oh, here he is!" said someone. Bindle smiled happily.

"Where the devil have you been?" demanded Number Seven angrily.

Bindle looked at him steadily. Having apparently established Number Seven's ident.i.ty to his entire satisfaction, he spoke.

"Now look 'ere, sir, this is the second time to-day I've 'ad to speak to you about your language. This ain't a peace-meetin'. You speakin'

like that before ladies too. I'm surprised at you, I am really. Now 'op it an' learn some nice words, an' then come back an' beg prettily, an' p'raps I'll give you a bit o' cake."

"You d.a.m.ned insolent fellow!" thundered Number Seven, "I'll report you, I'll----"

"Look 'ere," remarked Bindle tranquilly, "if you ain't gone by the time I've finished lightin' this pipe,"--he struck a match deliberately,--"I'll 'oof it myself, an' then who'll fetch up all the coals in the mornin'?"

This master-stroke of strategy turned public opinion dead against Number Seven, who retired amidst a murmur of disapproving voices.

"It's 'ard if I can't go out to see a dyin' wife an' child, without 'im a-comin' usin' 'ot words like that," grumbled Bindle, as he proceeded to investigate the cases of the other tenants and their minions.

Number One was expecting a parcel. Had it arrived?

No, it had not, but Bindle would not rest until it did.

Number Twelve, a tall, melancholy-visaged man, had lost Fluffles.

Where did Bindle think she was?