THE CAMOUFLAGING OF MR. GUPPERDUCK

I

"Ah!" cried Bindle as he pushed open one of the swing doors of the public bar of The Yellow Ostrich. "I thought I should find my little sunflower 'ere," and he grasped the hand that Ginger did not extend to him. Demonstration was not Ginger's strong point.

The members of the informal club that used to meet each Friday night at The Scarlet Horse had become very uncertain in their attendance, and the consequent diminution in the consumption of liquor had caused the landlord to withdraw the concession of a private-room.

Bindle had accepted the situation philosophically; but Ruddy Bill had shown temper. In the public bar he had told the landlord what he thought of him, finishing up a really inspired piece of decorated rhetoric with "Yus, it's The Scarlet 'Orse all right; but there's a ruddy donkey behind the bar," and with that he had marched out.

From that date Bindle's leisure moments had been mostly spent in the bar of The Yellow Ostrich. It was here that Ginger, when free from his military duties, would seek Bindle and the two or three congenial spirits that gathered round him. Wilkes would cough, Huggles grin, and Ginger spit vindictive disapproval of everyone and everything, whilst "Ole Joe told the tale."

"There are times," remarked Bindle, when he had taken a long pull at his tankard, "when I feel I could almost thank Gawd for not bein'

religious." He paused to light his pipe.

Ginger murmured something that might have been taken either as an interrogation or a protest.

"I jest been 'avin' a stroll on Putney 'Eath," continued Bindle, settling himself down comfortably in the corner of a bench. "I likes to give the gals a treat now an' then, and who d'you think I saw there?" He paused impressively, Ginger shook his head, Huggles grinned and Wilkes coughed, Wilkes was always coughing.

"Clever lot o' coves you are," said Bindle as he regarded the three.

"Grand talkers, ain't you. Well, well! to get on with the story.

"There was a big crowd, makin' an 'ell of a row, they was, an' there in the middle was a cove talkin' an' wavin' 'is arms like flappers. So up I goes, thinkin' 'e was sellin' somethink to prove that you 'aven't got a liver, an' who should it turn out to be but my lodger, Ole Guppy."

"Wot was 'e doin'?" gasped Wilkes between two paroxysms.

"Well," continued Bindle, "at that particular moment I got up, 'e was talkin' about wot a fine lot o' chaps them 'Uns is, an' wot an awful lot of Aunt Maudies we was. Sort o' 'urt 'is feelin's, it did to know 'e was an Englishman when 'e might 'ave been an 'Un. 'E was jest a-sayin' somethink about Mr. Llewellyn John, when 'e' disappears sudden-like, and then there was a rare ole sc.r.a.p.

"When the police got 'im out, Lord, 'e was a sight! Never thought ten minutes could change a cove so, and that, Ginger, all comes about through being a Christian and talkin' about peace to people wot don't want peace."

"We all want peace." Ginger stuck out his chin aggressively.

"Ginger!" there was reproach in Bindle's voice, "an' you a soldier too, I'm surprised at you!"

"I want this ruddy war to end," growled Ginger. "I don't 'old wiv war," he added as an after-thought.

"Now wot does it matter to you, Ging, whether you're a-carrin' a pack or a piano on your back?"

"Why don't they make peace?" burst out Ginger irrelevantly.

"Oh, Ginger, Ginger! when shall I teach you that the only way to stop a fight is to sit on the other cove's chest: an' we ain't sittin' on Germany's chest yet. Got it?"

"But they're willing to make peace," growled Ginger. "I don't 'old wiv 'angin' back."

"Now you jest listen to me. Why didn't you make peace last week with Pincher n.o.bbs instead o' fightin' 'im?"

"'E's a ruddy tyke, 'e is," snarled Ginger.

"Well," remarked Bindle, "you can call the Germans ruddy tykes.

Pleasant way you got o' puttin' things, 'aven't you, Ging? No; ole son, this 'ere war ain't a-goin' to end till you got the V.C., that's wot we're 'oldin' out for."

"They could make peace if they liked," persisted Ginger.

"You won't get Llewellyn John to give in, Ging," said Bindle confidently. "'E's 'ot stuff, 'e is."

"Yus!" growled Ginger savagely. "All 'e's got to do is to stay at 'ome an' read about wot us chaps are doin' out there."

"Now ain't you a regular ole yellow-'eaded 'Uggins," remarked Bindle with conviction, as he gazed fixedly at Ginger, whose eyes shifted about restlessly. "Why, 'e's always at work, 'e is. Don't even 'ave 'is dinner-hour, 'e don't."

"Wot!" Ginger's incredulity gave expression to his features. "No dinner-hour?"

"No; nor breakfast-time neither," continued Bindle. "There's always a lot o' coves 'angin' round a-wantin' to talk about the war an' wot to do next. When 'e's shavin' Haig'll ring 'im up, 'im a-standin' with the lather on, makin' 'is chin 'itch."

Ginger banged down his pewter on the counter and ordered another.

"Then sometimes, when 'e's gettin' up in the mornin', George Five'll nip round for a jaw, and o' course kings can go anywhere, an' you mustn't keep 'em waitin'. So up 'e goes, an' there's L.J. a-talkin' to 'imself as 'e tries to get into 'is collar, an' George Five a-'elpin'

to find 'is collar-stud when 'e drops it an' it rolls under the chest o' drawers."

Ginger continued to gaze at Bindle with surprise stamped on his freckled face.

"You got a kid's job to 'is, Ging," continued Bindle, warming to his subject. "If Llewellyn John 'ops round the corner for a drink an' to 'ave a look at the papers, they're after 'im in two ticks. Why 'e's 'ad to give up 'is 'ot bath on Sat.u.r.day nights because 'e was always catchin' cold through nippin' out into the 'all to answer the telephone, 'im in only a smile an' 'is whiskers."

Ginger spat, indecision marking the act.

"Works like a blackleg, 'e does, an' all 'e gets is blackguardin'.

No," added Bindle solemnly, "don't you never change jobs with 'im, Ging, it 'ud kill you, it would really."

"I don't 'old wiv war," grumbled Ginger, falling back upon his main line of defence. "Look at the price of beer!" He gazed moodily into the depths of his empty pewter.

"Funny cove you are, Ging," said Bindle pleasantly.

Ginger spat viciously, missing the spittoon by inches.

"There ain't no pleasin' you," continued Bindle, digging into the bowl of his pipe with a match stick. "You ain't willin' to die for your country, an' you don't seem to want to live for the twins."

"Wot's the use o' twins?" demanded Ginger savagely. "Now if they'd been goats----"

"Goats!" queried Bindle.

"Sell the milk," was Ginger's laconic explanation.

"They might 'ave been billy-goats," suggested Bindle.

Ginger swore.

"Well, well!" remarked Bindle, as he rose, "you ain't never goin' to be 'appy in this world, Ging, an' as to the next--who knows! Now I must be orf to tell Mrs. B. wot they been a-doin' to 'er lodger.

S'long!"