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 d.a.m.n 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 pa.s.sionate 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, a.s.sault an' battery?" enquired Bindle curiously.

"Under the Defence of the Realm Act," replied the inspector.

"Doc.u.ments 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 p.a.w.ned 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 Cafe, 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 nave 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.