"I hope," said Mrs. Harland, when the Masters Bindon had withdrawn, "I do hope, Andrew, that there is nothing wrong."

"Pooh!" replied her husband. But when he was alone he rubbed his chin and murmured _sotto voce_, "It strikes me that there's not much difference between J. Bindon and 'Jolly Jack.'"

He thought that there might be even less than he had imagined when one day, before the term was half-way through, he received a cablegram from New York:

"Son coming _Batavia_, Forgot to write. Draw Rodenheim. BINDON."

The son came. He proved to be John G. William. He, too, had just turned twelve. He did not seem pleased to see his brothers. Nor, to tell the truth, did they appear overjoyed at sight of him. He was a lad with a round bullet-shaped head, and was extraordinarily broad across the shoulders. He had not been twenty-four hours in the house before he had fought and thrashed the three other Masters Bindon. It was not surprising, when it was seen how he had damaged them, that his relatives, knowing his tastes and his capacity, had not welcomed him with open arms.

At tea Mrs. Harland, who had observant eyes, noticed that John F.

Ernest was minus one of his front teeth. She inquired how he had lost it.

"John G. William, ma'am, has knocked it out."

"John G. William! Do you mean your brother who arrived to-day?"

John F. Ernest explained that he did.

Mrs. Harland, looking down the table, observed another Master Bindon whose eye looked queer. "How, my boy, did you manage to get that black eye?"

"John G. William," replied the black-haired--and black-eyed--youth.

"John G. William!" The lady, still allowing her glances to wander, lighted on a third Master Bindon, whose face was so dreadfully disfigured that it really made recognition difficult. "Good gracious!"

she exclaimed. "What has happened to the child?"

This Master Bindon was the red-haired youth. He looked at the lady as well as the damaged state of his "optics" would permit. He uttered the ubiquitous name, "John G. William." Then he added, "He's been fighting us. And, d----n him! he always is."

John G. William volunteered a statement on his own account.

"I told father I should lick 'em. He said he shouldn't be surprised but what they wanted it, and so I might."

It seemed curious for a father to give his son permission to "lick"

his brothers, whom he was travelling 4000 miles to meet. Such conduct on the part of a father was scarcely in accordance with the traditions of Mulberry House. But the behaviour of the Masters Bindon one towards the other, not only now and then but as an invariable rule, was in itself a curiosity.

"Those Bindons," Mr. Harland told himself, some short time after the arrival of the latest comer, "are certainly the most remarkable boys I ever remember to have met, especially John G. William."

But Mr. Harland had not become acquainted with all the peculiarities of the Bindon family yet.

One morning, perhaps six weeks after the advent of John G. William, Mr. Harland, coming in to breakfast, noticed, seated at table with his pupils, a boy who was to him a stranger. On that occasion Mr. Harland happened to be a couple of minutes late. The meal had been begun before he entered the room. As he came in, seated at the other side of the table, facing him, placidly eating his bread and b.u.t.ter, was this boy. He was a very thin boy, with high projecting cheek-bones and light hair, cut very close. He wore a pair of spectacles, or rather, they would have been a pair if one of the gla.s.ses had not happened to be broken. Altogether there was something about him which suggested that he had quite recently been engaged in a discussion of an animated character.

"Hollo!" cried Mr. Harland. "Who are you?"

"I am John P. Arthur Bindon."

His accent was nasal, undoubtedly the product of the land of the stars and stripes.

"Who?" repeated Mr. Harland, seeming a little puzzled.

"John P. Arthur Bindon." The boy took off his spectacles. "John G.

William's broken one of my gla.s.ses. He's been licking me."

Mr. Harland looked about him, plainly at a loss. Mr. Moore, the usher, took his glance as containing an inquiry.

"I found him with the rest of the pupils in the playground."

"Oh," repeated Mr. Harland, "you found him with the rest of the pupils in the playground."

"I rather reckoned to find the others here," drawled the short-sighted youth, as, very carefully, he replaced the broken spectacles upon his nose. "We didn't agree. I guess they're on the road."

"Is this"--Mr. Harland addressed his question to one of the other Masters Bindon--"is this your brother?"

"I disown him," answered Rufus, on whom the princ.i.p.al's glance happened to fall. "I disown 'em all."

"He is my brother," struck in the shrill piping treble of John F.

Ernest, "though he is the meanest-minded boy that ever put on shoes."

"I am not ashamed to admit," remarked John P. Arthur, still adjusting his broken spectacles, "that I appreciate the value of money. I have walked from Liverpool to save the charges."

"You have walked from Liverpool?"

"I understand it is a distance in the neighbourhood of one hundred and fifty miles. I have worn out a pair of boots. Still, I reckon I have saved better than half a dollar, net."

Mr. Harland took John P. Arthur up into his study. There the young gentleman explained.

"There was another row, so father decided to ship off three more of us. I rather think he must have forgotten to write, owing to the pressure of his business."

"Does your father keep an orphanage?"

John P. Arthur stared. "I never heard of it."

"Did you say he had shipped off three more of you? May I ask, then, where are the other two?"

"I left them at Liverpool. We didn't agree. I should calculate they're gone upon the burst. We each had twenty-five dollars and our fares."

John P. Arthur slapped the inner pocket of his coat. "I've still got my twenty-five, besides half a dollar saved out of my fare."

"May I ask the names of your two missing brothers?"

"One is John A. Francis, and the other--I forget the other's name."

It was Mr. Harland's turn to stare.

"You forget your brother's name?"

"There are such a lot of them that one gets mixed."

"I quite concede that there do appear to be a lot of them, and that one may get mixed, but still--your brother's name! May I ask the ages of the young gentlemen whom you presume have gone upon the burst?

About your own?"