Part 13

"Poor ole Ginger's 'appier when 'e's miserable," Bindle explained; "but 'e's a rare good sort at 'eart is Ging. 'E once bought a cock canary, wot the man told 'im would sing like a prize bird; but when the yaller comes orf an' there warn't no song, and the bird started a-layin' eggs, it sort o' broke poor ole Ging. up. 'E ain't never been the same man since, 'ave yer, ole sport?"

Ginger muttered something inaudible, the tone of which suggested blood.

"If you could catch that cove you'd be 'oldin' 'im, eh Ging?"

"Blast 'im!" exploded Ginger.

Shortly afterwards Ginger took an ungracious leave. The Night Club saw him no more.

On the Sunday following Bindle arrived early, hilarious with excitement.

"'Old me, 'Orace," he cried joyously, and two of "Tims'" men supported him in the approved manner of the prize-ring, flapping handkerchiefs before his face. Presently Bindle reassumed control of his limbs.

"What's the joke?" enquired Dick Little.

"Joke!" cried Bindle. "Joke! 'Ere 'old me again."

After further ministrations he explained. On the previous day he had met one of Ginger's mates, who had told him that Ginger was undergoing seven days C.B. for fighting in the guardroom.

"An' wot jer think 'e was fighting about?" enquired Bindle, his face crinkled with smiles.

We gave it up.

"Because one of 'is mates says we're goin' to 'ave a republic! The poor chap's in 'orspital now," he added, "a-learnin' to believe in kings, and poor ole Ginger's learnin' that it ain't wise to believe too much in anythink."

"Well, here's to Private Ginger, loyalist," cried Jim Colman, and we drank the toast in a way that brought the General hurrying up from below.

"I seem to been 'avin' quite a lot o' things 'appen last week," remarked Bindle as he unscrewed the stopper of a beer-bottle on the sideboard, and poured the contents into the pewter tankard that Sallie had given him. After a long and refreshing drink he continued tantalisingly--

"Funny 'ow things 'appen to me. Cheer-o! Archie," this to Old Archie who had just entered, his face looking more than ever like a withered apple in which were set a pair of shrewd, but kindly eyes.

"Tellin' the tale, Joe," he remarked. Then turning to the rest of us he added, "Suppose poor old Joe was to forget 'ow to talk. Evenin', m'lord," this with an upward movement of his hand as Windover entered.

"There ain't no fear o' that, Archie my lad," replied Bindle. "I'm as likely to forget 'ow to talk as you are to remember to put the cawfee into the stuff yer sells for more'n it's worth."

"What's been happening?" demanded Blint.

"I see Mr. Angell 'Erald the other day," Bindle remarked. "I was on the tail-board o' the van with ole Wilkes, 'im wot coughs to keep 'im from swallowing flies."

"Did he see you?" enquired Dick Little.

"If 'e didn't see me, there wasn't no excuse for 'im not 'earin' Wilkie's cough. They wouldn't 'ave 'im as a special constable. Rude to 'im they was. Poor ole Wilkie ain't forgot it, 'e's a bit sensitive like, not bein' married."

"Never mind about Wilkes," broke in Tom Little. "Get oh with the story, J.B."

At times Bindle has a tendency to wander into by-paths of reminiscence.

"It was in the Strand," he continued, "an' to make sure of Mr. Angell 'Erald not bein' disappointed I cheero'd 'im. 'E sort o' looked round frightened-like, then 'e disappeared into a teashop like a rabbit in an 'ole. S'pose 'e suddenly remembered 'e was tea-thirsty," and Bindle looked round solemnly.

"Perhaps he didn't hear you," ventured Dick Little.

"When I cheero a cove, an' Wilkie coughs at 'im, well if 'e don't 'ear then 'e ought to be seen to, because it's serious. Why the cop on point mentioned it to me. Said we'd set the motor-busses shyin' if we didn't stop. 'E was quite 'urt about it. Seemed upset-like about poor ole Wilkie's cough. No: 'e 'eard us right enough."

"He may not have recognised you," the Boy ventured, knowing full well that Angell Herald would not be seen exchanging salutations with a man on the tail-board of a pantechnicon.

But Bindle merely closed his left eye and placed the forefinger of his right hand at the side of his nose.

At that moment Angell Herald entered the room. He glanced, a little anxiously I thought, at Bindle who, however, greeted him with unaffected good-humour.

"When you come in, sir," he explained cheerily, "I was jest tellin' 'ow me an' Wilkie ran across 'is Lordship last week. Me an' Wilkie was on the tail-board o' the van; but 'is Lordship come up an'--wot jer think?"

Bindle gazed round the room triumphantly. Angell Herald looked extremely unhappy. Windover, on the contrary, seemed unusually interested. Having centred upon himself the attention of the whole room Bindle proceeded,

"'E took us into a swell place an' stood us a dinner. Lord, 'ow they did look to see us, me an' Wilkie in our aprons, 'is Lordship in 'is red tabs an' a gold rim to 'is cap, an' a red band round it."

Bindle was enjoying himself hugely, especially as he saw that Angell Herald was becoming more and more uncomfortable.

"We 'ad champagne an' oysters, an' soup an'---- Well I thought Wilkie 'ud never stop." He broke off to light his pipe, when it was in full blast he continued.

"Presently a cove in an 'igh collar comes up an' says polite like to 'is lordship--

"'Would you kindly ask that gentleman to 'urry with 'is soup, sir,' meanin' Wilkie, 'there's a gentleman over there wot says 'e can't 'ear the band, an' this is 'is favourite tune.'"

"Mr. Bindle!" cried Sallie, who is very sensitive upon the subject of table manners.

"I'm sorry, miss, but you see poor ole Wilkie never 'ad no mother to teach 'im. Yes," he continued, "we 'ad a rare ole time, me an' Wilkie."

Angell Herald looked from Bindle to Windover. His veneer of self-complacency had been badly punctured.

"By the way, J.B.," said Windover, "I want you to come to lunch with me again on Saturday. You'll come, Little and you, Boy."

It was Bindle's turn to look surprised. That is how he got a real "dinner" with a lord, and Angell Herald had a lesson by which he probably failed to profit. To this day he believes Bindle's story of the mythical lunch. Bindle has never forgiven Angell Herald his "men's stories," and he unites with the Boy in scoring off him whenever possible. Sometimes Dick Little and I have to take a strong line with both delinquents. Fortunately Angell Herald is more often than not oblivious of what is taking place.

Sometimes we have a night devoted to Bindle's views on life. His philosophy is a thing devoid of broideries and frills. It is the essence of his own experience. Once when Dare had been talking upon the subject of ideals, Bindle had remarked:

"Very pretty to talk about, but they ain't much use in the furniture-movin' line. One in the eye is more likely to make a man be'ave than a month's jawin' about wot 'Earty calls 'brotherly love.'"

Bindle's good-nature makes it possible for him to say without offence what another man could not even hint at.

Windover once remarked that Bindle would go through life saying and doing things impossible to any but a prize-fighter.

"An' why a bruiser, sir?" Bindle had enquired.

"Well, few men care to punch the head of a professional boxer," was the retort.

"It ain't wot yer say, sir," Bindle had remarked, obviously pleased at the compliment. "It's wot's be'ind the words. I ain't got time to look for angels in trousers, or saints in skirts. There ain't many of us wot ain't got a tear or an 'ole somewhere, but it ain't 'elpin' things to put it in the papers."

"But," Jim Dare, one of "Tims'" men, broke in wickedly, "without criticism there'd be no progress."

Bindle was on him like a flash.

"If an angel's lost 'is tail feathers," he retorted, "you bet the other angels ain't goin' to make a song about it. If they was the right sort of angels they'd pull their own out, to show that tail-feathers ain't everythink."

We made many attempts to get at Bindle's views upon the Hereafter: but although by nature as open as the day, there are some things about which he is extremely reticent. One evening in answer to a direct challenge he replied,

"Well, I don't rightly know, I ain't been taught things; but I got a sort of idea that Gawd's a sight better man than Joe Bindle, an' that's why I can't stick 'Earty's Gawd. 'E ain't Gawd no more'n I'm the Kayser." Then after a pause he had added, "If Gawd's goin' to be Gawd 'E's got to be a mystery. Why there's some coves wot seem to know more about wot Gawd's goin' to do than wot they've 'ad for dinner."

Dick Little never lost an opportunity of getting Bindle started upon his favourite subject--marriage. One night he announced that his brother Tom had become engaged to be married.

"'E's wot?" interrogated Bindle.

"He's done it, J.B.," Dick Little had replied with a laugh.

Bindle said nothing; but we awaited Tom Little's arrival with no little eagerness. When he entered, Bindle fixed him with a remorseless eye.

"Wot's this I 'ear, sir?" he enquired.

"What's what?" Tom Little enquired, becoming very pink, and casting a furious glance in his brother's direction.

Tom Little's demeanour left no doubt as to his guilt. For some moments Bindle regarded him gravely. Tom Little proceeded to light a cigarette; but he was obviously ill at ease.

"Wot's the use o' me tellin' yer all about women," Bindle demanded, "when, as soon as my back's turned yer goes an' does it. Silly sort of thing to do, I call it."

"Don't be an ass, J.B." Tom Little strove to carry off the affair lightly; but Bindle was Rhadamanthine.

"I told yer not to," he continued, then after a pause, "Course she's got pretty 'air an' eyes, an' made yer feel funny an' all that; but you jest wait. Mrs. B. 'ad all them things, an' look at 'er now. She's about as soft-'earted as a cop is to a cove wot's 'carryin' the banner.'"*

* Walking the streets through the night

"Shut up, J.B.," said Tom Little, looking round as if seeking some loophole of escape.

"Well, sir," said Bindle with an air of resignation, "it's your funeral, but I'm sorry, I 'ope Gawd'll 'elp yer; but I know 'e won't."

Another evening Bindle had opened the proceedings by his customary "Miss an' gentlemen, I got a warnin' to give yer. There's only two things wot a cove 'as got to fight against, one is a wife in 'is bosom, an' the other is various veins in 'is legs. An' now I'll call for the story."

*CHAPTER XV*

*A DRAMATIC ENGAGEMENT*

The Night Club has neither rules nor officials; that is what makes it unique. Bindle, Dick Little and I form a sort of unofficial committee of management. No one questions our rulings, because our rulings are so infrequent as scarcely to be noticeable. One of our great trials, almost our only trial, is the suppression of Angell Herald. He is for ever proposing to introduce intimates of his own, and we are often hard put to it to find excuses for his not being allowed to do so.

One evening he scored heavily against the "committee," by bringing with him a tall man with long hair, a blue chin and an eye that spoke of a thirst with long arrears to be worked off.

His first remark was "Good evening, gentlemen," as if he were entering the commercial room of a hotel. Windover screwed his glass firmly into his left eye. Windover's monocle is always a social barometer--it "places" a man irrevocably. His face never shows the least expression; but it is quite possible to see from his bearing whether or no a new arrival be possible.

"Allow me to introduce my friend, Mr. Leonard Gimp, the actor," said Angell Herald.

"Haaa! Very pleased to meet you, gentlemen, very pleased indeed, Haaa!" came somewhere from Mr. Gimp's middle, via his mouth.

As host Dick Little came forward and shook hands: but it was clear from the look in his eye that he shared our homicidal views with regard to Angell Herald.

"Haaa! and how are you, Mr. Little?" enquired Gimp genially.

Little muttered something inaudible to the rest of us.

"That's right!" said Gimp in hearty but hollow tones. "What wonderful weather we're having," he continued beaming upon the rest of us, as if determined to put us at our ease.

"Wonderful weather," he repeated.

He was a strange creature, with ill-fitting garments and soiled linen. Before he began to speak he said "Haaa!" When he had finished speaking he said "Haaa!" If he had nothing at all to say, which was seldom, he said "Haaa!" His air was confidential and his manner friendly. It was obvious that he strove to model himself on the late Sir Henry Irving. The world held for him only one thing--the Drama; and the Drama only one interpreter--himself.

Gimp sat down and, stretching out his legs, bent over and stroked them from instep to loins, beaming upon us the while.

"May I offer you a cigarette?" he queried, picking up a box from the mantelpiece and proffering to Dick Little one of his own cigarettes.

Gimp seemed to be under the impression that he had come to entertain us and he began to talk. His sentences invariably began with "Haaa! I remember in 1885," or some other date, and we quickly learned that with him dates were a danger signal.

His idea of conversation was a monologue. As we sat listening, we wondered how we should ever stop the flow of eloquence. He plunged into a memory involving a quotation from a drama in which, as far as we could gather, he had made one of the greatest hits the theatrical world had ever witnessed. His enthusiasm brought him to his feet. We sat and smoked and listened, mutely conscious that the situation was beyond us.

Angell Herald was the only man present, besides Gimp himself, who seemed to be satisfied. The rest of us felt that there was only one hope, and that lay in Bindle, who was unaccountably late. Bindle, we felt sure, would be able to rise to the occasion, and he did.

Gimp had reached a most impassioned scene in which the heroine denounces the villain, who is a coiner. Bindle entered the room unobserved by Gimp. For a few moments he stood watching the scene with intense interest. Gimp had reached the climax of the scene in which the heroine says to the villain, "Go! Your heart is as base as the coins you make." He paused, pointing dramatically in the direction of Windover.

"'Ullo! 'Amlet," said Bindle genially from behind.

Gimp span round as if he had been shot, and gazed down at Bindle in indignant surprise.

"Cheero! Where'd you spring from?" continued Bindle.

"Sir?" said Gimp.

"Your wrong," said Bindle, "it's plain Joe Bindle, Sir Joseph later perhaps; but not yet."

Bindle smiled up innocently at Gimp, who gazed round him as if seeking for some explanation of Bindle's presence, then a weak and weary smile fluttered across his features, and he walked over to the side-board and mixed himself a whisky and soda.

We seized the opportunity to break off Gimp's demonstrations of his histrionic powers. We gave him a cigar, and every time he started "Haaa! I remember in 18----" somebody butted in and cut him short.

That evening Bindle was in a wicked mood. He flagrantly encouraged Gimp to talk "shop," "feeding the furnace of his self-conceit," as Dare whispered across me to Sallie.

"I went to the theatre last week," said Bindle with guile, "but I didn't see you there, sir."

"Haaa! no!" said Gimp, "I'm restin'."

"Sort o' worn out," said Bindle sympathetically.

Gimp looked sharply at Bindle, who gazed back with disarming innocence. "Haaa! a nervous breakdown," he replied.

"To judge by his nose, neuritis of the elbow," said Carruthers sotto voce.

"What was the piece you saw, J.B.?" enquired Roger Blint.

"_Frisky Florrie_. Them plays didn't ought to be allowed. Made me 'ot all over, it did." Then turning to Gimp he added, "I'm surprised at you, sir, sayin' there ain't nothink like the drama."

"That is not the Deraaama," cried Gimp. "That's a pollution," his filmy eyes rolled and he jerked his head backwards in what was apparently the dramatic conception of indignation.

"Fancy that, an' me not knowin' it," was Bindle's comment.

"Haaa!" said Gimp.

"Won't you say one o' your pieces for us, sir?" enquired Bindle. "I'd like to 'ear real drama."

Gimp looked blankly at Bindle.

"J.B. means won't you recite," explained Dare in even tones.

Gimp was on his feet instantly, vowing that he was delighted. For a moment he was plunged in deep thought, his chin cupped in his left hand, the elbow supported by the palm of his right hand. It was extremely effective. Suddenly he gave utterance to the inevitable "Haaa!" and we knew that the gods had breathed inspiration upon him.

Straightening himself, he shot his hands still further through his already short coat sleeves, and gazed round. Raising his left hand he cried--

"Haaa! Shakespeare."

Then he broke out into

"Ferends, Rhomans, Cohuntrymen lehend me your eeeeeeears."

Quintilian was thrown overboard: for there was nothing restrained in Leonard Gimp's declamation. His arms waved like flails, his legs, slack at the knee, took strides and then "as you were'd" with bewildering rapidity. It was ju-jitsu, foils and Swedish drill all mixed up together. One moment he was exhorting Windover, the next he was telling Sallie in a voice that throbbed like the engaged signal on the telephone how "gerievously hath Caesar paid for it." The emotion engendered by the munificence of Caesar's will produced a new action, which broke an electric globe and, midst the shattering of glass, the doom of Brutus was sealed.

"That is Shakespeare's Deraaama," he declared, as he resumed his seat and proceeded once more to stroke his legs.

It was clear to all of us that something had to be done, and it was Dick Little who did it.

Jocelyn Dare is a magnificent elocutionist, although he can seldom be prevailed upon to recite. To-night, however, he readily responded to Dick Little's invitation. He selected Henry V's exhortation to the troops before Harfleur. After Gimp's vigorous demonstration, Dare's almost immobile delivery seemed like calm after a storm. He looked a picturesque figure as he stood, from time to time tossing back the flood of black hair that cascaded down his forehead. He has a beautiful voice, deep, resonant, flexible and under perfect control.

Bindle seemed hypnotised. His pipe forgotten he leaned forward eagerly as if fearful of losing a word. Gimp sat with a puzzled look upon his face, impressed in spite of himself.

It was the first time the Night Club had heard Dare, and when he concluded there was a lengthy silence, broken at last by Gimp, whose voice sounded like an anaemic drum after Dare's magnificent tones.

"Haaa! thank you, sir, excellent," he cried patronisingly. "You should go on the stage, haaa!"

"Well that knocks the bottom out of ole Shakespeare any'ow," said Bindle with decision, as he proceeded to light his neglected pipe.

"It is Shakespeare," said Sallie.

Bindle looked at her over the lighted match, then to Dare and on to Gimp. Finally he completed the operation of lighting his pipe.

"Well," he said somewhat enigmatically, "that proves wot they say about there bein' somethink in the man be'ind the gun."

Soon after Gimp took his departure with Angell Herald, leaving us with the consciousness that the evening had not been a success.

"You took it out of ole 'Amlet, sir," said Bindle with keen enjoyment. "That ole phonograph in 'is middle sounds sort o' funny arter 'earin' you. An' didn't 'e throw 'isself about, broke your globe too, sir," this to Dick Little, "an' then never said 'e was sorry."

"He regarded it as the jetsam of art," said Windover.

"P'raps you're right, sir," was Bindle's comment.

That evening resulted in the committee making it generally understood that no one was to be introduced to the Night Club without his name first being submitted to and approved by Bindle, Dick Little and myself.

Some weeks later I happened by chance to run across Gimp in the West End. He thrust himself upon me and clung like a limpet, insisting that I should have what he called "a tonic," which in his case consisted of a continuous stream of glasses of port wine. When we parted some two hours later I had a story, in return for which he had received ten glasses of port wine, for which I paid, and five shillings. The last named he had obtained by a "Dear old boy, lend me a dollar till next Tuesday morning.

"Good-bye, my dear boy, God bless you," he cried with emotion as he pocketed the two half-crowns and left me, turning when he had taken some half-a-dozen steps to cry once more, "God bless you."

He did not inquire my address, and I am sure he did not know my name, so that in all probability he is to this day walking London searching for me to repay that dollar.

The story, however, was worth, not only the dollar but the port wine.

"Fancy Old 'Amlet 'avin' a story like that in 'is tummy," was Bindle's comment.

This was Leonard Gimp's story:

*I*

"But how do you know I can't do it, Mr. Telford, if you won't let me try?" There was something suspiciously like a sob in Elsie Gwyn's voice as she leaned forward across Roger Telford's table. "Please let me try, it means so much to me."

"My dear girl, a part like that requires experience and a knowledge that you could not possibly possess. The whole play turns on that one character. Now don't be disappointed," he continued kindly, "you're doing very well and your time will come. Now you must run away like a good girl, because I've scores of things to do. I shan't forget you and I'll cast you for something later.

Seeing that further argument was useless the girl rose to go.

"Good-bye, Mr. Telford," she said soberly, blinking her eyes more than seemed necessary, "I'm sure you don't mean to be unkind; but really you ought to give me a chance before judging me. It's not quite sporting of you."

Telford placed his hand for a moment on her shoulder. "Now cheer up, little girl," he said, "Your time will come." He opened the door and closed it again after her--Telford's courtesy and kindness were the "joke" of the profession.

Roger Telford returned to the table and for a few minutes sat pondering deeply. He was the most successful theatrical manager in London. Everything he turned his hand to seemed to prosper. Rival managers said he had the devil's own luck; but instinctively they knew that it was the sureness of his judgment that resulted in one success after another being associated with his name.

In the profession he was regarded a "white man." Many laughed at him for being a prude, and he was known among the inner circle as "Mrs. Telford," on account of his attitude towards the girls in his companies. He had been known to knock a man down to teach him how to behave to a "Telford girl." Those who could not get into his companies sneered at him as "a fish in an ice box"; but those who were in his employ knew what a good friend he could be. He was a bachelor and possessed a reputation that not even his worst enemy could sully. Men affected to despise him, and a certain class of theatrical girl looked upon him with contempt; but Roger Telford's was a great name in the theatrical world.

"Little Elsie Gwyn wanted the part of Jenny Burrow in _The Sixth Sense_," he remarked a few minutes later to Tom Bray, his stage manager at the Lyndhurst Theatre.

Bray shook his head. He was a man of few words.

"Exactly what I told her," said Telford; "but where the devil are we going to get anyone? There's Esther Grant, Phyllis Cowan, Lallie Moore; but none of them have got it in 'em. They're just low comedy turns. This thing wants something more than that. It wants dramatic grip, it wants guts, and I'm hanged if I know of a woman who's got 'em."

"There's not much time," was the comment of the stage manager.