Читать книгу The Bindles on the Rocks - Jenkins Herbert George - Страница 5

Table of Contents

I

"'Ullo, 'Earty," cried Bindle cheerily as he entered the parlour of Mr. Hearty's Putney shop, followed by Mrs. Hearty, wheezing laboriously, "goin' to open a pawnshop?"

The table at which Mr. Hearty sat was littered with white and pink tickets, and he himself was laboriously addressing envelopes with a spluttering pen.

"It's the prohibition meeting," gasped Mrs. Hearty, who suffered from a reluctant heart and constricted breathing, as she collapsed into an arm-chair.

"The wot?" demanded Bindle, walking over to the table, picking up a pink ticket and reading it with elaborate care.

"It's a prohibition meeting," said Mr. Hearty, looking up a little apprehensively. He had hoped that Bindle would not call that evening; but his heart had been charged with misgiving. If ever he desired that his brother-in-law should not call, it inevitably happened that Bindle chose that particular occasion on which to present himself.

"Well, I'm blowed if this ain't It!" Bindle looked reproachfully down at Mr. Hearty. "An' wot's goin' to 'appen to the British Empire without beer?" he demanded.

"I'm afraid--" began Mr. Hearty nervously, then paused.

"He's late for chapel," wheezed Mrs. Hearty.

"'Earty, 'Earty, you really didn't ought to get yourself mixed up in these 'ere sort o' stunts. You'll get them whiskers o' yours pulled out one o' these days, sure as sure. You ain't no scrapper," and Bindle looked down at Mr. Hearty reproachfully. "Any'ow I'll give an 'and," he cried genially, as he put his hat down on the table. "Wot's to be done?"

"If you'll put pink tickets in those envelopes," said Mr. Hearty with a sigh of relief as he indicated a pile of addressed envelopes in front of him. "Tuck in the flaps and they'll go for a halfpenny. Thank you, Joseph," he added as an afterthought.

"Right-o!" cried Bindle cheerfully.

For some time they worked in silence, Mr. Hearty addressing envelopes, Bindle inserting tickets and tucking in the flaps.

"Wot jer want to do the workin' man out of 'is beer for, 'Earty?" Bindle presently enquired conversationally.

"He'll--he'll be happier without it," said Mr. Hearty, seizing the blotting-paper to remedy a blob of ink.

"I shouldn't 'ave thought it," was Bindle's comment. "Wot's 'e goin' to drink instead?"

"There's tea and coffee and lemonade--" began Mr. Hearty, then he paused and glanced furtively at Bindle.

"I 'adn't thought of them," was the dry retort.

"They're better than beer."

"Can you see a cove tryin' to pick up a road on lemonade, 'im wot's been used to beer?" demanded Bindle.

"America's gone 'dry'," said Mr. Hearty, as if in self-defence. "There's no drink there."

"So they says," was Bindle's comment.

"But it's in the papers," persisted Mr. Hearty, pausing in his envelope-addressing. "There's an 'ell of a lot in the papers, 'Earty, wot 'ud take some provin'. Still you go on, don't mind me, an' if you gets yer 'ead broken, as you certainly will if ole Ginger gets to 'ear of it, well, don't say I didn't warn you. Now for stamps."

"I'll get them, Joseph," said Mr. Hearty, rising with alacrity, thankful of an excuse for breaking off the conversation.

Whilst he was out of the room, Bindle slipped into his pocket a number of both pink and white tickets. In this he had no very definite object in view; but, like the boy scouts, his motto was "Be prepared."

"You'll be late for chapel, Alf," wheezed Mrs. Hearty, as Mr. Hearty re-entered the room. He glanced apprehensively at the clock.

"I'll stick on the stamps, 'Earty," said Bindle good-naturedly, "an' post 'em if you like," he added. "I ain't a prayer-'og like you."

"Thank you, Joseph, thank you," said Mr. Hearty gratefully. "I don't want to be late to-night," he added. "You're sure you don't mind?" he enquired as he paused, his hand upon the door-knob.

"Not if you don't tell Ginger," was the cheery reply.

For the next quarter of an hour Bindle stuck on stamps, at the same time keeping Mrs. Hearty gasping and wheezing. Mrs. Hearty always laughed at Bindle, whether what he said were funny or not.

"Well, so long, Martha," he cried at length as he picked up his hat. "Don't you get goin' to no lemonade meetings. You stick to stout--on the quiet."

The next morning many earnest residents of Fulham and the surrounding district were puzzled to account for an intimation, brought to them by the postman, to the effect that John Blink dispensed at The Yellow Ostrich only the best beer, wines, and spirits, and furthermore that he was fully licensed to sell tobacco and cigars. They marvelled the more because their temperance tendencies were not unknown in the neighbourhood. However, they did not give the matter a second thought, knowing full well that the presence of the Evil One was manifested in many and devious ways.

II

On the Monday night following Mr. Hearty's activities in connection with the Pussyfoot Meeting to be held in Fulham two events were taking place in different parts of London that were to exercise some influence upon the course of that assembly.

At St. Timothy's Hospital, known to the initiated as "Tim's," among the students of which Bindle had many friends and admirers, a special meeting of the Amateur Dramatic Society was being held under the presidency of Dick Little, a one-time student at Tim's. He was explaining how essential it was that the younger generation should learn of the evils that ensued from alcoholism, and offered to any who would care to go a ticket for the great prohibitionist meeting to be held in Fulham a week hence.

At the self-same hour Bindle was standing in the public-bar of The Yellow Ostrich, situated off the Fulham Road, endeavouring to explain to his friends, Ginger, Huggles, and Wilkes, the meaning of the term "pussyfoot" and what it implied.

"The only time I ever see pore ole Ging 'urt in 'is private feelings," he remarked to Mr. Blink, the landlord, a florid little man with a bald, shiny head, side-whiskers, and a manner that could cow a drunk, no matter what his fighting weight, "was when milk went up to ninepence a quart. Ain't that so, Ging?" he queried.

Ginger murmured something about "blinkin' cat-lap."

"An' wot's goin' to 'appen to 'im when we all go 'dry'?" Bindle enquired of Mr. Blink.

"Go dry!" repeated Ginger, looking up from a contemplation of a buff spittoon in the corner, a gleam of interest manifesting itself from a desert of spots and freckles. "Who's goin' dry?"

"When the Pussyfoots come over 'ere, Ging, you got to drink stone ginger."

Ginger growled something indicative of decorated incredulity.

"You come along o' me on Monday to the meetin'," said Bindle, "an' you'll 'ear all about it. Ginger looked from Bindle to Mr. Blink, then on to Huggles and Wilkes. Huggles grinned vacuously, and Wilkes nodded. He was in the midst of an elaborate fugue of coughs. Wilkes was always coughing; with him it had developed into something between a habit and a hobby. Ginger spat towards the buff spittoon and missed by inches.

"I ain't goin' wivout beer," he said fiercely. "Ruddy muck," he added somewhat inconsistently.

"Well, if them Pussyfoots gets their way, Ging, you'll be on milk-an'-soda before you knows it."

"I'll break 'is blinkin' jaw," announced Ginger, inspired by the sentiments of Caligula. "I'll show 'im."

"It ain't 'im, Ging," explained Bindle, "it's them. Millions of 'em. You can't get a drink in America, an' now they're comin' over 'ere to try an' stop you a-spoilin' that complexion o' yours."

"It's a ruddy lie, Joe Bindle, an' you're a blinkin' liar." Ginger's blood was up. With fists clenched at his sides, he threw out his jaw and leaned towards Bindle. There was menace in his attitude, menace and anger. "'Alf a mo'," said Mr. Blink tactfully. "There ain't nothink to get shirty about. What he says is right; leastwise they go quite dry next year."

"Wot!" Ginger turned upon his new antagonist; Mr. Blink had not a reputation either as a humorist or a liar, and Ginger believed him. At first he seemed stunned, then, picking up his pewter, he slowly drained it, ending by gazing lovingly into its depths.

"'Ave another while you can, Ging," suggested Bindle, and Ginger replaced his pot upon the counter, acquiescence in his eye.

"I'll break their shudderin' jaws," he said, when he had half-emptied his refilled pewter. "Gi'e me one o' them streamin' tickets, gi'e me a ruddy dozen," he added. Ginger meant business.

"Well, so long," cried Bindle, as he turned towards the door, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. "I got to be movin' on." And with a nod to Mr. Blink he passed out of the bar of The Yellow Ostrich.

That evening Bindle visited several public bars where he was known and appreciated, and great was the indignation of those who frequented them at the news that a movement was on foot which seemed to imperil the fountain of their cheer and inspiration.

Men who had never before in their lives attended a meeting angrily demanded "a blinkin' ticket," and to all these requests Bindle readily responded until the supply of pieces of pink and white pasteboard was exhausted. "Well, well," he murmured as he put his key into the latch of his house in Fenton Street, "it ought to be a pleasant evenin'--for the Pussyfoots."

III

The doorkeepers were puzzled. Those who presented tickets of admission for the meeting in "support of a memorial to Parliament in favour of prohibiting the sale of intoxicants throughout His Majesty's Dominions," were to a large extent such as are not usually associated with that particular kind of assembly.

The stewards had conferred among themselves; but had decided that when tickets were produced, admission could not very well be refused: still their hearts misgave them. They were men of peace, and from some of the expressions they had overheard, they were by no means sure that the bulk of the audience was animated by the same sentiment.

The front seats, it is true, were occupied by men whose soft hats and low collars were reassuring. They were suggestive of a stout adherence to the principles of right and dryness. At the back of the hall, however, there was obviously an element of rowdiness and potential objection.

Ginger had arrived early with an entourage that filled the stewards with doubt. One of them, a little gimlet-faced man with a large blue rosette pinned to the lapel of his coat, had come forward to examine their tickets; but Ginger's look had been so uncompromisingly aggressive that he had stepped hurriedly aside, and Ginger and his friends had taken their seats.

Bindle, who had been there "almost as soon as the gas," as he put it, had taken up a position where he had a good view of the platform without himself being too obvious. With him was Dick Little.

"Well, I'm blowed," he exclaimed, as he gazed at the fast filling platform.

"What's up, J.B.?" enquired Dick Little. "There's my ole pal Gupperduck, 'im wot used to be our lodger; yes, an' there's 'is two pals with 'im--that cove wot looks like a goat, that's one of 'em. It was 'im wot shinned up a tree on Putney 'Ill when they dipped pore ole Guppy in the pond. Rare cove for trees 'e is. 'Ullo, there's 'Earty," as Mr. Hearty appeared, looking very nervous and self-conscious.

"I wouldn't have known 'em," he said, lowering his voice to a whisper as he looked towards the soft-hatted, earnest young men in the front seats. "It's a rare ole camelfiage."

"Tim's always does the thing in style," said Dick Little.

Eight o'clock, the hour at which the proceedings were advertised to commence, passed, and the audience began to show signs of restiveness. From the back benches there was clapping and shuffling of feet, and cries of "Get a move on" and "Now we shan't be long." It was a quarter past eight, however, before the chairman, a big, flabby man with an ample watch-chain and a pathetically nervous manner, made his appearance.

A feeble clapping broke out among the elect upon the platform. The chairman looked about him uncertainly, then poured out a glass of water, slopping it upon the table in his nervousness. As he rose he was greeted with cries of "Profiteer!" and "Hands off the people's food!" As a matter of fact he was a house and estate agent.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, and then paused and coughed. "I er--er, regret to er--announce, inform you, that Mr. Lisah T. Emden has er--not arrived. He--"

"'E was bound to get lorst wiv a name like that," cried a voice. "Wot jer expect?" The chairman's next few remarks were lost in the laugh that followed.

"Mr. Emden, er--er--"

"German spy!" from the hall.

"Will be here--er, presently--immediately."

"We're ready for him."

"He is a most eminent--"

"Pussyfoot."

There were loud cries of "Order," and several blue-rosetted stewards strove to reach the various spots from which the interruptions seemed to come; but legs, alien legs, seemed unaccountably to get in their way.

In the meantime somebody had pulled vigorously at the chairman's coat-tails. He turned, and having listened a moment to a little sandy man with two prominent front teeth that gave him the appearance of a rat, he turned once more to the audience and announced that he had been in error in stating that Mr. Emden had not arrived; that as a matter of fact Mr. Emden was already "fortunately in our midst," an announcement that was greeted with loud cries of "Shame!"

Mr. Lisah T. Emden stepped forward and stood for a moment whilst his audience expressed themselves according to their individual convictions. The faithful applauded loudly; those who were not in sympathy with him expressed their disapproval according to their lights and idiom. Mr. Emden was a spare man, with high cheek-bones, a dry, tightly-drawn yellow skin, a Roman nose, and the general appearance of an Indian brave. His face was perfectly expressionless, his lips grey and hard. With the immobility of a sphinx, Mr. Emden waited. Gradually the uproar died down, curiosity took the place of protest and a silence fell over the assembly.

"Shall we poison the House of God?" Mr. Emden paused dramatically, and with tightly closed lips stood looking straight in front of him. "That," he continued, "is the question we in America have airsked ourselves, and I am vurry glad to be able to tell you here and now that our airnswer has been No! [Cries of 'Shame!'] There are in this country millions of--"['Pussyfoots,' cried a voice. There was a shout of laughter]--"millions of," continued Mr. Emden, "men and women who are daily poisoning their bodies and their souls with alcohol. That is why I left my country, my wife and family ['Lucky beggars!' cried a voice], to make you a visit, and to tell you how we have corraled the drink god in America. "I expect opposition ['And you'll get it'], I expect contumely ['Who's 'e?' enquired a voice], I expect all that is the lot of one who preaches an unpopular gospel. I repeat, I expect enmity, hatred, and uncharitableness; but I bring to the fight a hopeful heart. ['And you'll take home a broken jaw if you're not careful,' cried a voice.] "I come," continued Mr. Emden, "I come to you as a prophet--"

"Propheteer," corrected a voice.

There was another yell of laughter, and it was some minutes before Mr. Emden could obtain a further hearing.

"All my life," he continued, "I have drunk [a voice, 'Whisky'] of the springs, and with it I have quaffed deep of the flagon of happiness. ['You don't look it.'] When I look on this fair land and think what it might be I am filled with hope."

Mr. Emden went on with increasing interruptions to tell the story of how America had fought against the drink traffic, and how she had won a bloodless victory.

As the disorderliness of the meeting became more pronounced, those on the platform showed obvious signs of nervousness. They whispered together, and several glanced over their shoulders towards the door giving egress from the platform. The chairman from time to time wiped his forehead with a blue silk handkerchief, and repeatedly had recourse to the glass of water before him, which was intended for the lecturer.

Finally, Mr. Emden resumed his seat amidst a pandemonium of applause, booing, and catcalls.

The chairman looked about him helplessly, then, as if feeling that something was required of him, rose to his feet. It was fully five minutes before he could make himself heard, when those who were nearest understood him to say that Mr. Emden was prepared to answer any questions addressed to him.

Again pandemonium broke out as the chairman resumed his seat.

"'Ere, I can't stand this," cried Bindle, as he mounted on the chair beside Dick Little; "I got to 'ave a word with ole yellowbeak." At the sight of Bindle standing on his chair the curiosity of the audience gradually overcame their desire for noise, and midst cries of "Order!" and "Silence!" the uproar gradually died down. "I'd like to ask you a few questions, sir," said Bindle when he could make himself heard. Mr. Emden merely turned his face towards Bindle; but made no comment.

"Now suppose a cove likes a kipper for 'is breakfast an' suddenly you tells 'im that kippers ain't good for 'im, an' he's got to 'ave a sponge cake wot always makes 'im sick. Wot's the result?"

"I am afraid I do not follow you, my friend," said Mr. Emden.

"The workin' men of this 'ere country," continued Bindle, "'ave got used to 'avin' beer, an' they likes it, and it don't do 'em no 'arm so long as they don't go an' make giddy beasts of theirselves. Suddenly you comes along, Gawd knows why, and says they mustn't 'ave no more beer, but got to drink lemonade and tea wot makes 'em sick. Wot's the result?"

"You would all be happier," said Mr. Emden, when the cheers that greeted Bindle's reasoning had subsided.

"'Ow do you know wot's goin' to make me 'appy?" demanded Bindle.

"Because you would be doing the right thing."

"But the right thing don't always make you 'appy," persisted Bindle. "Look at my brother-in-law 'Earty, been doin' the right thing for years, 'e 'as, an' 'e looks about as 'appy as a winkle wet feels the pin. And why is it right for you to tell me wot I got to drink?" Again loud shouts of approval ran through the hall. As Mr. Emden did not reply Bindle continued:

"Us workin' chaps 'as been used to beer all our lives: you take it away from us and we'll be that unhappy that we'll start all sorts of strikes and revolutions. Look at Russia. Wot 'appened when you took 'er drink away and made 'er dry? Why, they're cuttin' each other's throats like giddy-o, now."

Again a yell of applause greeted Bindle's reasoning.

"You do not understand, my friend," said Mr. Emden, whilst the party on the platform looked more than ever ill-at-ease.

"I understand this much, ole sport," said Bindle, "that a drop o' beer inside me makes me feel much 'appier than a drink o' lemonade, an' when a man's 'appy 'e don't go lookin' for trouble. You better run 'ome before they spoils that pretty face o' yours."

"Lemme go, I say, I'm goin' to break 'is blinkin' jaw, I tell yer. Wot the blinkin' 'ell does 'e want to come over 'ere with 'is streamin' lemonade? Lemme go, I say."

There was a scuffle at the back of the hall, and presently a man broke away and started lurching up the middle gangway. It was Ginger. His face was flushed with passion, and there was murder in his eyes. The stewards whose duty it was to intercept him stood aside; Ginger was an ugly opponent when his blood was up. Just as he reached the platform a bugle at the back of the hall sounded the two notes that had become so dear to Londoners during the war. It was the "all clear" signal. Instantly the hall was plunged in darkness.

There were shouts and cries, hootings and loud whistlings, whilst from the platform a number of electric torches were to be seen flashing about. There were many cries from the faithful, cries of "Let go of my nose." Someone shouted "Murder!" and there was a general stampede for the platform exit.

"Oh, my Gawd! wot a stink!" cried a voice just as the lights went up upon an empty platform.

There was a stampede towards the doors, just as there had been a stampede from the platform, as foul-smelling fumes spread through the hall. There were cries and oaths as the terrible odour assailed the nostrils of the audience. Pussyfoots and prohibition were forgotten in the wild desire to get away from that pursuing, intolerable stench.

IV

That evening at Dick Little's flat in Chelsea, which he now used only professionally, were gathered a number of sedately dressed men sporting low collars suggestive of restrained tastes and disciplined passions.

"I got two," said one reminiscently.

"I made a mess of mine," said another. "He's got one cheek blue and the other au naturel!"

"I ain't got nothink to say agin a cove drinkin' petrol if it keeps 'im quiet," remarked Bindle, "but 'e didn't ought to try an' make every other cove do wot 'e does."

Loud cries of agreement greeted this remark.

"I ain't a pet canary with a drop o' beer in me; but wot I should be on stone ginger--" Bindle broke off eloquently and buried his face in his pewter.

"That was a brainy idea of yours to clear the hall, Dick," said a black-coated figure with a cigar in one hand and a whisky-and-soda in the other. "There might have been the deuce of a row otherwise."

Whilst Dick Little was entertaining his guests, the occupants of an omnibus passing along the Fulham Road in the direction of Putney were greatly surprised by the entrance of three eminently respectable-looking men with noses of so vivid a tint, two of vermilion and the third of a blue reminiscent of Ricketts. The conductor stared at them open-mouthed.

At the sight of each other their jaws dropped, and their hands rose instinctively to their own noses. The other passengers tittered. One of the new arrivals whispered to his neighbour, whose hand instinctively fondled his nose. Then they both whispered to the third.

As if inspired by a common instinct they rose, one wildly clutched the communication cord, whilst all three tumbled out of the vehicle.

As the 'bus continued on its way, the conductor had a glimpse of three men gathered under a lamp-post vigorously rubbing their noses with white pocket-handkerchiefs.

That night a number of earnest reformers spent hours in a vain endeavour to remove an alien vividness from their noses and other parts of their face. Soda they tried, patent washing powders, soap and hot water, petrol, in short, everything that solicitous wives and anxious families could think of. In some cases the family doctor was called in, all the chemists' being shut; but he had frankly to confess that the artificial colouring could not be removed immediately; but would in all probability wear off in time.

The victims groaned in spirit at the thought of the morrow. They could not face the world with a nose of the hue of a pillar-box, or of a patent washing blue. In self-defence they developed various symptoms that would keep them to the house for some days to come.

Mr. Hearty had walked home, let himself in with his key and gone straight to bed without reference to his appearance in a looking-glass. Mrs. Hearty was already fast asleep. Consequently he did not make the discovery until putting on his collar on the following morning. Mr. Hearty was always first up.

When the first horror of surprise had passed off, he strove by every means in his power to remove the stain that rendered one side of his nose blue and the other side red. At last with inspiration he thought of the pumice-stone, with the result that when the doctor arrived he announced that unless Mr. Hearty were very careful blood-poisoning might very reasonably ensue. Mr. Hearty accordingly took to his bed as had so many reformers in the neighbourhood of Fulham.

"I'm sorry for 'Earty," remarked Bindle to Mrs. Bindle some days later, "but 'e didn't ought to go shovin' that nose of 'is into wot don't concern 'im, tryin' to rob pore ole Ginger of beer."

"You're not sorry at all; you're glad," snapped Mrs. Bindle. "You'll get run in yet, mark my words. The police have got a clue," she added darkly.