Adventures of Bindle
Page 3
CHAPTER II
A DOWNING STREET SENSATION
"Me ride eight miles on an 'orse!" exclaimed Bindle, looking up at theforeman in surprise. "An' who's a-comin' to 'old me on?"
Bindle stood in the yard of Messrs. Empsom & Daley, cartagecontractors, regarding a pair of burly cart-horses, ready-harnessed,with the traces thrown over their backs.
The foreman explained in the idiom adopted by foreman that "orders isorders."
"You can ride on top, run beside, or 'ang on be'ind; but you got to beat Merton at twelve o'clock," he said. "We jest 'ad a telephonemessage that a van's stranded this side o' Merton, 'orses broken down,an' you an' Tippitt 'ave got to take these 'ere and deliver the goods.Then take the van where you're told, an' bring back them ruddy 'orses'ere, an' don't you forget it."
Bindle scratched his head through the blue and white cricket cap hehabitually wore. Horses had suddenly assumed for him a newsignificance. With elaborate intentness he examined the particularanimal that had been assigned to him.
"Wot part d'you sit on, ole son?" he enquired of Tippitt, a pale,weedy youth, with a thin dark moustache that curled into the cornersof his mouth. Tippitt's main characteristic was that he always had acigarette either stuck to his lip or behind his ear. Sometimes both.
"On 'is tail," replied Tippitt laconically, his cigarette wagging upand down as he spoke.
"Sit on 'is wot?" cried Bindle, walking round to the stern of hisanimal and examining the tail with great attention. "Sit on 'is wot?"
"On 'is tail," repeated Tippitt without manifesting any interest inthe conversation. "Right back on 'is 'aunches," he added by way ofexplanation; "more comfortable."
"Oh!" said Bindle, relieved, "I see. Pity you can't say wot you mean,Tippy, ain't it? Personally, meself, I'd sooner sit well up, so as Icould put me arms round 'is neck. Hi! Spotty!" he called to anunprepossessing stable-hand. "Bring a ladder."
"A wot?" enquired Spotty dully.
"A ladder," explained Bindle. "I got to mount this 'ere Derby winner."
Spotty strolled leisurely across the yard towards Bindle, and for amoment stood regarding the horse in a detached sort of way.
"I'll give you a leg up, mate," he said accommodatingly.
Bindle looked at the horse suspiciously and, seeing there were noindications of vice, at the same time realising that there was nothingelse to be done, he acquiesced.
"Steady on, ole sport," he counselled Spotty. "Don't you chuck meclean over the other side."
With a dexterous heave, Spotty landed him well upon the animal's back.Bindle calmly proceeded to throw one leg over, sitting astride.
"Not that way," said Tippitt, "both legs on the near side."
"You can ride your nag wot way you like, Tippy," said Bindle; "but asfor me, I likes to 'ave a leg each side. 'Ow the 'ell am I goin' to'old on if I sit like a bloomin' lady. My Gawd!" he exclaimed, passinghis hand along the backbone of the animal, "if I don't 'ave a cushionI shall wear through in two ticks. 'Ere, Spotty, give us a cloth o'some sort, then you can back me as a two-to-one chance."
Tippitt, more accustomed than Bindle to such adventures, vaultedlightly upon his animal, and led the way out of the yard. For somedistance they proceeded at an ambling walk, which Bindle found in noway inconvenient. Just as they had entered the Fulham Road, where itbranches off from the Brompton Road, an urchin gave Bindle's horse aflick on the flank with a stick, sending it into a ponderous trot,amidst the jangle and clatter of harness. Bindle clutched wildly atthe collar.
"'Ere, stop 'im, somebody! 'Old 'im!" he yelled. "I touched the wrongbutton. Whoa, steady, whoa, ole iron!" he shouted. Then turning hishead to one side he called out: "Tippy, Tippy, where the 'ell is thebrake? For Gawd's sake stop 'im before 'e shakes me into a jelly!"
Tippitt's animal jangled up beside that on which Bindle was mounted,and both once more fell back into the ponderous lope at which they hadstarted. With great caution Bindle raised himself into an uprightposition.
"I wonder wot made 'im do a thing like that," he said reproachfully."Bruised me all over 'e 'as. I shan't be able to sit down for a month.'Ere, stop 'im, Tippy. I'm gettin' orf."
Tippitt stretched out his hand and brought both horses to astandstill. Bindle slipped ungracefully over his animal's tail.
"You can 'ave 'im, Tippy, ole sport, I'm goin' to walk," he announced."When I get tired o' walking, I'll get on a bus. I'll meet you atWimbledon Common;" and Tippitt, his cigarette hanging loosely from astill looser lower lip, reached over, caught the animal's bridle and,without comment, continued on his way westward.
"Well, live 'an learn," mumbled Bindle to himself. "I don't care wot ajockey gets; but 'e earns it, every penny. Fancy an 'orse bein' as'ard as that. Catch you up presently, Tippy," he cried. "Mind youdon't fall orf," and Bindle turned into The Drag and Hounds "forsomethink to take the bruises out," as he expressed it to himself.
"Catch me a-ridin' of an 'orse again without an air-cushion," hemuttered as he came out of the public-bar wiping his mouth. He haileda west-bound bus, and, climbing on the top and lighting his pipe,proceeded to enjoy the morning sunshine.
When Tippitt reached the extreme end of Wimbledon Common, Bindle rosefrom the grass by the roadside, where he had been leisurely smokingand enjoying the warmth.
"'Ad quite a pleasant little snooze, Tippy," he yawned, as hestretched his arms behind his head. "Wonder who first thought o'ridin' on an 'orse's back," he yawned. "As for me, I'd jest as soonride on an 'and-saw."
They jogged along in the direction of Merton, Bindle walking besidethe horses, Tippitt silent and apathetic, his cigarette still attachedto his lower lip.
"You ain't wot I should call a chatty cove, Tippy," remarked Bindleconversationally; "but then," he added, "that 'as its points. If youdon't open your mouth, no woman can't say you ever asked 'er to marryyou, can she?"
"Married, mate!" Tippitt vouchsafed the information without expressionor interest.
Bindle stood still and looked at him.
Tippitt unconcernedly continued on his way.
"Well, I'm damned!" remarked Bindle, as he continued after the horses."Well, I'm damned! They'd get you if you was deaf an' dumb an' blind.Pore ole Tippy! no wonder 'e looks like that."
Just outside Merton they came upon a stranded pantechnicon. Drawn upin front of it was a motor-car containing two ladies.
"This the little lot?" enquired Bindle as they pulled up beside thevehicle, which bore the name of John Smith & Company, Merton.
"Are you from Empson & Daleys?" enquired the elder of the two ladies,a sallow-faced, angular woman with pince-nez.
"That's us, mum," responded Bindle.
"I suppose those are the horses," remarked the same lady, indicatingthe animals with an inclination of her head.
"You ain't got much to learn in the way o' guessing, mum," wasBindle's cheery response.
The lady eyed him disapprovingly. Her companion at the wheel smiled.She was younger. Bindle winked at her; but she froze instantly.
"The horses that were in this van were taken ill," said the lady.
"Wot, both together, mum!" exclaimed Bindle.
"Yes," replied the lady, looking at him sharply.
"Must 'ave been twins or conchies,"[1] was Bindle's explanation of thephenomenon. "If one o' Ginger's twins 'as the measles, sure as eggsthe other'll get 'em the next day. That's wot makes Ginger so ratty."
[1] Conscientious objectors to military service.
Bindle walked up to the van and examined it, as if to assure himselfthat it was in no way defective.
"An' where are we to take it, mum?" he enquired.
"To Mr. Llewellyn John, Number 110, Downing Street," was the reply.
Bindle whistled. "'E ain't movin', is 'e, mum?"
"The van contains a presentation of carved-oak dining-room furniture,"she added.
"An' very nice too," was Bindle's comment.
"Outside Downing Street," she continued, "you will be met by a ladywho wi
ll give you the key that opens the doors of the van."
"'Adn't we better take the key now, mum?" Bindle enquired.
"You'll do as you're told, please," was the uncompromising rejoinder.
"Right-o! mum," remarked Bindle cheerily. "Now then, Tippy, let's getthese 'ere 'orses in. Which end d'you begin on?"
Tippitt and Bindle silently busied themselves in harnessing the horsesto the pantechnicon.
"Now you won't make any mistake," said the lady when everything wascompleted. "Number 110, Downing Street, Mr. Llewellyn John."
"There ain't goin' to be no mistakes, mum, you may put your 'and onyour 'eart," Bindle assured her.
"Cawfee money, mum?" enquired Tippitt. "It's 'ot." Tippitt neverwasted words.
"Tippy, Tippy! I'm surprised at you!" Bindle turned upon his colleaguereproachfully. "Only twice 'ave you spoke to-day, an' the secondtime's to beg. I'm sorry, mum," he said, turning to the lady. "Itain't 'is fault. It's jest 'abit."
The lady hesitated for a moment, then taking her purse from her bag,handed Bindle a two-shilling piece.
Tippitt eyed it greedily.
With a final admonition not to forget, the lady drove off.
Bindle looked at the coin, spat on it, and put it in his pocket.
"Funny thing 'ow a woman'll give a couple o' bob, where a man'll makeit 'alf a dollar," he remarked.
"Wot about me?" enquired Tippitt.
"Wot about you, Tippy?" repeated Bindle. "Well, least said soonestmended. You can't 'elp it."
"But I asked 'er," persisted Tippitt.
"Ah! Tippy," remarked Bindle, "it ain't 'im wot asks; but 'im wotgets. 'Owever, you shall 'ave a stone-ginger at the next stoppin'place. Your ole pal ain't goin' back on you, Tippy."
Without a word, Tippitt climbed up into the driver's seat, whilstBindle clambered on to the tail-board, where he proceeded to fill hispipe with the air of a man for whom time has no meaning.
"Good job they ain't all like me," he muttered. "I likes a day in thecountry, now _and_ then; but always! Not me." He struck a match,lighted his pipe and, with a sigh of contentment, composed himself tobucolic meditation.
One of the advantages of the moving-profession in Bindle's eyes wasthat it gave him hours of leisured ease, whilst the goods were intransit. "You can slack it like a Cuthbert," he would say. "All you'as to do is to sit on the tail of a van an' watch the world goby--_some_ life that."
Bindle was awakened from his contemplation of the hedges and the whiteroad that ribboned out before his eyes by a man coming out of a gate.At the sight of the pantechnicon he grinned and, with a jerk of histhumb, indicated the van as if it were the greatest joke in the world.
Bindle grinned back, although not quite understanding the cause of theman's amusement.
"'Ot little lot that, mate," remarked the man, stepping off the kerband walking beside the tailboard.
Bindle looked at him, puzzled at the remark.
"Wot exactly might you be meanin', ole son?" he enquired.
"Oh! come orf of it," said the man. "I won't tell your missis. Like arazzle myself sometimes," and he laughed, obviously amused at thisjoke.
Bindle slipped off the tail-board and joined the man, who had returnedto the pavement.
"You evidently seen a joke wot's caught me on the blind side," heremarked casually.
"A joke," remarked the man; "a whole van-load of jokes, if you was toask me."
"Well, p'raps you're right," remarked Bindle philosophically, "but ifthere's as many as all that, I should 'ave thought there'd 'ave beenenough for two; but as I say, p'raps you're right. These ain't thetimes for givin' anythink away, although," he added meditatively, "I'adn't 'eard of their 'avin' rationed jokes as well as meat and sugar.We shall be 'avin' joke-queues soon," he added. "You seem to be asort of joke-'og, you do." Bindle turned and regarded his companionwith interest.
"You mean to say you don't know wot's inside that there van?" enquiredthe man incredulously.
"Carved-oak dinin'-room furniture, I been told," replied Bindleindifferently.
The man laughed loudly. Then turned to Bindle. "You mean to say youdon't know that van's full o' gals?" he demanded.
"Full o' wot?" exclaimed Bindle, coming to a dead stop. Hisastonishment was too obvious to leave doubt in the man's mind as toits genuineness.
"Gals an' women," he replied. "Saw 'em gettin' in down the road, outof motors. Dressed in white they was, with coloured sashes over theirshoulders. Suffragettes, I should say. They didn't see me though," headded.
Bindle gave vent to a low, prolonged whistle as he resumed his walk.
"'Old me, 'Orace!" he cried happily. "Wot 'ud Mrs. B. say if sheknew." Suddenly he paused again, and slapped his knee.
"Well, I'm damned!" he cried. "A raid, of course."
The man looked anxiously up at the blue of the sky.
"It's all right," said Bindle reassuringly. "My mistake; it was abird."
A few minutes later the man turned off from the main road.
"Hi! Tippy," Bindle hailed, "don't you forget that stone-ginger at thenext dairy."
A muttered reply came from Tippitt. Five minutes later he drew upoutside a public-house on the outskirts of Wimbledon. Bindle took theopportunity of climbing up on the top of the van, where he gained theinformation he required. Every inch of the roof was perforated!
"Air-'oles," he muttered with keen satisfaction; "air-'oles, as I'm amiserable sinner," and he clambered down and entered the public-bar,where he convinced Tippitt that his mate could be trusted with money.
When Bindle had drained to the last drop his second pewter, his mindwas made up.
"Number 110, Downing Street," he muttered. "White dresses an' colouredsashes. That's it. Well, Joe Bindle, you can't save the bloomin'British Empire from destruction; but you can save the Prime Ministerfrom 'avin' 'is afternoon nap spoilt, leastwise you can try.
"I'm a-goin' for a little stroll, Tippy," he remarked, as he walkedtowards the door. "Back in ten minutes. If you gets lonely, orderanother pint an' put it down to me."
"Right-o! mate," replied Tippitt.
Bindle walked along Wimbledon High Street and turned into an oil-shop.
"D'you keep lamp black?" he enquired of the young woman behind thecounter.
"Yes," she replied. "How much do you want, we sell it in packets?"
"Let's 'ave a look at a packet," said Bindle.
When he had examined it, he ordered two more.
"Startin' a minstrel troupe," he confided to the young woman.
"But you want burnt cork," she said practically; "lamp black's greasy.You'll never get it off."
"That's jest why I want it," remarked Bindle with a grin.
The young woman looked at him curiously and, when he had purchased apea-puffer as well, she decided that he was a harmless lunatic; buttook the precaution of testing the half-crown he tendered by ringingit on the counter.
"Shouldn't be surprised if we was to 'ave an 'eavy shower of rain in afew minutes," remarked Bindle loudly a few minutes later, as herejoined Tippitt, who was engaged in watering the horses.
Tippitt looked at Bindle, his cigarette wagging. Then turning his eyesup to the cloudless sky in surprise, he finally reached the sameconclusion as the young woman at the oil-shop.
"Now up you get, Tippy," admonished Bindle, "an' there's another drinkfor you at The Green Lion." Bindle knew his London.
As the pantechnicon rumbled heavily along by the side of WimbledonCommon, Bindle whistled softly to himself the refrain of "The End of aHappy Day."
Whilst Tippitt was enjoying his fourth pint that morning at The GreenLion, Bindle borrowed a large watering-can, which was handed up to himon the roof of the pantechnicon by a surprised barman. Bindle emptiedthe contents of one of the packets of lamp-black into the can, andstarted to stir it vigorously with a piece of twig he had picked upfrom the side of the Common. When the water had reluctantly absorbedthe lamp-black to Bindle's entire satisfaction, he called out loudly:
He clearly heard suppressed exclamations as the water penetratedinside the van. Having emptied the can, he proceeded to drag thetarpaulin over the roof, leaving uncovered only a small portion in thecentre.
The barman of The Green Lion had been watching Bindle withopen-mouthed astonishment.
"What the 'ell are you up to, mate?" he whispered.
Bindle put his forefinger of the right hand to the side of his noseand winked mysteriously. Then going inside The Green Lion he, in a waythat did not outrage the regulations that there should be no"treating," had Tippitt's tankard refilled, and called for another forhimself.
"If you watch the papers," Bindle remarked to the barman, "I shouldn'tbe surprised if you was to see wot I was a-doin' on the top of thatthere van," and again he winked.
The barman looked from Bindle to Tippitt, then touching his foreheadwith a fugitive first finger, and glancing in the direction of Bindle,made it clear that another was prepared to support the diagnosis ofthe young woman at the oil-shop.
Bindle completed the journey on the top of the van, industriouslyoccupied in puffing lamp-black through the holes in the roof. Hismethod was to dip the end of the pea-puffer into the packet, theninsert it in one of the holes and give a sharp puff. This he did halfa dozen times in quick succession. Then he would pause for a fewminutes to allow the lamp-black to settle. He argued that if he puffedit all in at once, it would in all probability choke the occupants.
By the time they turned from the King's Road into Ebury Street,Bindle's task was accomplished--the lamp-black was exhausted.
"Victoria Station," he called out loudly to Tippitt. "Shan't be longnow, mate. Another shower a-comin', better cover up these bloomin''oles," and he drew the tarpaulin over the rest of the roof. "Let 'emstoo a bit now," he muttered to himself. "That'll make 'em 'ot."
He had been conscious of suppressed coughing and sneezing from within,which he detected by placing his ear near the holes in the roof.
Opposite the Houses of Parliament, a lady came up to Bindle and handedhim a key. "This is the key of the pantechnicon," she said loudly."You are not to undo it until you reach Number 110, Downing Street. Doyou understand?"
"Right-o!" remarked Bindle, "I got it."
"Now don't forget!" said the lady, and she disappeared swiftly in thedirection of Victoria Street.
"No, I ain't goin' to forget," murmured Bindle to himself, "an' Ishouldn't be surprised if there was others wot ain't goin' to forgeteither."
He watched the lady who had given him the key well out of sight, thenslipping off the tail-board of the van he walked swiftly alongWhitehall.
A few yards south of Downing Street, an inspector of police wasmeditatively contemplating the flow of traffic north and south.
Bindle went up to him. "Pretend that I'm askin' the way, sir. I'm mostlikely bein' watched. I got a van wot's supposed to contain carved-oakfurniture for Mr. Llewellyn John, 110, Downing Street. I think it'sfull o' suffragettes goin' to raid 'im. You get your men round there,the van'll be up in two ticks. Now point as if you was showing meDowning Street."
The inspector was a man of quick decision and, looking keenly atBindle, decided that he was to be trusted.
"Right!" he said, then extending an official arm, pointed out DowningStreet to Bindle. "Don't hurry," he added.
"Right-o!" said Bindle. "Joseph Bindle's my name. I'm a special,Fulham district."
The inspector nodded, and Bindle turned back to the van. A momentlater the inspector strolled leisurely through the archway leading tothe Foreign Office.
"That's Downing Street on the left," shouted Bindle to Tippitt as hecame up, much to Tippitt's surprise. He was at a loss to account formany things that Bindle had done and said that day.
As they turned into Downing Street, Bindle was a little disappointedat finding only two constables; but he was relieved a a moment laterby the sight of the inspector to whom he had spoken, hurrying throughthe archway, leading from the Foreign Office.
"Where are you going to?" called out the inspector to Tippitt, takingno notice of Bindle.
Tippitt jerked his thumb in the direction of Bindle, who came forwardat that moment.
"Number 110, Downing Street, sir," responded Bindle. "Some furniturefor Mr. Llewellyn John."
"Right!" said the inspector loudly; "but you'll have to wait a fewminutes until that motor-car has gone."
Bindle winked as a sign of his acceptance of the mythical motor-carand, drawing the key of the pantechnicon from his pocket, showed it tothe inspector, who, by closing his eyes and slightly bending his head,indicated that he understood.
Tippitt had decided that everybody was mad this morning. The policeinspector's reference to a motor-car outside Number 110, whereas hiseyes told him that there was nothing there but roadway and dust, hadseriously undermined his respect for the Metropolitan Police Force.However, it was not his business. He was there to drive the horses,who in turn drew a van to a given spot; there his responsibilityended.
After a wait of nearly ten minutes, the inspector re-appeared. "It'sall clear now," he remarked. "Draw up."
As the pantechnicon pulled up in front of Number 110, Bindle glancedup at the house and saw Mr. Llewellyn John looking out of one of thefirst-floor windows. He had evidently been apprised of what was takingplace.
Bindle noticed that the doors of Number 110 and 111 were both ajar. Hewas, however, a little puzzled at the absence of police. The twouniformed constables had been reinforced by three others, and therewere two obviously plain-clothes men loitering about.
"Now then, Tippy, get ready to lend me a 'and with this 'erefurniture," called out Bindle as he proceeded to insert the key in thepadlock that fastened the doors of the van.
Tippitt, who had climbed down, was standing close to the tail-boardfacing the doors.
With a quick movement Bindle released the padlock from the hasp and,lifting the bar, stepped aside with an agility that was astonishing.
"Votes for Women! Votes for Women!! Votes for Women!!!"
Suddenly the placid quiet of Downing Street was shattered. The doorsof the pantechnicon were burst open and thrown back upon their hinges,where they shivered as if trembling with fear. From the interior ofthe van poured such a stream of humanity as Downing Street had neverbefore seen.
Following Bindle's lead the inspector had taken the precaution ofstepping aside; but Tippitt, unconscious that the van containedanything more aggressive than carved-oak furniture, was in the directline of exit. At the moment the doors flew open he was in the act ofremoving his coat and, with his arms entangled in its sleeves, satdown with a suddenness that caused his teeth to rattle and hiscigarette to fall from his lower lip.
Synchronising with the opening of the doors of the pantechnicon was ashort, sharp blast of a police whistle. The effect was magical. Menseemed to pour into Downing Street from everywhere: from the archwayleading to the Foreign Office, up the steps from Green Park, fromWhitehall and out of Numbers 110 and 111. Plain-clothes and uniformedpolice seemed to spring up from everywhere; but no one took any noticeof the fall of Tippitt. All eyes were fixed upon the human avalanchethat was pouring from the inside of the pantechnicon. For once in itsexistence the Metropolitan Police Force was rendered helpless withastonishment. Women they had expected, women they were prepared for;but the extraordinary flood of femininity that cascaded out of the vanabsolutely staggered them.
There were short women and tall women, stout women and thin women,young women and--well, women not so young. The one thing they had incommon was lamp-black. It was smeared upon their faces, streaked upontheir garments; it had circled their eyes, marked the lines of theirmouths, had collected round their nostrils. The heat inside thepantechnicon had produced the necessary moisture upon the fair facesand with this the lamp-black had formed an unholy a
lliance. Hats wereawry, hair was dishevelled, frocks were limp and bedraggled.
The cries of "Votes for Women" that had heralded the triumphantoutburst from the van froze upon their lips as the demonstratorscaught sight of one another. Each gazed at the others in muteastonishment, whilst Tippitt, from his seat in the middle of theroadway, stared, wondering in a stupid way whether what he saw was theheat, or the five pints of ale he had consumed at Bindle's expenseduring the morning.
The inspector looked at Bindle curiously, and Bindle looked at theinspector with self-satisfaction, whilst the constables discoveredthat their unhappy anticipation of a rough and tumble with women, athing they disliked, had been turned into a most delectable comedy.
At the first-floor window Mr. Llewellyn John watched the scene withkeen enjoyment.
For a full minute the women stood gazing from one to the other in adazed fashion. Finally one with stouter heart than the rest shouted"Votes for Women! This is a woman's war!"
But there was no answering cry from the ranks. Slowly it dawned uponeach and every woman that in all probability she was looking just asridiculous as those she saw about her. One girl produced a smalllooking-glass from a hand-bag. She gave one glance into it, andincontinently went into hysterics, flopping down where she stood.
The public, conscious that great events were happening in DowningStreet, poured into the narrow thoroughfare, and the laughter deniedthe official police by virtue of discipline was heard on every hand.
"Christy Minstrels, ain't they?" enquired one youth of another withponderous humour.
It was at the moment that one of them had raised a despairing cry of"Votes for Women," and had received no support.
"Votes for Women!" remarked one man shrewdly. "Soap for Women! is whatthey want."
"Fancy comin' out like that, even in wartime," commented another.
"'Ow'd they get like that?" enquired a third.
"Oh, you never know them suffragettes," remarked a fourth sagely;"they're always out for doing something different from what's beendone before."
"Well, they done it this time," commented a little man with greywhiskers. "Enough to make Gawd 'Imself ashamed of us, them women is.Bah!" and he spat contemptuously.
The inspector felt that the time for action had arrived. Walking up tothe unhappy group of twenty, he remarked in his most official tone:
"You cannot stand about here, you must be moving on."
"Moving on; but where?" They looked into each other's eyes mutely.Suddenly an idea seemed to strike them and they turned instinctivelyto re-enter the van; but Bindle had anticipated this manoeuvre, andhad carefully closed, barred and padlocked the doors.
The inspector nodded approval. He had formed a very high opinion ofBindle's powers, although greatly puzzled by the whole business. At asignal from their superior, a number of uniformed constables formed upbehind the forlorn band of females, several of whom were in tears.
"Move along there, please," they chorused, dexterously splitting upthe group into smaller groups, and, finally, into ones and twos. Thusthey were herded towards Whitehall.
"Will you call some cabs, please," said she who was obviously theleader. The inspector shook his head, whereat the woman smacked theface of the nearest constable, obviously with the intention of beingarrested. Again the inspector shook his head. He had made up his mindthat there should be no arrests that day. Nemesis had taken a hand inthe game, and the inspector recognized in her one who is more powerfulthan the Metropolitan Police Force.
Slowly amidst the jeers of the crowd the twenty women were shepherdedinto Whitehall.
"Oh, please get me a taxi," appealed a little blonde woman with a hardmouth and what looked like a dark black moustache. "I cannot go aboutlike this."
Suddenly one of their number was taken with shrieking hysterics. Shesat down suddenly, giving vent to shriek after shriek, and beating atattoo with the heels of her shoes upon the roadway; but no one tookany notice of her and soon she rose and followed the others.
In Whitehall frantic appeals were made to drivers of taxicabs andconductorettes of omnibuses. None would accept such fares.
"It 'ud take a month to clean my bloomin' cab after you'd been in it,"shouted one man derisively. "What jer want to get yourself in such adirty mess for?"
"Go 'ome and wash the baby," shouted another.
Nowhere did the Black and White Raiders find sympathy or assistance.Two of the leaders of the Suffragette Movement, who happened to bepassing down Whitehall, were attracted by the crowd. On learning whathad happened, and seeing the plight of the demonstrators, theycontinued on their way.
"This is war-time," one of them remarked to the other, "and they'redisobeying the rules of the Association." With this they were left totheir fate.
Some made for the Tube, others for the District Railway, whilst twosought out a tea-shop and demanded washing facilities; but wererefused. The railway-stations were their one source of hope. For thenext three hours passengers travelling to Wimbledon were astonished tosee entering the train forlorn and dishevelled women, whose faces wererendered hideous by smears of black, and whose white frocks, limp andcrumpled, looked as if they had been used to clean machinery.
"A pleasant little afternoon's treat for you, sir," remarked Bindle tothe inspector, when the last of the raiders had disappeared. "Mr. Johnseemed to enjoy it." Bindle indicated the first-floor window of Number110, with a jerk of his thumb.
"Was that your doing?" enquired the inspector.
"Well," replied Bindle, "it was an' it wasn't," and he explained howit had all come about.
"And what am I goin' to do with this 'ere van?" he queried.
"Better run it round to 'the Yard,' then you can take home thehorses," replied the inspector.
"Right-o!" said Bindle.
"By the way," added the inspector, "I'm coming round myself. I shouldlike you to see Chief-Inspector Gunny."
Bindle nodded cheerily. "'Ullo, Tippy!" he cried, "knocked you down,didn't they?"
Tippitt grinned, he had thoroughly enjoyed the entertainment and boreno malice.
"That's why you got the watering-can, mate?" he remarked.
Bindle surveyed him with mock admiration.
"Now ain't you clever," he remarked. "Fancy you a-seein' that. Thereain't no spots on you, Tippy;" whereat Tippitt grinned again modestly.
That afternoon Bindle was introduced to the Famous Chief-InspectorGunny of Scotland Yard, who, for years previously, had been thehead of the department dealing with the suffragist demonstrations.He was a genial, large-hearted man, who had earned the respect,almost the liking of those whose official enemy he was. When heheard Bindle's story, he roared with laughter, and insisted thatBindle should himself tell about the Black and White Raiders to theDeputy-Commissioner and the Chief Constable. It was nearly fouro'clock when Bindle left Scotland Yard, smoking a big cigar withwhich the Deputy-Commissioner had presented him.
Chief-Inspector Gunny's last words had been, "Well, Bindle, you'vedone us a great service. If at any time I can help you, let me know."
"Now I wonder wot 'e meant by that," murmured Bindle to himself. "Doesit mean that I can 'ave a little flutter at bigamy, or that I canbreak 'Earty's bloomin' 'ead and not get pinched for it. Still," heremarked cheerfully, "it's been an 'appy day, a very 'appy day," andhe turned in at The Feathers and ordered "somethink to wet this 'erecigar."