age, it was he who had led the assault on
the police, it was he who had said things that had been the common
talk of all the public-house bars for miles round.

After Mr. MacFie's eloquent sermon upon the Gadarene swine, Lady
Knob-Kerrick had eventually come round, and a peace had been patched
up between them. From that day it required more courage to whisper the
words "Temperance Fete" in Barton Bridge, than to charge across "No
Man's Land" in France.

And so it was that the Rev. Andrew MacFie transferred his activities
from Barton Bridge to Fulham. He was grateful to Providence for this
sign of beneficent approval of his labours, and relieved to know that
Barton Bridge would in the future be but a memory. There he had made
history, for in the bars of The Two-Faced Earl and The Blue Fox the
unbeliever drinks with gusto and a wink of superior knowledge a
beverage known as a "lemon-and-a-mac," a compound of lemonade and gin,
which owes its origin to the part played in the historic temperance
fete by the Rev. Andrew MacFie.

One evening, shortly after the departure of Charlie Dixon, Mrs. Bindle
was busily engaged in laying the table for supper. Mrs. Bindle's
kitchen was a model of what a kitchen should be. Everything was clean,
orderly, neat. The utensils over the mantelpiece shone like miniature
moons, the oil-cloth was spotless, the dresser scrubbed to a whiteness
almost incredible in London, the saucepans almost as clean outside as
in, the rug before the stove neatly pinned down at the corners. It was
obviously the kitchen of a woman to whom cleanliness and order were
fetiches. As Bindle had once remarked, "There's only one spot in my
missis' kitchen, and that's when I'm there."

As she proceeded with her work she hummed her favourite hymn; it rose
and fell, sometimes dying away altogether. She banged the various
articles on the table as if to emphasise her thoughts. Her task
completed, she went to the sink. As she was washing her hands there
was a knock at the kitchen door. Taking no notice she proceeded to dry
her hands. The knock was repeated.

"Oh, don't stand there playing the fool, Bindle!" she snapped. "I
haven't time to----"

The door opened slowly and admitted the tall, lanky form of the Rev.
Andrew MacFie.

"It's me, Mrs. Beendle," he said, as he entered the room. "The outer
door was open, so I joost cam in."

"Oh! I'm sorry, sir," said Mrs. Bindle, "I thought it was Bindle."

Her whole manner und