possess knowledge was startling.
Bindle had temporarily relinquished his situation in the Removal
Department of Harridge's Stores in order to become caretaker at Fulham
Square Mansions whilst his intimate, Charlie Hart, had a fortnight's
holiday.

Mrs. Hart had been ill, and the doctor said that change of air and
scene were essential to her recovery. She could not go alone, and if
Mr. Hart went with her and a substitute were obtained, he would in all
probability, as Charlie put it, "pinch my bloomin' job." Bindle he
knew he could trust, and so it came about that for a fortnight Bindle
was to "sleep out."

"Well, you see," Bindle explained, "I couldn't disappoint ole
Charlie----"

"And what about me?" demanded Mrs. Bindle, looking round from a fierce
attack upon the kitchen stove with the poker.

"Well," said Bindle slowly, "you're a disappointed woman as it is,
Mrs. B., so you ain't 'urt."

Mrs. Bindle resumed her attack upon the fire with increased vigour.

"You always was a selfish beast, Bindle," she retorted. "You'll be
sorry when I'm dead."

Any reference by Mrs. Bindle to the remorse that he would suffer after
her death, Bindle always regarded as a sort of "take cover" signal.
Mrs. Bindle was hysterical, and Bindle liked to be well out of the way
before the storm broke. He had heard, but had never had an opportunity
of testing the statement, that without an audience dogs will not fight
and women will never have hysterics.

When, therefore, Mrs. Bindle referred to what Bindle widower would
suffer on account of what Bindle benedict had neglected to do, he
rose, picking up the faded blue-and-white cricket-cap he invariably
wore, and walked towards the door.

"There'll be a lot o' tips, ole Charlie says," he remarked, "an' I'll
buy you somethink. I'll run in every day to see you ain't gone off
with 'Guppy.'"

"You're a dirty-minded beast, Bindle," raged Mrs. Bindle; but her
words beat up against the back door, through which Bindle had
vanished. He had become a master of strategical retreat.

Whistling shrilly, he proceeded along the Fulham Road in the direction
of Fulham Square Mansions. Bindle was in a happy frame of mind. It
would be strange if a fortnight as porter at Fulham Square Mansions
did not produce something in the way of a diversion.

"Cheer-o, uncle!" The remark came from a brazen-faced girl waiting for
a bus.

Bindle frowned as he looked her up and down, from the low-cut
transparent bl