f pessimism.

"Oh! don't ask me," was the phrase with which she warded off any
attempt at conversation. Hers was a soul dedicated to Royal Richard
and silence.

"Cheery little thing," was Bindle's summing up of the gloomy Mrs.
Sedge.

Bindle had not been in charge an hour before Number Seven began to get
troublesome. He was a choleric ex-Indian civil servant.

"Where's that damned fellow Hart?" he roared, thrusting his head into
the porter's lodge.

"'E's gone to the damned seaside," replied Bindle imperturbably, as he
proceeded to light his pipe with elaborate calm. "Taken 'is damned
wife with 'im," he added.

Number Seven gasped.

"And who the devil are you?" he demanded.

"Well," replied Bindle with a grin, "on the 'Alls I'm Little Tich; but
'ere I calls myself Joe Bindle, known as ''Oly Joe.'"

For a moment Number Seven, his customary redness of face transformed
to purple, stood regarding Bindle fiercely.

"Then be damned to you!" he burst out, and turning on his heel, dashed
upstairs.

"I ain't lived with Mrs. B. nineteen years without learnin' 'ow to
'andle explosives," remarked Bindle as he settled down to read an
evening newspaper he had discovered in the letter box.

Bindle soon discovered that the life of a porter at residential flats
is strangely lacking in repose. Everybody seemed either to want
something sent up, or came to complain that their instructions had not
been carried out.

The day passed with amazing rapidity. At eight o'clock Bindle stepped
round to The Ancient Earl for a glass of beer. When he returned at
nine-thirty he found his room in a state of siege.

"Oh, here he is!" said someone. Bindle smiled happily.

"Where the devil have you been?" demanded Number Seven angrily.

Bindle looked at him steadily. Having apparently established Number
Seven's identity to his entire satisfaction, he spoke.

"Now look 'ere, sir, this is the second time to-day I've 'ad to speak
to you about your language. This ain't a peace-meetin'. You speakin'
like that before ladies too. I'm surprised at you, I am really. Now
'op it an' learn some nice words, an' then come back an' beg prettily,
an' p'raps I'll give you a bit o' cake."

"You damned insolent fellow!" thundered Number Seven, "I'll report
you, I'll----"

"Look 'ere," remarked Bindle tranquilly, "if you ain't gone by the
time I've finished lightin' this pipe,"--he struck a match
deliberately,--"I'll 'oof it myself, an' then who'll fe