rings o' white stuff, there ain't much taste; but it
fills up." Scratcher paused, then added reflectively, "You got to be
careful wi' macaroni, or it'll get down your collar; it's that
slippery."

"I suppose ole Nap ain't wantin' anyone to 'elp mop up all them
things?" enquired Bindle wistfully.

Scratcher looked at Bindle interrogatingly.

"D'you think you could find your ole pal a job at Nap's?" enquired
Bindle.

"You come down to-morrow mornin' about eleven," said Scratcher with
the air of one conferring a great favour. "Three of our chaps was
sacked a-Saturday for fightin'."

"Well, I must be movin'," said Bindle, as he picked up the blue and
white jug with the crimson butterfly. "You'll see me round at Nap's at
eleven to-morrow, Scratcher, as empty as a drum;" and with a "s'long,"
Bindle passed out of The Yellow Ostrich.

"Nice time you've kept me waiting!" snapped Mrs. Bindle, as Bindle
entered the kitchen.

"Sorry!" was Bindle's reply as he hung up his hat behind the
kitchen-door.

"Another time I shan't wait," remarked Mrs. Bindle, as she banged a
vegetable dish on the table.

Bindle became busily engaged upon roast shoulder of mutton, greens and
potatoes.

After some time he remarked, "I been after a job."

"You lorst your job again, then?" cried Mrs. Bindle in accusing tones.
"Somethin' told me you had."

"Well, I ain't," retorted Bindle; "but I 'eard o' somethink better, so
on Monday I'm orf after a job wot'll be better'n 'Earty's 'eaven."

Bindle declined further to satisfy Mrs. Bindle's curiosity.

"You wait an' see, Mrs. B., you jest wait an' see."

II

On the following morning Bindle was duly enrolled as a waiter at
Napolini's. He soon discovered that, whatever the privileges and
perquisites of the fully-experienced waiter, the part of the novice
was one of thorns rather than of roses. He was attached as assistant
to a diminutive Italian, with a fierce upward-brushed moustache.
Bindle had not been three minutes under his direction before he
precipitated a crisis that almost ended in open warfare.

"Wot's your name, ole son?" he enquired. "Mine's Bindle--Joseph
Bindle."

"Giuseppi Antonio Tolmenicino," replied the Italian with astonishing
rapidity.

"Is it really?" remarked Bindle, examining his chief with interest, as
he proceeded deftly to lay a table. "Sounds like a machine-gun, don't
it?" Then after a pause he remarked quite innocently, "Look 'ere, ole
sport, I'll call you