d her challenge with the air
of one who plays the ace of trumps.

With great deliberation Bindle wiped the last remaining vestige of
gravy from his plate with a piece of bread, which he placed in his
mouth. With a sigh he leaned back in his chair.

"Personally, myself," he remarked calmly, "I'd rather not."

"Rather not what?" snapped Mrs. Bindle.

"Look at 'Earty," was the response.

"You might look at worse men than him," flashed Mrs. Bindle with
rising wrath.

"I might," replied Bindle, "and then again I might not."

"Look how he's got on!" challenged Mrs. Bindle.

After a few moments of silence Bindle remarked more to himself than to
Mrs. Bindle:

"Gawd made me, an' Gawd made 'Earty; but in one of us 'E made a
bloomer. If I'm right, 'Earty's wrong; if 'Earty's right, I'm wrong.
If they 'ave me in 'eaven, they won't want 'Earty; an' if 'Earty gets
in, well, they won't look at me."

Mrs. Bindle proceeded to gather up the plates.

"Thank you for that stoo," said Bindle as he tilted back his chair
contentedly.

"You should thank God, not me," was the ungracious retort.

For a moment Bindle appeared to ponder the remark. "Some'ow," he said
at length, "I don't think I should like to thank Gawd for
stewed-steak-an'-onions," and he drew his pipe from his pocket and
began to charge it.

"Don't start smoking," snapped Mrs. Bindle, rising from the chair and
going over to the stove.

Bindle looked up with interested enquiry on his features.

"There's an apple-pudding," continued Mrs. Bindle.

Bindle pocketed his pipe with a happy expression on his features.
"Lizzie," he said, "'ow could you treat me like this?"

"What's the matter now?" demanded Mrs. Bindle.

"An apple-puddin' a-waitin' to be eaten, an' you lettin' me waste time
a-talkin' about 'Earty's looks. It ain't kind of you, Lizzie, it ain't
really."

Mrs. Bindle's sole response was a series of bangs, as she proceeded to
turn out the apple-pudding.

Bindle ate and ate generously. When he had finished he pushed the
plate from him and once more produced his pipe from his pocket.

"Mrs. B.," he said, "you may be a Christian; but you're a damn fine
cook."

"Don't use such language to me," was the response, uttered a little
less ungraciously than her previous remarks.

"It's all right, Mrs. B., don't you worry, they ain't a-goin' to
charge that there 'damn' up against you. You're too nervous about the
devil, you are," Bindle struck a match and