"Some'ow or other, Ginger, I feel I'm goin' to 'ave quite an 'appy day."

Bindle proceeded to light his pipe with the care of a man to whom tobacco means both mother and wife.

"I don't 'old wiv playin' the fool like you do, Joe," grumbled Ginger. "It only gets you the sack."

Bindle and Ginger were seated comfortably on the tail-board of a pantechnicon bearing the famous name of Harridge's Stores. Ginger had a few days' leave, which he was spending in voluntarily helping his mates with their work.

As they rumbled through Putney High Street, Bindle from time to time winked at a girl, or exchanged some remark with a male passer-by.

For the wounded soldiers taking their morning constitutional he had always a pleasant word.

"'Ullo, matey, 'ow goes it?" he would cry.

"Cheerio!" would come back the reply.

"Look at 'em, Ging, without legs an' arms," Bindle cried, "an' laughin' like 'ell. There ain't much wrong with a country wot can breed that sort o' cove."

From the top of the pantechnicon could be heard Wilkes's persistent cough, whilst Huggles was in charge of the "ribbons."

As they reached the foot of Putney Hill, Bindle slipped off the tail-board, calling to Ginger to do likewise and to Wilkes to come down, "to save the 'orses."

"I don't 'old wiv' walkin' to save 'orses," grumbled Ginger. "I'm tired o' bein' on my feet."

"You ain't so tired o' bein' on your feet," remarked Bindle, "as Gawd is of 'earin' o' the things wot you don't 'old with, Ging. Now, orf you come, ole sport!"

Ginger slowly slid off the tail of the van, and Wilkes clambered down from the roof, and two weary horses were conscious of nearly a quarter of a ton less weight to haul up a tiring hill. Bindle was too popular with his mates for them to refuse him so simple a request as walking up a hill.

On Bindle's head was the inevitable cricket cap of alternate triangles of blue and white, which exposure to all sorts of weather had rendered into two shades of grey. He wore his green baize apron, his nose was as cheery and ruddy and his smile as persistent as ever. At the corners of his mouth were those twitches that he seemed unable to control. To Bindle, existence meant opportunity. As he saw it, each new day might be a day of great happenings, of some supreme joke. To him a joke was the anÆsthetic which enabled him to undergo the operation of life.

Blessed with a wife to whom religion was the be-all and end-all of existence, he had once remarked to her, after an eloquent exhortation on her part to come on the side of the Lord, "Wot should I do in 'eaven, Lizzie? I never 'eard of an angel wot was able to see a joke, and they'd jest 'oof me out. 'Eaven's a funny place, an' I can't be funny in their way. I got to go on as I was made."

"If you was to smile more, Ginger," remarked Bindle presently, "you'd find that life wouldn't 'urt so much. If you can grin you can bear anythink, even Mrs. B., an' she takes a bit o' bearin'."

As the three men trudged up Putney Hill beside the sweating horses, Bindle beamed, Ginger grumbled, and Wilkes coughed. Wilkes was always coughing. Wilkes found expression in his cough. He could cough laughter, scorn, or anger. As he was always coughing, life would otherwise have been intolerable. He was a man of few words, and, as Bindle phrased it, "When Wilkie ain't coughin', 'e's thinkin'; an' as it 'urts 'im to think, 'e coughs."

Ginger was sincere in his endeavour to discover objects he didn't "'old wiv"; marriage, temperance drinks, Mr. Asquith, twins and women were some of the things that Ginger found it impossible to reconcile with the beneficent decrees of Providence.

After a particularly lengthy bout of coughing on the part of Wilkes, Bindle remarked to Ginger, "Wilkie's cough is about the only thing I never 'eard you say you don't 'old wiv, Ginger."

"'E can't 'elp it," was Ginger's reply.

"No more can't women 'elp twins," Bindle responded.

"I don't 'old wiv twins," was Ginger's gloomy reply. He disliked being reminded of the awful moment when he had been informed that he was twice a father in the first year of his marriage.

"It's a good job Gawd don't ask you for advice, Ginger, or 'E'd be up a tree in about two ticks."

Ginger grumbled some sort of reply.

"It's a funny world, Ging," continued Bindle meditatively. "There's you wot ain't 'appy in your 'ome life, an' there's pore ole Wilkie a-coughin' up 'is accounts all day long." After a few moments devoted to puffing contentedly at his pipe, Bindle continued, "Did you ever 'ear, Ginger, 'ow pore ole Wilkie's cough got 'im into trouble?"

Ginger shook his head mechanically.

"Well," said Bindle, "'e was walkin' out with a gal, an' one evenin' 'e coughed rather 'arder than usual, an' she took it to mean that 'e wanted 'er to marry 'im, an' now there's eighteen little Wilkies. Ain't that true, Wilkie?"

Wilkes stopped coughing to gasp "Twelve."

"Well, well, 'alf a dozen more or less don't much matter, Wilkie, old sport. You lined up to your duty, any'ow."

"Look out for The Poplars, 'Uggles," Bindle called out. "Don't go passin' of it, an' comin' all the way back."

There was a grumble from the front of the van. Two minutes later Huggles swung the horses into the entrance of The Poplars, the London house of Lady Knob-Kerrick, and the pantechnicon rumbled its way up the drive.

Bindle pulled vigorously at both the visitors' and the servants' bells.

"You never knows wot you're expected to be in this world," he remarked. "We ain't servants and we ain't exactly visitors, therefore we pulls both bells, which shows that we're somethink between the two."

Ginger grumbled about not "'oldin'" with something or other, and Huggles clambered stiffly down from the driver's seat.

Presently the door was flung open and a powdered footman, "all plush and calves" as Bindle phrased it, looked superciliously down at the group of men standing before him.

"Mornin', Eustace," said Bindle civilly, "we've come."

John regarded Bindle with a blank expression, but made no response.

"Now then, Calves, 'op it!" said Bindle. "We ain't the War Office, we're in an 'urry. We've brought the bedsteads and the beddin' for the soldiers."

"You've made a mistake, my man," was the footman's response. "We've not ordered any beds for soldiers."

"Now look 'ere, don't be uffy, ole sport," said Bindle cheerily, "or who knows but wot you may get yourself damaged. Like one o' them funny-coloured birds in the Zoo, ain't 'e, Ging?" Then he turned once more to the footman. "My friend 'Uggles 'ere"—Bindle jerked his thumb in the direction of Huggles—"won the middle-weight championship before 'is nose ran away with 'im, an' as for me—well, I'm wot they calls 'the White 'Ope.'"

Bindle made a pugilistic movement forward. John started back suddenly. Producing a paper from his pocket, Bindle read, "'Lady Knob-Kerrick, The Poplars, Putney 'Ill, sixteen bedsteads, beddin', etc.' Is this Lady Knob-Kerrick's, ole son?"

"This is her ladyship's residence," replied John.

"Very well," continued Bindle with finality. "We brought 'er sixteen beds, beddin', etcetera,—there's an 'ell of a lot of etcetera, so you'd better look slippy an' go an' find out all about it if you wants to get orf to see your gal to-night."

The footman looked irresolute.

"Wait here a moment," he said, "and I'll ask Mr. Wilton." He half closed the door, which Bindle pushed open and entered, followed by Wilkes, Ginger and Huggles.

A minute later, the butler, Mr. Wilton, approached.

"What is the meaning of this?" he enquired.

"The meanin' of this, Your Royal 'Ighness, is that we've brought sixteen bedsteads, beddin', etcetera,—there's an 'ell of a lot of etcetera, as I told Calves,—for to turn the Ole Bird's drawin'-room into billets for soldiers, as per instructions accordin' to this 'ere;" and he held out the delivery-note to Mr. Wilton.

"There must be some mistake," replied the butler pompously, taking the document.

"There ain't no bloomin' mistake on our part. All you got to do is to let Calves show us where the drawin'-room is an' we'll do the rest. 'Ere's the delivery-note, an' when it's in the delivery-note it's so. That's 'Arridges' way. Ain't the Ole Bird told you nothink about it?" he enquired.

Mr. Wilton took the paper and subjected it to a careful scrutiny. He read all the particulars on the delivery-note, then turning it over, read the conditions under which Harridge's did business. After a careful inspection of Bindle, he returned to a study of the paper in his hand.

"John, ask Mrs. Marlings to step here," he ordered the footman. John disappeared swiftly.

"Oh, I forgot," said Bindle. "Got a note for you, I 'ave;" and he drew a letter from his breast-pocket addressed "Mr. Wilton, c/o Lady Knob-Kerrick, The Poplars, Putney Hill, S.W."

With great deliberation Mr. Wilton opened the envelope and unfolded the quarto sheet of notepaper on which was written "By the instructions of Lady Knob-Kerrick, we are sending herewith goods as per delivery-note. It is her Ladyship's wish that these be installed by our men in her drawing-room, which it is her intention to turn into a dormitory for billeting soldiers. Our men will do all the necessary work."

As Mr. Wilton finished reading the note, Mrs. Marlings sailed into the room. She was a woman of generous build, marvellously encased in black silk, with a heavy gold chain round her neck from which hung a cameo locket.

Mr. Wilton handed her the letter in silence. She ferreted about her person for her glasses, which after some trouble she found. Placing them upon her nose she read the communication slowly and deliberately. Having done so she handed it back to Mr. Wilton.

"Her ladyship hasn't said anythink to me about the matter," she said in an aggrieved tone.

"Nor me either," said Mr. Wilton.

Mrs. Marlings sniffed, as if there was nothing in her mistress not having taken Mr. Wilton into her confidence.

"'Ere, come along, boys!" cried Bindle. "They don't seem to want these 'ere goods. We'd better take 'em back. Keep us 'ere all day at this rate."

This remark seemed to galvanise Mr. Wilton into action.

"You had better do as you have been instructed," he said. This he felt was a master-stroke by which he avoided all responsibility. He could truthfully say that he had not given orders for the bedsteads and bedding to be brought into the house.

From that moment Mr. Wilton's attitude towards the whole business was one of detached superiority, which seemed to say, "Here is a matter about which I have not been consulted. I shall merely await the inevitable catastrophe, which I foresee, and as becomes a man, endeavour to render such assistance as I can in gathering up the pieces."

With great dignity he led the way to the drawing-room on the first floor, followed by Bindle, Ginger and John. Mrs. Marlings disappeared again into the shadows from which she had emerged. Once in the drawing-room, Ginger began to disembarrass himself of his coat, and with incomparable gloom proceeded to roll it up and place it upon the mantelpiece beside the ormolu clock. Mr. Wilton stepped forward quickly.

"Not there, my man," he said.

Ginger looked around with an expression on his face that caused Mr. Wilton instinctively to recoil. It was in reality to Ginger's countenance what to another man would have been a reluctant and fugitive smile. Mr. Wilton, however, interpreted it as a glance of resentment and menace. Seeing his mistake, Bindle stepped immediately into the breach.

"'E's a bit difficult, is Ginger," he said in a loud whisper. "It sort o' 'urts 'im to be called 'my man.' That sensitiveness of 'is 'as made more than one widow. 'E means well, though, does Ginger, 'e jest wants 'andlin' like a wife. P'raps you ain't married yourself, sir."

Mr. Wilton drew himself up, hoping to crush Bindle by the weight of his dignity; but Bindle had turned aside and was proceeding to attend to his duties. Removing his coat he rolled up his shirt-sleeves and walked to the window.

"Better take the stuff in from the top of the van," he remarked. "It'll save Ole Calves from cleanin' the stairs. 'Ere," he called down to Huggles, "back the van up against the window."

Mr. Wilton left the room, indicating to John that he was to stay. Bindle and Ginger then proceeded to pile up the drawing-room furniture in the extreme corner. They wheeled the grand pianoforte across the room, drew from under it the carpet, which was rolled up and placed beneath. Chairs were piled-up on top, Bindle taking great care to place matting beneath in order to save the polish.

At the sound of the van being backed against the house, Bindle went to the window.

"'Ere, wot the 'ell are you doin'?" he cried, looking out. "'Old 'er up, 'old 'er up, you ole 'Uggins! D'you want to go through the bloomin' window? Look wot you done to that tree. That'll do! Steady on, steeeeeeeeady! You didn't ought to 'ave charge o' two goats, 'Uggles, let alone 'orses. 'Ere, come on up!"

Bindle returned to the work of making room for the bedsteads. Suddenly he paused in front of John.

"Yes," he remarked critically, "you look pretty; but I'd love you better if you was a bit more useful. Wot about a drink? I like a slice of lemon in mine; but Ginger'll 'ave a split soda."

Suddenly Huggles' voice was heard from without.

"Hi, Joe!" he cried.

"'Ullo!" responded Bindle, going to the window.

"Where's the ladder?" came Huggles' question.

"Where d'you s'pose it is, 'Uggles? Why, in Wilkie's waistcoat pocket o' course;" and Bindle left it at that.

Just as Huggles' head appeared above the window, Mr. Wilton re-entered.

"I have telephoned to Harridges," he said. "Her ladyship's instructions are quite clear, there seems to be no mistake."

"There ain't no mistake, ole sport," said Bindle confidently. "It's all down in the delivery-note. The Ole Bird 'as sort o' taken a fancy to soldiers, an' wants to 'ave a supply on the premises."

Huggles had climbed in through the window and was being followed by Wilkes. Suddenly Bindle went up to Mr. Wilton and, in a confidential voice said, jerking his thumb in the direction of John:

"If you wants to see somethink wot'll make you 'appy, you jest make Calves whistle or 'um, 'Ginger, You're Barmy,' then you see wot'll 'appen. You'll die o' laughin', you will really."

For a moment Mr. Wilton looked uncomprehendingly from Bindle to Ginger; then, appreciating the familiarity with which he had been addressed by a common workman, he turned and, with great dignity, walked from the room on the balls of his feet. Ginger watched him with gloomy malevolence.

"I don't 'old with ruddy waiters, like 'im," he remarked.

"All right, Ging, never you mind about Dicky Bird, you get on with your work."

Bindle picked up Wilkes's hat—a battered fawn bowler with a mourning band—and placed it upon the head of the late Sir Benjamin Biggs, Lady Knob-Kerrick's father, whose bust stood on an elaborate pedestal near the window.

"'E's on the bust now all right!" grinned Bindle as he regarded his handiwork.

In the space of twenty minutes the room was bare, but for an enormous pile of furniture in one corner. Soon sections of small japanned-bedsteads and bundles of bedding appeared mysteriously at the window, and were hauled in by Bindle and Ginger. After the bedsteads and bedding, there appeared four baths; these were immediately followed by four tin wash-handstands and basins, a long table, two looking-glasses, half a dozen towel-horses, and various other articles necessary to a well-ordered dormitory.

Throughout the proceedings Wilkes's cough could be heard as a sort of accompaniment from without.

"There's one thing, Ging," remarked Bindle, "there ain't much chance o' mislayin' pore ole Wilkie. That cough of 'is is as good as a bell round 'is neck."

At twelve o'clock, work was knocked off. Wilkes entered through the window carrying a frying-pan, and Huggles with a parcel wrapped in newspaper. Ginger and Bindle both went down the ladder, the first-named returning a minute later with a parcel, also wrapped in newspaper.

From his parcel Huggles produced a small piece of steak, which he proceeded to fry at the fire. Ginger in turn unfolded from its manifold wrappings a red-herring. Sticking this on the end of his knife he held it before the bars. Soon the room was flooded with a smell of burning red-herring and frying steak.

When Bindle entered a minute later he sniffed at the air in astonishment.

"Wot the 'ell are you up to?" he cried. "'Ere, Ginger, chuck that thing on the fire. As for you, 'Uggles, you ought to be ashamed o' yourself. Ain't you never been in a drawin'-room before? I'm surprised at 'im an' you, 'Uggles, that I am. Ginger, chuck that thing on the fire," he commanded.

Huggles muttered something about it being his dinner hour.

"I don't 'old wiv wastin' food," began Ginger.

"I don't care wot you 'old with, Ging, you got to chuck that sojer on the fire."

"It's only an 'erring," began Ginger.

"Yes; but it's got the stink of a whale," cried Bindle.

Reluctantly Ginger removed the sizzling morsel from the end of his knife and threw it on the fire, just as Mrs. Marlings entered. She gave a little cry as the pungent smell of Huggles' and Ginger's dinners smote her nostrils.

"Oh!" she cried, starting back, "whathever 'as 'appened? What a dreadful smell! Where can it——"

"It's Ginger forgot 'isself, mum," explained Bindle, with a withering glance in the direction of his subordinate. "'E thought 'e was in an 'Un dug-out. You see, mum, Ginger ain't 'appy in 'is 'ome life."

"But—but—look, it's hon the fire," cried Mrs. Marlings, pointing to Ginger's dinner, at which he was gazing with an expression that was a tragedy of regret.

When excited Mrs. Marlings had some difficulty with her aspirates. "Oh! Mr. Wilton," she cried to the butler, who entered at that moment, and stood regarding the scene as Achilles might have viewed the reverses of the Greeks. "Oh! Mr. Wilton! take hit away, please, hit will poison us."

With his head held well in the air Mr. Wilton beckoned to John, who walked to the fireplace. With a majestic motion of his hand Mr. Wilton indicated to the footman that Ginger's offending dinner was to be removed. Gravely John took up the tongs, deliberately gripping the herring amidships, and turned towards the door, holding it aloft as if it were some sacred symbol.

Ginger's eyes were glued to the blackened shape.

"It ain't every red 'errin' wot 'as a funeral like that," remarked Bindle to Ginger.

Mr. Wilton threw open the door. Suddenly John started back and retreated, the herring still held before him, all smell and blue smoke.

"'Old me, 'Orace!" murmured Bindle, who was in a direct line with the door, "if it ain't the Ole Bird!"

Lady Knob-Kerrick entered, followed by Miss Strint, her companion and echo. Casting one annihilating look at the speechless John, she gazed with amazement at the disorder about her. Miss Strint gave vent to a spasmodic giggle, which Lady Knob-Kerrick did not even notice. Her gaze roved round the room as if she had found herself in unexpected surroundings. Finally her eyes fixed themselves on Mr. Wilton.

"Wilton, what is that John is holding?" Lady Knob-Kerrick prided herself on her self-control.

All eyes were immediately turned upon John, who shivered slightly.

"It is what they call a herring, a red-herring, my lady," responded Wilton. "Poor people eat them, I believe."

"And what is it doing in my drawing-room?" demanded Lady Knob-Kerrick with ominous calm.

"It was smellin', mum," broke in Bindle, "an' we was gettin' Calves to take it out. It's all through Ginger, 'e likes tasty food; but 'e ain't 'appy——"

"Hold your tongue!" said Lady Knob-Kerrick, turning to Bindle and withering him through her lorgnettes.

She turned once more to her major-domo.

"Wilton," she demanded, "what is the meaning of this outrage?"

"It's the billets, my lady."

"The what?"

"The billets, my lady."

"I haven't ordered any billets. What are billets?"

Suddenly her eye caught sight of the bust of the late Sir Benjamin Biggs.

"Who did that?" Rage had triumphed over self-control.

All eyes turned to the marble lineaments of the late Sir Benjamin's features. Never had that worthy knight presented so disreputable an appearance as he did with Huggles' hat stuck upon his head at a rakish angle.

"It must have been one of the workmen, my lady." Mr. Wilton tiptoed over to the bust and removed the offending headgear, placing it on a bundle of bedding.

"One of the workmen!" stormed Lady Knob-Kerrick. "Is everybody mad? What is being done with my drawing-room?"

Bindle stepped forward.

"We come from 'Arridges, mum, with the beds an' things for the soldiers."

"For the what?" demanded her ladyship.

"For the soldiers' billets, mum," explained Bindle. "You're goin' to billet sixteen soldiers 'ere."

"Billet sixteen soldiers!" almost screamed her ladyship, red in the face.

With great deliberation Bindle pulled out the delivery-note from behind his green baize apron, and read solemnly: "'Lady Knob-Kerrick, The Poplars, Putney 'Ill.' That's you, mum, ain't it?"

Lady Knob-Kerrick continued to stare at him stonily.

"'Sixteen bedsteads, bedding, four baths, four washin' stands, etcetera.' There's a rare lot of etceteras, mum. 'Fit up bedsteads in drawin'-room for billetin' soldiers, carefully storin' at one end of room existin' furniture.' There ain't no mistake," said Bindle solemnly. "It's all on this 'ere paper, which was 'anded to me by the foreman this mornin'. There ain't no mistake, mum, really."

"But I tell you there is a mistake," cried Lady Knob-Kerrick angrily. "I have no intention of billeting soldiers in my drawing-room."

"Well, mum," said Bindle, shaking his head as if it were useless to fight against destiny, "it's all down 'ere on this 'ere paper, and if you're Lady Knob-Kerrick"—he referred to the paper again—"of The Poplars, Putney 'Ill, then you want these soldiers, sure as eggs. P'raps you forgotten," he added with illumination.

"Forgotten what?" demanded Lady Knob-Kerrick.

"Forgotten that you want sixteen soldiers, mum."

"Halt!"

A sharp snapping sound from without. Everybody turned to the window. The situation had become intensely dramatic. Bindle walked over, and looked out. Then turning to Lady Knob-Kerrick he said triumphantly:

"'Ere's the sixteen soldiers, mum, so there ain't no mistake."

"The what?" demanded Lady Knob-Kerrick looking about her helplessly.

"The sixteen soldiers with all their kit," said Bindle. "I counted 'em," he added, as if to remove any glimmer of doubt that might still exist in Lady Knob-Kerrick's mind.

"Is everybody mad?" Lady Knob-Kerrick fixed her eyes upon Wilton. Wilton looked towards the door, which opened to admit John, who had seized the occasion of the diversion to slip out with Ginger's dinner.

"The soldiers, my lady," he announced.

There was a tremendous tramping on the stairs, and a moment afterwards fifteen soldiers in the charge of a sergeant streamed in, each bearing his kit-bag, rifle, etc.

The men gazed about them curiously.

The sergeant looked bewildered at so many people being grouped to receive them. After a hasty glance round he saluted Lady Knob-Kerrick, then he removed his cap, the men one by one sheepishly following suit.

"I hope we haven't come too soon, your ladyship?"

Lady Knob-Kerrick continued to stare at him through her lorgnettes. Wilton stepped forward.

"There has been a mistake. Her Ladyship cannot billet soldiers."

The sergeant looked puzzled. He drew a paper from his pocket, and read the address aloud: "'Lady Knob-Kerrick, The Poplars, Putney Hill, will billet sixteen soldiers in her drawing-room, she will also cater for them.'"

"Cater for them!" almost shrieked Lady Knob-Kerrick. "Cater for sixteen soldiers! I haven't ordered sixteen soldiers."

"I'm very sorry," said the sergeant, "but it's—it's——" The man looked at the paper he held in his hand.

"I don't care what you've got there," said Lady Knob-Kerrick rudely. "Strint!"

Lady Knob-Kerrick had suddenly caught sight of Miss Strint.

"Yes, my lady?" responded Miss Strint.

"Did I order sixteen soldiers?" demanded Lady Knob-Kerrick in a tone she always adopted with servants when she wanted confirmation.

"No, my lady, not as far as I know."

Lady Knob-Kerrick turned triumphantly to the sergeant, and stared at him through her lorgnettes.

"You hear?" she demanded.

"Yes, my lady, I hear," said the sergeant, respectful, but puzzled.

"Don't you think, mum, you could let 'em stay," insinuated Bindle, "seein' that all the stuff's 'ere."

"Let them stay!" Lady Knob-Kerrick regarded Bindle in amazement. "Let them stay in my drawing-room!" She pronounced the last four words as if Bindle's remark had outraged her sense of delicacy.

"They wouldn't be doin' no 'arm, mum, if——"

"No harm!" cried Lady Knob-Kerrick, gazing indignantly at Bindle through her lorgnettes. "Soldiers in my drawing-room!"

"If it wasn't for them, mum," said Bindle dryly, "you'd be 'avin' soldiers in your bedroom—'Uns," he added significantly.

Lady Knob-Kerrick hesitated. She was conscious of having been forced upon rather delicate ground, and she prided herself upon her patriotism. Suddenly inspiration seized her. She turned on Bindle fiercely.

"Why are you not in the army?" she demanded, with the air of a cross-examining counsel about to draw from a witness a damning admission.

Bindle scratched his head through his cricket-cap. He was conscious that all eyes were turned upon him.

"Answer me!" commanded Lady Knob-Kerrick triumphantly. "Why are you not in the army?"

Bindle looked up innocently at his antagonist.

"You got 'various' veins in your legs, mum?" He lowered his eyes to Lady Knob-Kerrick's boots.

"How—how dare you!" gasped Lady Knob-Kerrick, aware that the soldiers were broadly grinning, and that every eye in the room had followed the direction of Bindle's gaze.

"Because," continued Bindle quietly, "when you 'ave 'various' veins in your legs you ain't no good for the army. I went on tryin' till they said they'd run me in for wastin' time."

"I seen 'im!"

The remark came from Ginger, who, finding that he had centred upon himself everybody's attention, looked extremly ill-at-ease. Bindle looked across at him in surprise. Impulse with Ginger was rare.

With flaming face and murderous eyes Lady Knob-Kerrick turned to the sergeant.

"You will remove your sixteen soldiers and take them back and say that they were not ordered. As for you," she turned to Bindle, "you had better take all these things back again and tell Harridge's that I shall close my account, and I shall sue them for damages to my drawing-room"; and with that she marched out of the room.

At a word from the sergeant the men trooped out, putting on their caps and grinning broadly. Bindle scratched his head, took out his pipe and proceeded to fill it, signing to his colleagues to get the beds and bedding down to the van.

"Quick march!" The short sharp order from below was followed by a crunch of gravel, and then the men broke out into a song, "Here we are, here we are, here we are again." Bindle went to the window and looked out. As the sound died away in the distance, the question "Are we downhearted?" was heard, followed immediately by the chorused reply:

"Noooooooo!"

"My! ain't them boys jest 'It,'" muttered Bindle as he withdrew his head and proceeded with the work of reloading the van.

Two hours later the van was grinding down Putney Hill with the skid-pan adjusted. Ginger had gone home, Wilkes was on top, and Bindle sat on the tail-board smoking.

"Well, 'e got 'ome all right on the Ole Bird to-day," remarked Bindle contentedly. "My! ain't 'e a knock-out for 'is little joke. Beats me does Mr. Little, an' I takes a bit o' beatin'."