I.

Mr. Harland's first pupil from America made his appearance at Mulberry House School under rather peculiar circumstances. Mr. Harland received one morning this tersely-worded note:--

"219, Twentieth Street, New York.

"Sir,--I have the honour to inform you that I am shipping my son, John F. Ernest, to your academy. He will arrive per s.s. Germanic. I have decided to educate him in England. Please acknowledge enclosed bank draft, value two hundred and fifty dollars ($250), in payment of six months' fees. Any sum in excess, to the amount of one hundred dollars ($100), will be paid, on demand, by my agents, Messrs. RÖdenheim, of London.

"Yours faithfully,

"J. Bindon.

"P.S.--John F. Ernest to stay the holidays."

Mr. Harland received this communication by the morning post, and on the afternoon of the same day there appeared at Mulberry House the John F. Ernest thus alluded to. He was a slender, fair-haired boy, about twelve or thirteen years of age. He was self-possessed enough for thirty. He had come quite alone, he explained to the schoolmaster and the schoolmaster's wife. Apparently he, a tender child just in his teens, thought no more of travelling from America to England than the lady thought of travelling from her own village to the next. It is generally understood that at least the elementary education to be obtained in the United States is not to be despised. When asked why his father had sent him to England to get what he would have got equally well at home:

"I rather guess," replied John F. Ernest, "that my pa, he was raised at Duddenham."

Mulberry House School was situated on the outskirts of the delightful village of Duddenham. Mr. and Mrs. Harland glanced at one another. It almost seemed that it was as they feared. A J. Bindon, otherwise "Jolly Jack," had been known at Duddenham, not wisely, nor in any way pleasantly, but far too well. Although he had removed himself, for the good of Duddenham, some fourteen or fifteen years before, his memory--which had a strong savour--lingered still. However, Mr. and Mrs. Harland allowed no hint to escape them that that J. Bindon might be in any way connected with the father of John F. Ernest.

The term passed away. During the holidays the Harlands went to enjoy the ozone-laden breezes at Bielsham-by-the-Sea. While they were staying there Mr. Harland received a second letter from America, a communication which was, in some respects, a colourable imitation of the first.

"219, Twentieth Street, New York.

"Sir,--I have the honour to inform you that I am shipping my son, John F. Stanley, to your academy. He will arrive per s.s. Aurania. I have decided to educate him in England. Please acknowledge enclosed bank draft for two hundred and fifty dollars ($250) in payment of six months' fees. Any sum in excess, to the amount of one hundred dollars ($100), will be paid, on demand, by my agents, Messrs. RÖdenheim, of London.

"Yours faithfully,

"J. Bindon.

"P.S.--You will also receive, per same ship, my son, John R. Stephen. Enclosed find second draft ($250). For balance, apply Messrs. RÖdenheim."

"Mr. Bindon," observed Mr. Harland when he had finished reading this epistle, "appears to be rather a curious man."

"What is the matter?" inquired his wife. "Is he going to withdraw that son of his?"

"Not exactly. He has 'shipped'--the word is his own--two more. The second, who is 'shipped' in a postscript, is, apparently, a sort of afterthought."

When the lady and gentleman returned to Mulberry House the new-comers had arrived. The three Masters Bindon were interviewed together. One thing about them was noticeable--that they were all about the same age.

"How old are you?" asked the lady, addressing one of the strangers.

"Twelve."

"And you?"

"I'm twelve."

"Then," said the lady, "I suppose you are twins."

They did not look as though they were twins. One was big, and black, and bony; the other was short, and fat, and red. Still, as they both were twelve, and they were brothers--

"Twins?" said the red-haired lad. "I'm no twin. He's not my brother." He turned upon the two other Masters Bindon with scorn in his eyes. "They're neither of them my brothers. I disown them."

"John R. Stephen," remarked John F. Ernest, slipping his hand into that of the black-haired Master Bindon, "is my brother. John F. Stanley has disowned us from the first."

"Yes," said Rufus, "and I'll disown you to the last."

"You wait," observed the black-haired Master Bindon, whose claim to fraternity was thus denied, "till we get outside. I'll rub you down with a rail."

"I hope," said Mrs. Harland, when the Masters Bindon had withdrawn, "I do hope, Andrew, that there is nothing wrong."

"Pooh!" replied her husband. But when he was alone he rubbed his chin and murmured sotto voce, "It strikes me that there's not much difference between J. Bindon and 'Jolly Jack.'"

He thought that there might be even less than he had imagined when one day, before the term was half-way through, he received a cablegram from New York:

"Son coming Batavia, Forgot to write. Draw RÖdenheim. Bindon."

The son came. He proved to be John G. William. He, too, had just turned twelve. He did not seem pleased to see his brothers. Nor, to tell the truth, did they appear overjoyed at sight of him. He was a lad with a round bullet-shaped head, and was extraordinarily broad across the shoulders. He had not been twenty-four hours in the house before he had fought and thrashed the three other Masters Bindon. It was not surprising, when it was seen how he had damaged them, that his relatives, knowing his tastes and his capacity, had not welcomed him with open arms.

At tea Mrs. Harland, who had observant eyes, noticed that John F. Ernest was minus one of his front teeth. She inquired how he had lost it.

"John G. William, ma'am, has knocked it out."

"John G. William! Do you mean your brother who arrived to-day?"

John F. Ernest explained that he did.

Mrs. Harland, looking down the table, observed another Master Bindon whose eye looked queer. "How, my boy, did you manage to get that black eye?"

"John G. William," replied the black-haired--and black-eyed--youth.

"John G. William!" The lady, still allowing her glances to wander, lighted on a third Master Bindon, whose face was so dreadfully disfigured that it really made recognition difficult. "Good gracious!" she exclaimed. "What has happened to the child?"

This Master Bindon was the red-haired youth. He looked at the lady as well as the damaged state of his "optics" would permit. He uttered the ubiquitous name, "John G. William." Then he added, "He's been fighting us. And, d----n him! he always is."

John G. William volunteered a statement on his own account.

"I told father I should lick 'em. He said he shouldn't be surprised but what they wanted it, and so I might."

It seemed curious for a father to give his son permission to "lick" his brothers, whom he was travelling 4000 miles to meet. Such conduct on the part of a father was scarcely in accordance with the traditions of Mulberry House. But the behaviour of the Masters Bindon one towards the other, not only now and then but as an invariable rule, was in itself a curiosity.

"Those Bindons," Mr. Harland told himself, some short time after the arrival of the latest comer, "are certainly the most remarkable boys I ever remember to have met, especially John G. William."

But Mr. Harland had not become acquainted with all the peculiarities of the Bindon family yet.

One morning, perhaps six weeks after the advent of John G. William, Mr. Harland, coming in to breakfast, noticed, seated at table with his pupils, a boy who was to him a stranger. On that occasion Mr. Harland happened to be a couple of minutes late. The meal had been begun before he entered the room. As he came in, seated at the other side of the table, facing him, placidly eating his bread and butter, was this boy. He was a very thin boy, with high projecting cheek-bones and light hair, cut very close. He wore a pair of spectacles, or rather, they would have been a pair if one of the glasses had not happened to be broken. Altogether there was something about him which suggested that he had quite recently been engaged in a discussion of an animated character.

"Hollo!" cried Mr. Harland. "Who are you?"

"I am John P. Arthur Bindon."

His accent was nasal, undoubtedly the product of the land of the stars and stripes.

"Who?" repeated Mr. Harland, seeming a little puzzled.

"John P. Arthur Bindon." The boy took off his spectacles. "John G. William's broken one of my glasses. He's been licking me."

Mr. Harland looked about him, plainly at a loss. Mr. Moore, the usher, took his glance as containing an inquiry.

"I found him with the rest of the pupils in the playground."

"Oh," repeated Mr. Harland, "you found him with the rest of the pupils in the playground."

"I rather reckoned to find the others here," drawled the short-sighted youth, as, very carefully, he replaced the broken spectacles upon his nose. "We didn't agree. I guess they're on the road."

"Is this"--Mr. Harland addressed his question to one of the other Masters Bindon--"is this your brother?"

"I disown him," answered Rufus, on whom the principal's glance happened to fall. "I disown 'em all."

"He is my brother," struck in the shrill piping treble of John F. Ernest, "though he is the meanest-minded boy that ever put on shoes."

"I am not ashamed to admit," remarked John P. Arthur, still adjusting his broken spectacles, "that I appreciate the value of money. I have walked from Liverpool to save the charges."

"You have walked from Liverpool?"

"I understand it is a distance in the neighbourhood of one hundred and fifty miles. I have worn out a pair of boots. Still, I reckon I have saved better than half a dollar, net."

Mr. Harland took John P. Arthur up into his study. There the young gentleman explained.

"There was another row, so father decided to ship off three more of us. I rather think he must have forgotten to write, owing to the pressure of his business."

"Does your father keep an orphanage?"

John P. Arthur stared. "I never heard of it."

"Did you say he had shipped off three more of you? May I ask, then, where are the other two?"

"I left them at Liverpool. We didn't agree. I should calculate they're gone upon the burst. We each had twenty-five dollars and our fares." John P. Arthur slapped the inner pocket of his coat. "I've still got my twenty-five, besides half a dollar saved out of my fare."

"May I ask the names of your two missing brothers?"

"One is John A. Francis, and the other--I forget the other's name."

It was Mr. Harland's turn to stare.

"You forget your brother's name?"

"There are such a lot of them that one gets mixed."

"I quite concede that there do appear to be a lot of them, and that one may get mixed, but still--your brother's name! May I ask the ages of the young gentlemen whom you presume have gone upon the burst? About your own?"

"I should say John A. Francis is younger than me. I fought him three times as we were crossing. I licked each time. He must be younger."

"And the young gentleman whose name you don't happen to remember?"

"He's older. He bangs me easy. Just picks me up and knocks me down. I reckon John G. William will find him pretty tough."

While Mr. Harland had been talking to John P. Arthur he had been paying no attention to his letters. When he turned to them he found that among them there were two which threw some light upon the proceedings of the missing Masters Bindon. Here is the first:

"The Barracks, Liverpool.

"Sir,--At our Holiness Meeting on Tuesday--Alleluia!--there came in a new recruit. He gave his name as Thompson Symes, and said that he was seventeen. He now says that his name is John A. Francis Bindon, and that his age is twelve. He originally stated that he was a pickpocket, and had been nine times in jail. He now says that he has never been in jail, but that he has been sent by his father in America to be a pupil in your school. We shall be obliged if you will inform us if you know anything of a boy named John A. Francis Bindon. We fear that his present statement is as false as the others he has made. Alleluia!--G. Smith, Major."

Here is the second:

"Office Of The Society For The Reclamation Of Juvenile Beggars,

"Liverpool.

"Sir,--A boy who was charged this afternoon at the Liverpool Police Court with the offence of begging tells a somewhat remarkable story. He has been remanded to the workhouse for a week to enable us to inquire into the truth of what he says.

"He is four feet seven inches in height, dark hair, pale face, and he has a deep scar upon his left cheek. Speaks with a decided American accent.

"He states that his name is John B. David Bindon, that he left New York on board the steamship Ocean Star, in company with his two brothers. The names of these two brothers he declares that he forgets, alleging that he has so many brothers that he cannot remember all their names. He says that they were coming from New York to be pupils in your school. On board ship they disagreed, and at Liverpool they parted. He does not know what became of his two brothers. He says that he himself had twenty-five dollars in his pockets in American currency. Part of this he spent upon confectionery and sweets, until he made some acquaintances in the street, who took him to what appears to have been a disreputable house. There they robbed him, not only of his money, but also of his clothes. They kept him, so he states, locked up for three days, only releasing him on his promising to appeal for alms, and on his undertaking to bring back the proceeds of his appeal. No sooner, according to his statement, did he commence to beg than he was given into custody.

"If you know anything, whether for good or ill, of a boy named John B. David Bindon, I should be obliged by your communicating at once with me at these offices. I have had much experience in these cases, and I think myself that the boy's story, strange though it seems, contains at least some portion of truth. Awaiting your early favour,

"I am, Sir, your obedient servant,

"Edward Everest, Secretary."

When Mr. Harland showed these letters to his wife, and told her John P. Arthur's story, the lady was, not unnaturally, surprised.

"Andrew, I am sure there is something wrong about those Bindons! There will be a scandal if you don't take care! I never heard of such a thing! Don't tell me that any man can have seven sons, all of an age! It's incredible on the face of the thing!"

Mr. Harland communicated with Mr. Smith and Mr. Everest. The two missing Masters Bindon appeared at Duddenham. They were given into the charge of the guard at Liverpool; the schoolmaster himself met them at the village station.

"Them boys," observed the guard, as he handed over his charges to the principal of Mulberry House, "them boys is nice ones."

Ten minutes after their appearance in the playground John G. William was having it out with John B. David.

"Andrew," called Mrs. Harland from an upper room, "those Bindons are fighting again."

"I see they are."

As a matter of fact the uproar had attracted her husband to his study window.

"They are an interesting family."

He stood at the window for a second or two observing the fray.

"I fancy that in John B. David John G. William has met his match. It is perhaps as well that he should."

He was aware, from previous experience, that if he interfered in one of the family discussions it would only be renewed at the earliest opportunity. As he was wondering whether it would not be as well to let them fight it out and have done with it, at any rate for the time, a servant entered the room with a letter in her hand. The principal opened it. It was a cablegram:

"Forgot to advise last shipment. Three. Draw RÖdenheim.--Bindon."

"'What sort of a family can that be," inquired the schoolmaster of himself, "which is so large that the father overlooks such a trifling detail as the sending of three of his sons, all of tender years, unescorted, across the Atlantic Ocean? And when, a month after their departure, the incident does occur to his mind, he contents himself with sending nine words--and nine such words--in a telegram. I think I will go up in person to Messrs. RÖdenheim, and make a few inquiries."

He made them, but he received little information in return. Messrs. RÖdenheim received him with courtesy. They informed him that, up to a certain amount, they were instructed to honour his calls; that Mr. Bindon was a client of theirs, financially, of the highest standing. But as to his family affairs: they were simply bankers, and as such Mr. Harland could not suppose that they concerned themselves with the family affairs of their customers.

"One thing seems pretty clear," said Mr. Harland to his wife, when he returned to Mulberry House. "There appears, in the case of the prolific parent of the Bindons, to be plenty of money, and that is more than can be said in the case of the parents of all my boys. I don't see myself, Maria, why I should object to there being seven, or even seventy brothers in a family, especially if the father of the seventy is a good paymaster, and all the seventy come to me."

"Of course there's that to be said."

"There's very much that to be said. The terms in my prospectus are thirty guineas per annum for boys of twelve, a reduction to be made for brothers. I have to make a reduction sometimes when there are no brothers. In this case there are actually seven brothers, and, instead of being called upon to make a reduction--some fathers would want you to take the seven as though they were four!--I receive one hundred pounds a year with each, besides extras."

Mr. Harland smiled as he thought of the sum which he had drawn that day from Messrs. RÖdenheim.

"No doubt that's nice enough."

"I don't know if you're aware that I receive more from those seven Bindons than from all the rest of my pupils put together. Under those circumstances I don't see how it concerns me if their father has a peculiar habit of shipping his offspring as though they were barrels of pork, and then forgetting to 'advise' me, as he calls it, of his 'shipments'!"

"But will it last?"

"Will what last? The Bindons? Are you afraid that John G. William will knock the rest of the family all to pieces? I don't think there is much fear of that now that John B. David has appeared upon the scene. It strikes me from what I have heard and seen that he will perform upon John G. William. I noticed at tea that John G. William's countenance seemed to be a little the worse for wear."

"But suppose tales got about, and the parents of the other boys objected to the presence of the Bindons--they certainly are the most remarkable children, for brothers too, I ever saw--and the other boys were taken away, and then the Bindons went, the school would have lost its character."

Mr. Harland reflected for a moment.

"I think I'll take the risk, Maria. So far as I am myself concerned I only hope that Mr. Bindon may 'ship' another seven."

The wish was father to the thought. Mr. Bindon shipped them. Not a fortnight after that discussion Mr. Harland had this letter:

"219, Twentieth Street, New York.

"Sir,--I am shipping, per s.s. City of Thay, an assorted lot of five sons. My final selection not being yet made I am unable to advise you as to their names. For fees please draw, on their arrival, on Messrs. RÖdenheim.

"Yours faithfully,

"J. Bindon.

"P.S.--Probably the lot may consist of seven."

"Maria," said Mr. Harland, when he handed this epistle to his wife, "Mr. Bindon is a truly remarkable man."

The lady read the letter.

"Andrew, what does he mean? 'An assorted lot of five sons. Probably the lot may consist of seven.' I take my stand, Andrew, and I insist upon an explanation. I will not have this man shooting his children--or what he calls his children--into my house as though they were coals. Seven sons all of an age were hard to swallow, but at fourteen I draw the line."

"You're not a philosopher, Maria. At the rate of a hundred pounds a head I shouldn't draw the line at forty."

"Andrew, don't talk to me like that. Who is this man? And what is the mystery connected with his children? Did I tell you that the other morning I asked John P. Arthur how many brothers he had, and he said that he didn't know, there were always such a lot of fresh ones turning up?"

Mr. Harland rubbed his chin.

"I don't know, Maria, what difference it makes to us whether the boys we receive as pupils are the sons of Brown or Jones. It is not as though we went in for anything special in the way of birth and family. It isn't even as though we confined ourselves to the sons of so-called gentlemen. Mine is a middle-class school. In these days of competition with the Board Schools one cannot choose one's pupils. I always welcome the sons of tradesmen, and I am quite sure I shall be always glad to receive any number of pupils at a hundred pounds a head, no matter who they are."

Probably, on reflection, Mrs. Harland fell into her husband's views. At dinner the principal of Mulberry House School made an announcement which, while it was of an interesting, was, at the same time, of a curious kind. It was when the pudding had been served.

"Boys, you will be glad to hear that I expect to receive, either to-day or to-morrow, five new pupils, and probably seven, but of the seven I am not quite sure. This piece of news should be specially interesting to the Masters Bindon, since the new pupils are their brothers." The headmaster's words were received with silence--possibly the silence of surprise. "I don't think that there is any other school in Europe which can claim to have had under its roof, at one and the same time, twelve brothers, and perhaps fourteen."

Up spake Rufus--John F. Stanley:

"I disown 'em," he observed; "I disown 'em all."

Mr. Harland smiled.

"But it does not follow because you disown them--which I am sorry to hear, because perhaps one of these days they may turn the tables and disown you--that therefore they are not your brothers."

"But they're not my brothers, not one of all the lot of them. I'm the only son."

"Yes," said Mr. Harland with gentle sarcasm, as his eyes, wandering round the table, rested on the other six; "I should say you were the only son."

Two days passed. There were still no signs of the latest "shipment." On previous occasions the Masters Bindon had appeared at Mulberry House within a few hours of the receipt of the "advice."

"I hope," suggested the principal to his wife when, on the evening of the second day, there was still no news, "that this is not another case of 'going on the burst.'"

On the afternoon of the following day Mrs. Harland was working in her own apartment, when the servant came rushing in. There was in the maid's bearing a suggestion of suppressed excitement.

"If you please, ma'am, there are a lot of little girls downstairs."

"A lot of little girls! What do they want?"

"If you please, ma'am, I don't know. I think they're foreigners. They say they've come to school."

The servant giggled. Mrs. Harland rose.

"Come to school! There must be some mistake. Where are they?"

"They're in the hall. And if you please, ma'am, there are three flies full of luggage."

Mrs. Harland went downstairs. A crowd of small girls were grouped together in the hall, varying in ages perhaps from six to fourteen.

The lady addressed herself to the largest.

"What is it you want?"

"We've come to school."

Mrs. Harland smiled.

"But this is a school for young gentlemen. No doubt you are looking for Miss Simpson's, Burlington House Academy. The flyman ought to have known."

"He said Mulberry House. He wrote it down."

The young lady held a piece of paper. She handed it to Mrs. Harland. On it were some words, inscribed in a handwriting which was becoming almost too familiar. At sight of it the lady felt an inward qualm.

"What is your name?"

"Clara Mary Dixon."

Unconsciously the lady gave a sigh of relief. It was not the name which she had dreaded.

"I'm sure there's some mistake."

"There's no mistake." Suddenly the young lady put her handkerchief up to her eyes. Immediately all the other young ladies followed suit. "You're trying to play it off on us. He wrote it down himself, he did. We never thought he was going to ship us off to Europe just 'cause he'd married ma."

The young ladies' voices' were raised in lamentation. The servants stood giggling by. The flymen grinned upon the doorstep. Mrs. Harland deemed it inadvisable to continue the interview in public.

"Come this way." She led the way into the drawing-room. The weeping maidens followed. "Pray don't cry. The mistake, however it may have arisen, will soon be cleared up. Now tell me, where do you come from?"

"New--York--City!"

Mrs. Harland, when she received that answer, was conscious of another inward qualm.

"Who sent you to England?"

"Mr.--Bindon."

The lady sat down on a chair. She stared in speechless silence at the new arrivals. Then, rising, she rang the bell. The servant appeared.

"Tell your master I wish to speak to him in the drawing-room."

Scarcely had the housemaid turned her back than there came a loud ringing at the front-door bell. Another servant entered--the cook--in her hand a cablegram. Mrs. Harland was conscious that the envelope was addressed to Mr. Harland. As a rule enclosures addressed to him she held inviolate, but on this occasion she broke the rule. She tore the envelope open with a hand which slightly trembled. With her eyes she devoured the words which were written on the sheet of paper it had contained:

"Girls shipped by mistake. Boys following.--Bindon."

Those were the words which had been flashed across the seas. She read them over and over again. It seemed as though she could not grasp their meaning. She still held the telegram extended in her hand when her husband entered the room. That gentleman paused upon the threshold. Retaining the handle of the door in his hand, he appeared to be making an effort to comprehend the meaning of the scene within.

"What is it you want, Maria?"

"I--I want nothing." The lady put her hand to her brow with a gesture which was almost tragic. "This is Mr. Bindon's latest shipment."

She stretched out her hands towards the strangers in a manner which really was dramatic. The girls had dried their eyes to enable them, perhaps, to study Mr. Harland to better advantage. They stood in a row, the tallest at one end and the shortest at the other. The line of height descended in an agreeably graduated scale. Mr. Harland stared at the girls. Then he stared at his wife. "I don't understand," he said.

"Read that!"

The lady thrust the cablegram into his hand. He read it. He read it once, he read it twice, he read it even thrice. Then crumpling it up he thrust both hands into his trouser pockets and he whistled.

"This is a pleasant state of things," he said.

"Is that all you have to say?" inquired his wife.

"Well, my dear, I may have a little more to say if you will give me a little time to reflect upon the situation. It is a situation which requires reflection." He stared at the row of girls in front of him. He reflected. "This is a truly pleasant state of things. Your father, young ladies----"

"He is not our father," interposed the tallest of the row, Clara Mary.

"Not your father? Mr. Bindon is not your father?" Mr. Harland referred to the crumpled cablegram. "I am afraid that again I do not understand."

"We're the Miss Dixons. Ma's a widow. Mr. Bindon shipped us off to Europe the very day he married her. We never knew that we were going till just before we started, and I don't believe Ma knew it either."

Again the handkerchiefs were raised in a simultaneous row to tearful eyes.

"J. Bindon," murmured Mr. Harland, "must be Jolly Jack. You will be pleased to learn, young ladies," he added in a louder key, "that you have been shipped to Europe by mistake. I don't at this moment understand altogether how the mistake arose. There are eight of you--I perceive that there are eight--and one would think that a mistake to that extent would be one which it would be rather difficult to make. Still, you will be gratified to learn, it has been made. Mr. Bindon has telegraphed to tell me so. We expected a shipment to consist of an assorted lot of sons, possibly five--possibly seven. I am informed in the telegram that that shipment is following. But whether we are to return at once the shipment which consists of you, or whether, so to speak, we are to give it warehouse room, there are no instructions yet to hand."

The row of girls stared at Mr. Harland, dry-eyed and open-mouthed.

He spoke in a tongue which was strange to them.

"Andrew," cried his wife, "I am ashamed of you! How can you talk like that!"

Mr. Harland continued, almost as if he were speaking to himself. "It occurs to me that I have read somewhere, it was perhaps in some old book, that in American schools they run--I believe the term is a correct one--the boys and girls together. I hope Mr. Bindon is not under the impression that such a system obtains in Duddenham."

"Andrew, it is shocking! Upon my word, I feel inclined to cry."

"Do not cry, Maria; do not cry. Suppose, instead of crying, you come with me to the study, and let me say a word to you alone."

"Andrew," cried the lady, as she closed the study door, "I really am ashamed of you. How can you say such things--a man in your position?"

"A man in my position, Maria, is justified in saying anything, even damn. It is because my tongue inclines to adjectives, strong and pithy adjectives, that I endeavour to let off the steam in another way."

"What are you going to do with those poor girls?"

"What are you going to do, Maria? Girls are more in your line than mine."

"I believe he's done it on purpose, that Bindon man. I don't believe it's possible to make such a mistake; shipping girls in mistake for boys, indeed!"

"Not in the case of an ordinary family, Maria. But it is not an ordinary family, Mr. Bindon's." There was a pause. The lady walked excitedly up and down the room. The gentleman sat back in an arm-chair, his hands in his trouser pockets, his legs stretched out in front of him. "You will have to provide them with bed and with board, Maria, till we have turned the matter over in our minds, or till we have heard further from Mr. Bindon."

They had to.

They provided the young ladies with bed and board.

"As," remarked Mr. Harland, when the days went by, and there still came no further instructions from America, "these young ladies bid fair to remain with us an indefinite length of time, I think, in order to do something which will entitle me to the proper fees, I will lay on something in the shape of a daily governess. They shall receive their education in the parlour. If Mr. Bindon could only see his way to making a few more errors in the 'shipment' line I might, on my part, see my way to running a school for young ladies in connection with my establishment for boys."

The eight Misses Dixon arrived on a Tuesday. Nothing--that is, nothing unusual--happened during the whole of the ensuing week. But on the Wednesday week, eight days after their arrival, an incident, slightly out of the common way, did vary the monotony. A fly drove up to Mulberry House, and in it, on the back seat, sat a solitary boy. Mr. Harland happened to be leaving the house just as the fly drove up. He eyed the boy, the boy eyed him. The flyman touched his hat.

"If you please, sir, seems as how this here boy's for you. Leastways, it says so on his ticket." Turning round on his box the driver addressed his fare. "This here's the schoolmaster, and this here's Mulberry House."

The boy opened his mouth. Sounds issued forth. But they were sounds without form, and void. He appeared, judging from the grimaces he was making, to be suffering from an attack of facial convulsion. The flyman descended from his box.

"Seems, sir, as how this here boy's got a stutter. It is a stutter too. I never see nothing like it. They've been and stuck a lot of tickets all over him, so that people might know where he was going to. He'd never have made them understand."

When the boy came out of the fly Mr. Harland perceived that what the coachman said was correct. A square, white card was sewed on his coat, another on his waistcoat, and a third in a most prominent situation on his breeches. The writing on this latter, by dint of constant friction, had become so worn as to be unintelligible. On the other two was written, in a bold round hand, so that he that ran might read:

"Frank J. Samuel Bindon,
Mulberry House School, Duddenham, England.
Note.--This Boy Stutters."

"I suppose," said Mr. Harland, as he eyed the youth, "that you are one of the assorted lot."

The boy opened his mouth.

"B-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b--"

"I wouldn't speak to him much if I was you, sir," said the flyman. "Every time he opens his mouth I expect to see him have a fit. I've seen some stutters, but I never see one which came within a hundred mile of his."

"I think," said Mr. Harland, when he introduced Frank J. Samuel Bindon to his wife, "that I begin to understand what Mr. Bindon meant when he wrote that he was shipping an assorted lot of sons. In his family he appears to have samples of every kind."

"Hollo!" cried John F. Ernest, as Frank J. Samuel put in an appearance in the playground, "here's Stammering Sam!"

"Maria," said Mr. Harland, about an hour later, to his wife, "Stammering Sam can fight. He has polished off John G. William. He is taking on John B. David for a change. What an interesting family those Bindons are."

On the Friday the fly which had conveyed Stammering Sam again drove up to the doors of Mulberry House. The same flyman was on the box.

"Sarah," he observed to the servant who opened the door, "I've been bringing you a queer lot of young gentlemen of late. Wednesday I brought you up one with a stutter, now I've brought you one what's only got one leg, and another what's only got one arm. You'll soon be able to keep a museum of living curiosities."

As he was speaking the flyman stood at the door of his fly, his back turned to his fares. Suddenly the servant gave an exclamation.

"Look out, Mr. Stubbs," she cried.

The flyman moved aside, just in time to avoid the full force of a blow, which although it missed his head, at which it was aimed, and only shaved his shoulder, made him roar with pain. A boy, one of the fares, was standing up in the fly, grasping, with both his hands, a curious weapon of offence--a wooden leg.

"You young murdering villain!" shouted the flyman, clapping his hand to his injured shoulder. "I've half a mind to break every bone in your body."

"I would if I were you," retorted the lad "Try it on. You've been saucing me all the way. I may only have one leg, but yours wouldn't be the first head which I've splintered with a wooden one. Then you'd be a living curiosity, I guess."

This young gentleman entered Mulberry House hopping upon one leg. The wooden limb he carried in his hands. After him followed a second young gentleman, who, since one of his sleeves was pinned up to his coat, was apparently possessed of but a single arm.

"There's a armless young gentleman in the drawing-room," announced Sarah to her master, "and another what's got his leg tucked under his arm."

The announcement did not appear to take the principal of Mulberry House by surprise.

"Further samples of the assorted lot," he murmured.

He was right. The strangers were two more examples of the fecundity and the versatility of Mr. Bindon. The young gentleman with "his leg tucked under his arm" declared his name to be Oscar J. Oswald Bindon. The young gentleman with only one arm under which a leg could possibly be "tucked" was another John T. Jasper Bindon.

"I understood from your father," said Mr. Harland, "that this lot would consist of five, or possibly seven. May I ask if there are any more of you to follow? This dropping in unexpectedly, by ones and twos, Mrs. Harland and I find a little inconvenient."

"There's two more coming. But we wouldn't have anything to do with them because they stutter."

This repudiation comes from Oscar J. Oswald. As he spoke he was fastening on his wooden leg.

Two or three hours afterwards the fly--the same fly--drove up again to Mulberry House. The same flyman was on the box.

"Sarah," he whispered from behind his hand, probably taught prudence by experience, "here's two more stutters."

II.

Mrs. Harland was superintending the putting out of the "clean things." It was Saturday. On Sundays, at Mulberry House, all the pupils "changed."

"If you please, ma'am, there's a person in the drawing-room who says she's Mrs. Bindon."

"Mrs. Bindon!" Mrs. Harland was lifting a pile of clean linen. It fell from her hands. Day-shirts and night-shirts were scattered on the floor. The lady eyed the maid standing in the doorway as though she were some creature of strange and fearful import. "Whom did she ask to see?"

"She asked to see the schoolmaster."

"The schoolmaster?"

Mrs. Harland pursed her lips.

"Yes, ma'am. She didn't mention any name. And master's out."

The lady, to the best of her ability, supplied her husband's place. She interviewed the visitor. As she laid her hand on the handle of the drawing-room door her attentive ear detected a curious sound within.

"I do believe the woman's crying."

She turned the handle. She entered the room. A woman was seated on the extreme edge of a chair. She was indulging in a series of audible sniffs. In the palm of her hand, compressed into a knot which had something of the consistency of a cricket ball, was her handkerchief. This she bobbed first at one eye, then at the other. When Mrs. Harland appeared she rose to her feet. The lady stared at her as if she were a spectre.

"Jane Cooper!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, ma'am."

The woman dropped a curtsey.

"You brazen hussey! How dare you come into my house!"

"If you please, ma'am, I'm come after that boy of mine."

She was a nervous, shrinking, little woman. She had fair hair and a washed-out complexion. Her pale blue eyes were blurred with weeping. She looked as though she had been crying for years. She wore a black silk dress, which was of primitive make, and the seams of which were slightly rusty. Her hands, which were gloveless, were large and red. Her shapeless bonnet had strayed on to the side of her head. Altogether she looked draggled and woebegone.

"You've come after that boy of yours! What do you mean?"

"My Neddy, ma'am."

Mrs. Harland gave an indignant twitch to her skimpy skirts. She moved across the room in the direction of the bell. The woman, perceiving her intention, gave an appealing cry.

"Don't be hard upon me. I've come all the way from America to see my Neddy, ma'am."

Mrs. Harland hesitated, her hand upon the bell-rope. This woman, when a child, had been her own pupil in the Sunday-school. Later she had been her servant. While in her service she had "gone wrong." The same day on which she had been turned adrift she had disappeared from Duddenham. Her former mistress had heard nothing of her from that hour unto the present one.

"Jane Cooper, my servant told me that you gave your name as Mrs. Bindon. Are you Mrs. Bindon? Is that true?"

"It's gospel truth."

"Then"--Mrs. Harland released her hold of the bell-rope--"it was Jolly Jack."

"That it was."

Mrs. Harland moved a step nearer to the woman.

"Do you mean to tell me that all those boys are yours?"

"No, ma'am, only Neddy. His father had him called Edward J. Phillip, but he's always been Neddy to me. The rest are Mr. Bindon's."

"The rest are Mr. Bindon's! Jane! what do you mean?"

There was a ring, a good loud ring, at the front door bell. The woman clasped her hands.

"There's the rest of them," she cried. "Oh, don't let them come in here."

"The rest of them?"

"The other Mrs. Bindons."

Mrs. Harland clutched at the back of a chair.

"The other Mrs. Bindons?"

"They're always going on at me, and making fun of me, and pinching me. Oh! don't let them come in here."

The little woman's distress appeared to be genuine. She wrung her hands. Her tears fell unheeded to the floor. Mrs. Harland gazed at her both open-mouthed and open-eyed. Before she had recovered her presence of mind sufficiently to enable her to understand the cause of her visitor's emotion the door opened, and there entered unannounced--a magnificent woman! She was very tall, and very stately, and very fat. She weighed seventeen stone if she weighed an ounce. Her costume was very different to that of the dowdy Jane. She was attired from head to foot in red. She had on a red stuff dress with a train. A scarlet mantle accentuated with its splendours the upper portion of her person. She wore a red hat, adorned with a red feather. And her face--as far as hue was concerned, her face matched her attire. She surveyed Mrs. Harland through a pair of pince-nez. "Mrs. Harland! So it is! How delightful! I should have known you anywhere--you haven't altered hardly a bit."

The lady, her hand stretched out, advanced in the most condescending fashion. Mrs. Harland shrank away.

"Louisa Brown!" she cried.

"Louisa Brown--that was; Mrs. Bindon--that is! Let me give you my card. I had some printed just before I came away."

After some fumbling the lady produced from her pocket a gorgeous mother-of-pearl card-case. Out of it she took a piece of pasteboard, resplendent in all the colours of the rainbow, about four inches square. This she offered Mrs. Harland. That lady declined it with a gesture.

"Won't you have it? Well, I'll put it on the mantelpiece; it'll be just the same. Dear old-fashioned mantelpieces! We don't have them out our way--we're in advance, you know--but I remember them so well."

The lady suited the action to the word. She placed the piece of cardboard on the mantelpiece in the most conspicuous place, on top of the clock. Apparently unconscious that in Mrs. Harland's demeanour there was anything peculiar, she carefully selected the largest armchair the room contained. In it she placed her ample person. As she arranged her skirts she remarked:

"I've come all this way to see them boys of mine. The dear lads! How are they? I hope you haven't made them too English. A little English I don't mind, being English as it were myself; but too much English I can't abide."

"You--impudent--creature!"

The lady put up her pince-nez.

"My stars! Here's goings on! May I ask if that remark was addressed to me?"

"I never heard of such impudence in my life."

"Nor me. But some people have manners of their own. Is that the way in which to treat a lady who comes to visit you--standing there and staring?"

"A lady!" Mrs. Harland gasped. "Do you think I don't remember you?"

Mrs. Harland's form absolutely swelled as she glared at the big woman seated in the easy-chair.

"You, Louisa Brown, whose name is to this day a byword in the village, to dare to come into my drawing-room--and in those clothes!"

The big woman was not taken at all aback.

"What is the matter with my clothes?" she asked.

"You, whom your own father turned into the streets, to dare to place yourself upon an equality with me!"

The big woman turned with an affable smile to the little one, who stood trembling and sniffing in the centre of the room.

"Queer old-fashioned folk they are this side. Now, to my thinking, one lady oughtn't to remind another lady of things she wishes to be forgotten."

The little woman bobbed her knotted handkerchief into her eyes.

"Oh, Louisa, how can you now!"

Mrs. Harland raised her arm, semaphore fashion.

"Leave the room!" she said.

The big woman settled herself more comfortably in the easy-chair.

"Not me. Not unless I take my sons along with me. You have received their father's money, which is mine; if you receive my money you'll receive me too--we go together."

"I have received your money--yours! Who are you?"

"There's my card." The big woman waved her hand in the direction of the mantelshelf. "I've another in my pocket, and I've told you who I am besides; but, to oblige you, I don't mind telling you who I am again. I'm Mrs. Bindon."

Mrs. Harland turned upon the little woman. There was frenzy in her air.

"Then who are you?"

Said the little woman, between her sniffs:

"I am Mrs. Bindon too."

"You are Mrs. Bindon too! Is the man a bigamist?"

The big woman smiled.

"There is no bigamy in Utah."

"Utah!" Mrs. Harland staggered back. "Utah!" She looked wildly round the room. "Isn't Utah where the Mormons are?"

The big woman, taking out a large white handkerchief, proceeded, at one and the same time, to fan herself, and to diffuse a strong odour of patchouli.

"Utah is, upon earth, the abiding place of the saints," she said.

Mrs. Harland echoed her words.

"The abiding place of the saints."

A vehicle was approaching the house. It could be seen through the window.

"I think," observed the big woman, as she raised her pince-nez, "that here are some of the other Mrs. Bindons."

Rising from her seat she opened the drawing-room door.

"Come in, my dears," she said, addressing some person or persons without; "I am here, and Mrs. Jane."

As she held the door wide open a procession began to enter the room--a procession of women. They were of all styles and shapes and sizes. There were fat and there were thin. They were attired in all the colours of the rainbow. Mrs. Harland, who began to think that her senses must be leaving her, distinctly counted seven. The seven, with the two already arrived, made nine--nine Mrs. Bindons. How the seven had journeyed in a single fly is one of the mysteries which are not yet unfolded. The big woman acted as mistress of the ceremonies.

"Sit down, my dears, there are seats for you all. I am sure you will excuse a little crowding."

"Where's the teacher?" asked a short, thick-set woman, who had seated herself with her legs apart, and her hands set squarely on her knees.

"That is more than I can tell you. But here's his wife."

The big woman waved her handkerchief and an odour of patchouli towards Mrs. Harland.

"Oh, you're the schoolmarm?" The thickset woman eyed Mrs. Harland as though she were taking her mental measurement "Where's them boys of mine?"

"These," explained the big woman, in the condescending way which seemed to be a peculiarity of hers, "are some of the other Mrs. Bindons. I have not," she added, "been treated quite with the civility I should like, and have a right to expect, but on this side they're so old-fashioned."

"None of your old fashions for me, and none of your new ones neither. Give me the ways I'm used to. Where's them boys of mine?"

The thick-set woman stared at Mrs. Harland in a manner which suggested combat. The lady pressed her hand to her side. She felt at a loss for breath. Mechanically she crossed the room and rang the bell. The servant appeared.

"Tell the Masters Bindon that they are wanted in the drawing-room."

The servant gazed in amazement at the assembled congregation. The order had to be repeated before her faculties returned.

"Is that the hired gal?" inquired the thick-set woman directly the housemaid's back was turned.

"Servant, they call them here," explained the big woman in her patronising way.

The thick-set woman snorted. She glared at the big woman as though she were not grateful for the explanation. Silence prevailed. The nine ladies stared at Mrs. Harland. They seemed to be mentally appraising her. She herself appeared to be stricken with a sort of mental paralysis, as though the invasion had stricken her dumb.

At last--it seemed a very long at last--the door reopened, and there appeared the red-haired Master Bindon--John F. Stanley. His appearance was followed by another interval of silence. The ladies stared at him. He stared at the ladies. No enthusiasm was shown on either side. The thick-set woman broke the silence.

"So it's you?"

"It's me." He edged away. "Don't you hit me!" he exclaimed.

"Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

"What for?"

"Here you are in England, and your mother's looking for you in Canada. I guess your father's got you mixed."

"I shouldn't wonder," struck in a thin, acidulated-looking woman, "if Mr. Bindon's took you for my George, and sent my George to Canada. I never knew such a head for children as that man has got. Is my George here?"

"No," said Rufus. He grinned.

"Then," exclaimed the acidulated-looking woman, "I'm clean done."

The nervous little woman came forward. She laid her hand on Rufus's arm. "My Neddy's here! I'm sure my Neddy's here!"

Although she said that she was sure, her tone was by no means one of certainty. Her voice trembled--the little woman trembled too.

"He's not," said Rufus. He grinned again.

"He's not!" The little woman started back. "Not here! Mr. Bindon told me himself that he'd sent my Neddy to school at the old place at Duddenham. He wouldn't let me come all this way for nothing. And I've spent all my money on my fare."

The rest of the Masters Bindon began to enter the room. They came in a long unbroken line. The little woman looked, with eager eyes, for the face she sought. The line ceased. She turned to Mrs. Harland.

"That's not all?" she cried.

"I think it is," said Mrs. Harland, with a sort of gasp.

"Neddy! Neddy!"

Crying, the little woman sank on her knees upon the floor.

There was a goodly company of the Masters Bindon. There were some among them the sight of whom gladdened their mothers' hearts.

"So it is you?" observed the thick-set woman to John G. William. "You've not gone to Canada--no such luck! Where's your brother?" The wooden-legged hero, Oscar J. Oswald, stumped in sight. "When I get you home I'll give you a good sound hiding, the pair of you. Didn't I tell you to write to me each week? You haven't so much as sent me a line to say if you was living or dead. When I get you home I'll make you wish that you was dead."

The big woman--Louisa Brown, that was--had three young gentlemen standing in a line in front of her. They were the three "stutters."

"Now, boys, I hope you've got cured of your stammerings. You can't kiss me, you'll mess my things. Do you hear what I say? I do hope you've got cured of your stammering."

"B-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b--"

There arose a chaos of sounds. The three young gentlemen opened their mouths. Judging from their contortions they appeared to be suffering agonies.

"For goodness gracious stop that noise!" The fond mother clapped her hands to her ears. "I declare I feel inclined to knock your heads together. Why, your stammer's worse than before. I must say"--she glanced towards Mrs. Harland--"I must say that you've been shamefully neglected."

III.

As Mr. Harland returned along the lane which led towards home he saw, standing in the middle of the road in front of him, a couple of ladies, who, judging from their manoeuvres, appeared to be spying out the land. As he came up one of them hailed him. A tall, angular lady, who wore spectacles and low shoes and skirts which did not reach to her ankles, and who spoke in a loud, shrill, rasping voice, which might have been audible on the other side the meadow.

"Say, stranger, can you hitch us on to Mulberry House Academy, where they lams young byes?"

"I know Mulberry House School. I'm the headmaster, Mr. Harland."

The lady turned to her companion.

"Bashemath, I guess we're solid." She returned to the gentleman. "You're the man we're after; we're Mrs. Bindon."

"You--I presume you mean that you are Mrs. Bindon?"

"Me and her are Mrs. Bindon."

"I--I suppose there's some joke intended. Or, perhaps, this lady is your daughter?"

"Sakes alive! Between Bashemath and me there are not twelve months."

"No, Deborah," said the other lady, "nor yet eleven."

"And as for joking, stranger, I'd have you know that I'm no jokist. Bashemath and me have had to walk up from the depÔt. The driver said his carriage wouldn't hold no more than seven. We didn't see the use of a carriage just for Bashemath and me, being both of a saving mind."

"You will be glad to hear," remarked Mr. Harland, as he led the way to Mulberry House, a lady on either side of him, "that your sons all enjoy good health."

"Lord save the man!" cried the lady with the glasses, "you don't suppose all them byes is mine. I've one of 'em, and he's enough--the limb! I've seven daughters, but they're Samuel Newton's, who is dead. The rest of them byes are Mr. Bindon's."

"Are there"--Mr. Harland slightly coughed--"are there several Mr. Bindons?"

The lady pulled up short. She turned and faced the gentleman.

"Stranger, are you just sarsing?"

"Madam! Only by inadvertence could a word escape my lips which would in any way cause annoyance to a lady."

When they reached Mulberry House a couple of flys were standing at the front door.

"I guess," observed the angular lady, "there's more of them come up than seven."

As Mr. Harland and his companions ascended the steps two gentlemen came rushing down them. They were the drivers of the flys. Unless circumstances belied them they had been whiling away the interval of waiting by listening at the drawing-room door. In the hall were the cook, housemaid, and the small girl who acted as general help. Their presence in that particular spot required explanation. Their countenances, when they perceived their master, showed that it did.

"What is the meaning of this?" inquired Mr. Harland. "Where's your mistress?"

"If you please, sir, she's in the drawing-room."

"Is she engaged?"

"There are----" The girl choked back a giggle. "There are some ladies with her."

"I guess," remarked the angular lady, "they're some of the other Mrs. Bindons."

Three distinct and undeniable titters came from the servants.

"Sarah," said Mr. Harland, sternly checking the disconcerted damsel as she was about to seek refuge with her colleagues in flight, "show these ladies into the drawing-room, and tell your mistress that I wish to speak to her in the study."

"What--what on earth, Maria, is the meaning of this?" demanded Mr. Harland, as his wife made her appearance in his sanctum.

The lady dropped into a chair.

"Thank goodness, Andrew, you have come home. I don't know what I should have done if I had been left alone with them much longer."

"Who are these women?"

"They're the Mrs. Bindons."

"The Mrs. Bindons! How many of them are there?"

"There were nine. The two you brought make eleven."

"Eleven! Eleven Mrs. Bindons! Maria!"

"Andrew!"

"Is--is the man a Mormon?"

"Yes, he--he's a Mormon."

"Maria! You don't mean that?"

"I do. You remember Jane Cooper?"

"The slut that you sent packing?"

"She's here. She's one of the Mrs. Bindons. And Louisa Brown, she's another."

"Not the Louisa Brown?"

"And there are two or three more whose faces I know quite well, but I can't think who they are."

Mr. Harland drew a long breath. He whistled.

"I knew J. Bindon must be Jolly Jack."

"But, Andrew, what can we do? There's all those boys in there, and some of them have found their mothers and some of them haven't. And there's Jane Cooper come all this way to see her son, and it appears he's been sent by mistake to Canada. And there's Louisa Brown been knocking those three poor stammering creatures' heads together, and she says that you've been neglecting them shamefully because you haven't cured their stutter. And there's a woman been thrashing John G. William with her umbrella. And they're all going on at one another, and at their children, and at me. Oh, Andrew, they've made me feel quite ill. That Mr. Bindon must be an awful man!"

"He appears to be, in his way, a character. A character, so far as Duddenham is concerned, almost of an original kind."

"Oh, Andrew, don't talk like that--don't. Think of it. Eleven wives! And I don't know how many more there are at home. To hear those women speak you would think that there were hundreds, and not one of them seems in the least ashamed. There are some of them in Canada looking for their children--for all I know eleven more are coming here. Andrew!" The lady rose. She laid her hand, with a solemn gesture, upon her husband's arm. "I will not have those women and their children in my house. I will not have a Bindon, now that I know all, under my roof, not for a hundred thousand pounds."

Mr. Harland rubbed his chin.

"I think that I had better go and see these ladies, Maria, or they may feel that they are being slighted."

"No half measures! You will turn them out of my house, the mothers and their children, stick and stone, never to return--or else I leave it."

"You're quite right, Maria. I think, if I were you, I'd go upstairs and wash my face and brush my hair. You seem to be excited."

"You'd be excited if you'd gone through what I have."

"Now," said Mr. Harland to himself when his wife had gone, "to interview that very compound noun--the wife of Mr. Bindon." He went out into the passage. "They appear to be employing the shining hour. Unless I am mistaken that is John G. William's howl, and that is John B. David's. The ladies are either thrashing the young gentlemen upon their own account, or else they are setting them on, in what is possibly Salt Lake City style, to thrash each other." Then arose a hubbub of women's voices. "What a peaceful household Jolly Jack's must be." He stood and listened. The din grew greater. "They're at it. Are they scratching each other's eyes out, or are they merely giving their lungs free play? Perhaps on the whole I had better go and see."

He had hardly taken two steps in the direction of the drawing-room when someone twitched his coat-sleeve from behind.

"Mr. 'arland! Mr. 'arland!"

There came the twitch at his sleeve again. Someone addressed him in a very muffled voice, which in force scarcely amounted to a whisper, from the rear. Mr. Harland wheeled round.

"Who's that?" he cried.

"Ssh!" Close behind him, so close that Mr. Harland by his sudden movement almost knocked him down, stood a man. He had his finger pressed against his lips. "Ssh! I came round by the back; I knew that they was in the front."

He spoke in a low and tremulous whisper. Beads of perspiration stood on his face. Agitation was on every line. Mr. Harland stared at him, astonished. He had approached from behind so noiselessly that the schoolmaster had been taken unawares.

"May I ask, sir, who you are?"

"I'll tell you in 'arf a minute. Just step this way."

The stranger, taking Mr. Harland by the arm, led him in the direction of the study which he had just now quitted. Mr. Harland allowed himself to be led. At the study door the stranger paused. He jerked his thumb in the direction of the drawing-room. His voice dropped to a whisper: "How many of 'em are there?"

"How many are there, sir, of what?"

Mr. Harland put the counter-question in his ordinary tones. This seemed to disconcert the stranger. "Never mind. Just step inside."

With a hurried movement he drew Mr. Harland within the study.

"You don't mind my just turning the key?"

"If you mean do I object to your locking the door, I do very strongly. What are you doing? What do you mean, sir, by your impertinence?"

The stranger had not only locked the door, he had withdrawn the key from the lock.

"Softly! softly! I don't mean no 'arm. I only want to be a little private. Don't you know me, Mr. 'arland?"

"Know you?" The schoolmaster looked the stranger up and down. He was a man of medium height, of a fleshy habit. His face, which was fat and broad, and pasty hued, suggested a curious mixture of shrewdness and of folly. His eyes were small and bright. He wore carefully-trimmed mutton-chop whiskers, adjuncts which lent him an air of flashy imbecility. When he removed his glossy silk hat, which he did to enable him to mop his brow with his pink silk pocket-handkerchief, it was seen that he was almost bald, and that what little hair he had was straw-coloured, parted in the middle, and curled close to his head. He was dressed from head to foot in shiny black broadcloth. His hands were large and fat, and the fingers were loaded with rings. A thick gold chain passed from pocket to pocket of his waistcoat, and in his light-blue necktie was an enormous diamond pin.

"Know you?" repeated Mr. Harland, continuing his examination of the man. "I've seen you somewhere before, and yet"--then came a sudden burst of recollection. "Why, you're Jolly Jack!" The stranger simpered. He carefully wiped the lining of his hat.

"Ah, Mr. 'arland, I used to be. But that's a many years ago. There's not much jollity about me now. I'm just J. Bindon."

"Oh, you're just J. Bindon. The Mr. Bindon, I presume, with whose correspondence I've been honoured?"

"That's the chap."

"And whose 'shipments' from time to time have come to hand?"

"Ah, them shipments!"

"As you say, Mr. Bindon, 'Ah, them shipments.' I don't know if you are aware, Mr. Bindon, that your wife is in my drawing-room?"

"Ssh!" Mr. Bindon put his ringer to his lips. He approached Mr. Harland with a mysterious air, "Might I ask you not to speak so loud, Mr. 'arland, and not to pronounce my name. If you must call me something, I'd sooner you was to call me Jack."

"Is your name, Mr. Bindon, not one of which you have reason to be proud?"

"Don't you, Mr. 'arland, don't you now." He put a question from behind the cover of his hand. "How many of 'em are there?"

"How many are there--of Mrs. Bindon?"

The husband and the father sighed.

"If you like to put it that way."

"I understand that in my drawing-room at present there are eleven."

Mr. Bindon placed his silk hat on a chair.

He began again to mop his brow. "That's all, is it? Then there's some more of 'em about. I suppose you couldn't tell me which of 'em is there?"

"I'm afraid not. I have not myself been introduced to the whole of Mrs. Bindon--only to two of her. And in the case of that two I have not been honoured with a formal introduction. But if you like I will ring the bell, and the servant shall make inquiries."

"Not for worlds, Mr. 'arland, not for worlds! I wouldn't ave 'em know that I was 'ere not for a thousand dollars. Mr. 'arland, you look upon a man who's in a remarkable situation."

"I can easily believe, Mr. Bindon, that I look upon a man who, upon more than one occasion, has been in a remarkable situation."

"It's easy to laugh, Mr. 'arland, but circumstances is stronger than us. Do you remember when I left Duddenham?"

"For the benefit of your health, was it not?"

"Just--just so. For the benefit of my 'ealth. By the way, I suppose I ain't running no risk in coming back?"

"You should be a better judge than I."

"Some--someone had been knocking a gamekeeper on the 'ead, but I'll swear it wasn't me. I was very much misjudged in them days, Mr. 'arland. 'Owsomever, I suppose all that is forgotten years ago, and when I left Duddenham, Mr. 'arland, I went to America, and then I found myself in the City of the Saints."

"The City of the Saints?"

"In Salt Lake City, Mr. 'arland. I got on in my modest way; I certainly got on. But I soon saw that there was one way of getting on which was better than any other."

"And that was?"

"Marrying. Not as you understand it over here, marrying one young woman and getting done with it; but marrying in the wholesale line. In them days no man came to much in Salt Lake City who 'adn't got at least a dozen wives. I always 'ad 'ad an eye for a female. I'd got no objection to a dozen, nor yet a score. So I looked about to see 'ow I could get 'em."

Mr. Bindon coughed modestly behind his handkerchief. He took a chair. He continued to tell his tale with the aid of his fingers.

"First of all I looked at 'ome. There was Jane Cooper; I knew she was in a little trouble; I asked 'er to come. There was Louisa Brown; she was in a little trouble too, so I asked 'er. Then there was Susan Baxter over at Basingthorpe. I always 'ad been sweet on Susan; I asked 'er too. There was one or two other gals about the countryside for whom I'd 'ad a liking, so I asked 'em all."

"Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Bindon, that all these young women came to you, each knowing that the other one was coming?"

"Well--not exactly. They didn't know that they all was coming till they all was there."

"And then?"

"Well, there was little differences just at first. But they settled down; they settled down. They 'ad a way in Salt Lake City, in them days, of getting the women to settle down. Well, Mr. 'arland, I got on! I got on! I got wives and children, and then more wives and more children. Some of the wives was widdies, and they brought children of their own. So we grew and multiplied, and all went well--till persecution came."

"Persecution?"

"You know, Mr. 'arland, we always 'ad 'ad enemies--the Saints! They was against the Peculiar Institootion."

"Wholesale marrying?"

Mr. Bindon only sighed.

"By degrees things got warm for us, especially for me. I was a prominent member of the Church, and they went for me special because they said I had so many wives."

"May I ask, Mr. Bindon, how many wives you had?"

"That's more than I can say, Mr. 'arland, more than I can say. It's a little complicated. There's some you're married to, and some you're sealed to, and some you're on the point of being sealed to, and there you are. When I first went out, marrying was the surest way of getting on. But, by degrees, marrying didn't pay. There was a talk of bigamy. There was threats of bringing me before the Gentile courts."

Mr. Bindon paused. He drew his silk handkerchief two or three times across his brow. Again he sighed.

"Ah, Mr. 'arland, there 'adn't never been in my 'ousehold that perfect peace there ought to have been. There was complications. It's a long story, and it's no use going into it now, but there they was. I kep' 'em under--with great care, I kep' 'em under until persecution came. Then keep 'em under I could not, try 'ow I might. There was, Mr. 'arland, I tell you plainly, there was ructions. I've been struck, Mr. 'arland, struck! by my own wives. They knocked me down one day, some on 'em, and stamped on me. It ain't all beer and skittles, married life, especially when you don't know 'ow many wives you 'as, and most of 'em 'as tempers."

Again Mr. Bindon paused to wipe his brow. It needed it. As he continued to unfold his narrative he was in a constant state of perspiration.

"What with Gentile persecution, and what with family ructions, I got desprit. Them byes and gals was at the bottom of the shindies, so I made up my mind to ship 'em off, and I ships 'em."

"Without their mothers' knowledge?"

"There was bound to be little deceptions, Mr. 'arland, there was bound to be--or I couldn't 'ave lived. I daresay I should have managed"--Mr. Bindon sighed--"if it 'adn't been for another little marriage what I made."

"Another!"

"It was this way, Mr. 'arland. My partner, he died, J. B. G. Dixon. He left three wives. These 'ere three wives, they wanted to withdraw his capital. I couldn't stand that, anyhow. So I married 'em, just to give 'em satisfaction. Three more or less didn't seem to make no odds. So I took 'em for a little wedding trip. My managing clerk--'e was a regular villain--I knows it now, but I didn't then. 'E 'ad a eye on Dixon's wives 'imself, 'e 'ad. So when I married 'em 'e thought 'e'd take it out of me. That very day I married 'em I was going to ship off an assorted lot of sons to your academy. That there villain of a clerk 'e pretended 'e'd misunderstood my instructions. 'E went and shipped off them eight gals of J. B. G. Dixon's, instead of my assorted lot of sons. My crikey! when them wives of Dixon's found it out, wasn't there a shindy! They made out it was a regular plot of mine to rob 'em of their gals. I couldn't stand it, I tell you straight. So I've come over 'ere to fetch 'em back again--nothing else would suit them women but that I should. If you'll 'and 'em over, Mr. 'arland, I'll pay you what is doo, and I'll take 'em away with me round by the back if you don't mind."

"About the ladies in the drawing-room, Mr. Bindon?"

"There's been a little family difference, Mr. 'arland. When they 'eard that I'd taken on with Dixon's wives they didn't seem to like it, some of 'em. They'd found out where their byes 'ad gone to, or they thought they 'ad, so they came over 'ere to look for 'em--mind you, without saying a word to their 'usband, which was me. They came by one steamer, I came by another, and if they was to know that I was 'ere they'd want to take my life, some of 'em--I give you my word they would."

"Give me the key of the door."

"Mr. 'arland."

"I wish to give instructions for the Misses Dixon to be sent to the study."

"That's all? No games! It's serious, you know."

"Don't be absurd, sir. Give me the key."

"Mr. 'arland!"

Mr. Bindon yielded the key. His demeanour betokened agitation. He stood trembling as Mr. Harland unlocked the door. When the schoolmaster threw it open he gave a positive start. Mr. Harland stepped into the passage.

"Sarah!" He called for the housemaid in a tone of voice which must have been audible at some considerable distance.

"Not so loud, Mr. 'arland! You don't know what ears them women's got."

Mr. Harland rather raised his voice than otherwise. "Tell your mistress that Mr. Bindon's here. You understand--Mr. Bindon."

"Mr. 'arland!"

"And send the Misses Dixon into the study."

"You've done it, Mr. 'arland!"

"Done what, sir?"

"They've 'eard you--I'll bet my boots they 'ave."

Mr. Harland turned again and shouted, "Tell your mistress at once that Mr. Bindon's here!"

"They're coming!"

"How dare you, sir, try to shut the door in my face!"

"They're coming, Mr. 'arland! They'll murder me! You've spilt the cart!"

Mr. Bindon's agitation was extreme. There was a rush of feet along the passage, a sound of many skirts. A whirlwind of excited women dashed through the study door.

"Where's Mr. Bindon?" cried Louisa Brown--that was.

"I see him! He's underneath the table!"

"Fetch him out!" exclaimed the thick-set woman. They fetched him.

IV.

The procession left Mulberry House in the following order: the first fly contained all that was left of Mr. Bindon. The seats were occupied by four ladies--excited ladies. Mr. Bindon--all, we repeat, that was left of him--stood up between the four. He had not much standing room.

Around the first fly circled a crowd of boys. The crowd consisted of twelve--twelve sons! They hurrahed and shouted, they jumped and ran. Their proceedings gave to the procession an air of triumph. Eight young ladies walked beside the fly, the driver of which had received instructions not to proceed above a walking pace. These young ladies wept.

The second fly contained seven ladies, five inside and two upon the box. The language of these ladies was both fluent and fervid. They beguiled the tedium of the way by making personal remarks which must have been distinctly audible to at least one person in the fly in front. This person was kept in a perpendicular position by the points of four umbrellas.

"I hope," observed Mrs. Harland, when the procession had started, "that they won't murder him."

"I don't think you need be afraid of that, my love. They will merely escort him back, in the bosom of his family, to the City of the Saints."

Mr. Harland examined a cheque, which was written in a trembling hand, and the ink on which was scarcely dry. And the procession passed from sight.