Bindle Part 23

"Gug-gug-good egg!" broke in Guggers, so named because of his inability to p.r.o.nounce a "g" without a preliminary "gug-gug" accompanied by inconvenient splas.h.i.+ngs. It had become customary at St. Joseph's to give Guggers plenty of s.p.a.ce in front, whenever he approached a "g." Tom Little called it "Groom."

"We're gug-gug-going to give him a gug-gug-gorgeous time."

"We'll have him drunk from morn till dewy eve," cried Tom Little, "and extra drunk at night. Oh, my prophetic soul!"

"Gravy, where's your sense of hospitality?" cried Travers. Reggie reluctantly produced whisky, a syphon, and some gla.s.ses.

"By gug-gug-gos.h.!.+" cried Guggers, semi-vapourising the remains of a mouthful of whisky and soda, "won't it be a rag! Bless you, Gug-Gug-Gravy for having an uncle."

Tom Little explained that they had been to the Sceptre and discovered that Mr. Josiah Williams would arrive by the 3.3 train, and that St. Joseph's was going down in a body to meet him. Graves, of course, would be there.

"I have heard nothing," said Graves. "I-I don't understand. If he writes of course I'll go."

"You'll jolly well gug-gug-go, any old how, or we'll carry you down," cried Guggers in a menacing voice, looking down at Graves from his six-foot-three of muscle and bone.

Graves looked round him helplessly. What was he to do? Could he disown this uncle? Should he explain that the whole thing was an invention, and that he had never possessed a rich uncle in Australia? Was it possible that by some curious trick there really was a Josiah Williams, Australian millionaire and philanthropist? If these men would only go and leave him alone to think!

Then suddenly there presented itself to his mind the other question: what would Josiah Williams be like? Would he be hopelessly unpresentable? Would he humiliate him, Reginald Graves, and render his subsequent years at St. Joseph's intolerable? How he wished these fellows would go!

CHAPTER XIII

OXFORD'S WELCOME TO BINDLE

I

At three o'clock on the following day the down platform at Oxford station presented an almost gala appearance. Not only were the men of St. Joseph's there, but hundreds of undergraduates from other colleges, with rattles, whistles, horns, flags, and every other attribute of great rejoicing.

Outside the station was a carriage with four horses, a piebald, a skewbald, a white, and another horse that seemed to have set out in life with a determination to be pink. Tom Little had himself selected the animals with elaborate care.

A little distance away, standing in groups, was a band clothed gorgeously in scarlet and gold tunics and caps, and nondescript trousers, ranging from light grey to black.

Tom Little had given careful instructions that as soon as Josiah Williams should emerge from the station, the band was to strike up "See the Conquering Hero Comes," and they were to put into it all they knew. If they produced a really good effect they were to have unlimited beer.

Reginald Graves stood in the centre of the platform, some of the leading spirits of St. Joseph's keeping a clear s.p.a.ce so that the meeting between uncle and nephew might be dramatic. A more wretched-looking nephew of a millionaire uncle never existed.

Round him were scores of men with cameras, whom Graves instinctively knew to be newspaper men; and perched high above the crowd occupying important strategical positions he counted eight cinematograph cameras, each with its attendant operator.

St. Joseph's men had been good customers to a well-known London perruquier for false wigs, whiskers, and moustaches, with the aid of which an unlimited supply of "newspaper" and "cinematograph-men" had been produced.

Ignorant of all this, Graves groaned in spirit.

At four minutes past three the London train, amid a general buzz of excitement, steamed into the station. Pandemonium seemed to have broken out. Whistles shrilled, bugles blew, voices roared, and rattles added their share to the general uproar.

The pa.s.sengers in the train were at first startled, and then became deeply interested. From the platform hundreds of eyes searched the opening carriage doors. Presently there was seen to alight a small man, dressed in a black-and-white check suit, with a pale grey homburg hat adorned with a white puggaree, a Ted tie, patent boots, and white spats. Over his left arm he carried a light dust-coat, and in his hand a gold-mounted malacca cane with a broad gold band. In the right hand was an enormous cigar adorned with a red-and-gold band.

It was Bindle.

"That's him," cried a hundred voices.

"Good old Jos.h.!.+"

"What price wallabys?"

"Where's your lady friend?" and other irrelevant remarks were hurled from all quarters.

The "cinematograph-men" turned their handles. The "newspaper-men" swarmed down upon Bindle and levelled their cameras from every possible angle. Graves was hastened to the spot where Bindle was endeavouring to avoid looking into the barrel of a huge "camera."

Men hit him on the back, poked him in the ribs, shouted their welcomes and generally cheer-oh'd him.

After a desperate effort Tom Little fought his way through the crowd, followed by Travers and Guggers dragging the reluctant Graves. Suddenly Tom Little jumped up on Guggers' back.

"Mr. Josiah Williams, we welcome you to Oxford, we, the men of St. Joseph's."

Bindle looked at the laughing faces and remarked, "And very nice, too. Cheer-oh the lot!"

"This," continued Tom Little, when a s.p.a.ce had been cleared, largely due to Guggers' magnificent tackling, "this is your distinguished nephew, Reginald Graves, whom to know is to love."

The unhappy Graves was dragged forward. Bindle extended two fingers of his left hand.

"So you're Polly's boy?"

Graves started. His mother's name had been Mary Williams, and his father had always called her Polly. Was he dreaming, or could it be possible that it was all true, and that fame and fortune were before him? A brother of his mother's had gone to Australia when quite a little lad. He was roused from his reverie by somebody shouting:

"Say how-d'ye-do to uncle," and he found himself clasping Bindle's two fingers with a warmth that surprised himself.

He looked round him. There was a dense crowd waving flags, and all in honour of this man who greeted him as nephew. A new prospect opened itself to his bewildered brain. If only it prove to be true!

"Now, come along, Mr. Williams." It was Tom Little's voice again that broke in upon his thoughts. "We've got a carriage waiting for you."

Travers had slipped out and found the band split up into three groups. He went up to each in turn; the first two he reminded that they were playing "See the Conquering Hero Comes," and the third group he told that the clash of welcome had been changed to "Auld Lang Syne." They must start at once, as Mr. Williams was just leaving the station. Urged by Travers the band formed up with incredible speed. Just then Bindle emerged, with Tom Little on one side and Guggers on the other. He was saying to Guggers:

"Look 'ere, young feller, if you can't talk without spittin' in my ear, you just dry up."

At that second the band broke out, every man doing his utmost. Everyone looked a little surprised, for the two melodies combined badly. The drummer was the first to discover that something was wrong. Recognising that the instruments round him were playing "Auld Lang Syne" he changed the time of his thumps. Then hearing the other tune, he paused and with inspiration finished up by trying to combine the two melodies by putting in thumps from both.

Some of the Conquering Heroes stopped and became Auld Lang Syners, whilst several Auld Lang Syners went over to the enemy. It was pandemonium.

"What's up wi' the band?" enquired Bindle. "Sounds like a Crystal Palace compet.i.tion; I 'ope nothink busts."

Still the band went on.

"Gawd Almighty! wot's that?" Bindle's eyes dilated with something like horror at the sight of a huge brown shape sitting on the box of the carriage. He stopped as if electrified.

"That," said Tom Little, "is a kangaroo. Your national animal."