Bindle Part 29

I

"One of the points about this perfession, Ginger," Bindle remarked, "is that yer sometimes gets an 'oliday."

The two men were seated on the steps leading up to Holmleigh, a handsome house standing in its own grounds in the village of Little Compton, in Suffolk.

"Fancy you an' me sittin' 'ere drinkin' in the suns.h.i.+ne," continued Bindle with a grin.

Ginger grunted.

"Though, Ginger, suns.h.i.+ne ain't got no froth, an' it ain't altogether good for yer complexion, still it's good for vegetables and most likely for you too, Ginger. 'Ere we are, 'edges, trees, and no temptation. The village beauties is nearly as ugly as wot you are, Ginger. Puts me in mind o' one of the ole 'Earty 'ymns:

"Where every prospect pleases, And only man is vile."

When they wrote that 'ymn, Ginger, they must 'ave been thinkin' o' you at Little Compton.

"Well, I'm orf for a drink; I can't eat me dinner dry, same's you. The further yer goes for yer beer the more yer enjoys it. Sorry you're too tired, ole son. S' long!"

Bindle and Ginger, among others, had been selected by the foreman to accompany him on an important moving job. A Mr. Henry Miller, well known throughout the kingdom as possessing one of the most valuable collections of firearms in the country, was moving from London into Suffolk. He had stipulated that only thoroughly trustworthy men should be permitted to handle his collection, and insisted on the contractors supplying all the hands instead of, as was usual, sending one man and hiring the others locally. Thus it came about that Bindle and the gloomy Ginger found themselves quartered for a few days at Lowestoft.

As Bindle approached the Dove and Easel, famous as being the only inn in the kingdom so named, Mr. John Gandy stood reading a newspaper behind the bar. When business was slack Mr. Gandy always read the newspaper, and in consequence was the best-informed man upon public affairs in Little Compton.

As if sensing a customer, Mr. Gandy laid down the paper and gazed severely over the top of his gold-rimmed spectacles at nothing in particular. He was a model publican, from his velvet skullcap and immaculate Dundreary whiskers to his brilliantly polished and squeaky boots.

As he pursued his contemplation Mr. Gandy saw the outer doors pushed open, admitting a stream of yellow suns.h.i.+ne and with it a little bald-headed man with a red nose and green baize ap.r.o.n. It was Bindle. He approached the counter, eyed Mr. Gandy deliberately, and ordered a pint of ale.

Mr. Gandy drew the beer as if it were a sacred office, wheezing the while. He was a man with a ponderous manner, and a full bar or an empty bar made no difference to the sacred flow of the liquor. He had an eye that could cower a "drunk" more effectually than the muscle of a barman.

"Dry work, movin'," said Bindle pleasantly.

Mr. Gandy wheezed.

"I'm a stranger 'ere," Bindle continued, as he produced some bread and cheese from a piece of pink newspaper. "Funny little 'ole I calls it. Nothin' to do, as far as I can see. No street accidents 'ere, wot?" and he laughed genially at his own joke.

"You're one of the pantechnicon-men from Holmleigh?" queried Mr. Gandy with dignity.

"Right, first time!" laughed the irrepressible Bindle with his mouth full of bread and cheese. "I'm up at the fort, I am."

"The fort?" queried Mr. Gandy. "The fort?"

"Yes, the fort," grinned Bindle. "That's what I calls it. Never saw so many guns in all me puff-millions of 'em."

Bindle was obviously serious, and Mr. Gandy became interested. At that moment a carter entered. Bindle immediately proceeded to get into conversation with the newcomer. Presently he caught Mr. Gandy's eye and read in it curiosity. Mr. Gandy then slowly transferred, his gaze to the door of the bar-parlour. Bindle followed Mr. Gandy's eye, and with a nod, sauntered towards the door, looked round, saw that he was right and pa.s.sed through, softly closing it behind him.

A minute later Mr. Gandy moved in the same direction, lifted the flap of the bar and pa.s.sed into the room, also closing the door behind him. As he left the bar he touched a bell which produced Mrs. Gandy, in black, wearing much jewellery and a musical-comedy smile as persistent as Mr. Gandy's wheeze.

When Bindle went forth from the bar-parlour it was with a joyous look in his eye and half-a-crown in his pocket. Outside the Dove and Easel he lifted his green baize ap.r.o.n, a finger and thumb at each corner, and made a few shuffling movements with his feet; then he winked, grinned, and finally laughed.

"I shouldn't be surprised if things was to 'appen in this funny little 'ole," he remarked, as he pa.s.sed on his way up the road.

Mr. Gandy left the bar-parlour, spoke to Mrs. Gandy, and disappeared through the gla.s.s door into the private parlour. Two hours later Mr. Gandy reappeared. He had made up his mind.

Bindle's mind was working busily. He was obviously in possession of a secret that other people thought worth paying for. As he walked down the village street he pondered deeply. He paused and slapped his green baize ap.r.o.n-covered leg. He walked over to where Mrs. Grinder was standing at the door of her little general shop. A remark of Mr. Gandy's had set him thinking.

"Mornin', mother," he called out in salutation.

"Good-morning," responded Mrs. Grinder with a smile.

"'Oo's the biggest bug 'ere?"

"The what?"

"The swells; them as grind you an' me down an' make us un'appy," Bindle explained.

"There's Sir Charles Custance at The Towers, up on the left where the poplars are, and Mr. Greenhales at the Home Farm, and--"

"That's enough. I'm stayin' in this neighbour'ood, and if I wasn't to call on the n.o.bs they might be 'urt in their private feelin's. Glad to see yer lookin' so merry an' bright. Mornin'." And cap in hand, Bindle made an elaborate bow and pa.s.sed on his way, leaving the buxom Mrs. Grinder wreathed in smiles.

Half an hour later he walked down the drive of The Towers, the residence of Sir Charles Custance, J.P., a sovereign richer than when he entered.

At the gates of The Towers he paused. Coming towards him was a dog-cart, driven by a small, fierce-looking little man. It was Mr. Roger Greenhales, who farmed as a hobby, at a considerable yearly loss, to prove that the outcry against the unprofitableness of English land-culture was ridiculous.

Bindle spoke to Mr. Greenhales, and in ten minutes received five s.h.i.+llings. He then proceeded to Holmleigh, where he found his foreman, and also that he had extended his dinner hour into two.

II

"It's a national affair, I tell you, Wrannock!"

Sir Charles Custance, J.P., leaned back in his library chair, and surveyed the impa.s.sive features of Sergeant Wrannock, as if searching for some contradiction; but Sergeant Wrannock of the Suffolk County Constabulary merely shuffled his feet and said:

"Yes, sir!"

"I'll call at the house this afternoon, and see if there's anything to be discovered. I'll go now; damme, if I don't. We'll both go."

Sir Charles jumped up forthwith. He was a short, stout man, with bushy, magisterial eyebrows, a red complexion, a bald head, a monocle, and a fierce don't-argue-with-me-sir manner.

He was a man who had but one topic of conversation-the coming German invasion. It would not be his fault if the Germans found Little Compton unprepared. He had pointed out that, being an East Coast village, it lay in the very centre of the battle-ground. At first Little Compton had felt uncomfortable; but later it had apparently become reconciled to its fate. It did nothing.

No village in England knew better what invasion would mean. Sir Charles had drawn a vivid picture of what would be the fate of the women of Little Compton unless their men-folk repelled the invaders, with the result that the Dorcas Society, with the full approval of the vicar, wrote to Sir Charles protesting against such things being said on a public platform.

As he trotted towards the door, Sir Charles turned to the sergeant and said:

"This is a big business, Wrannock, a big business. We'll find out more before we communicate with headquarters. See?" And Sir Charles glared fiercely at the sergeant.

Sergeant Wrannock did see. He saw many things, including promotion for himself, and he replied, "It is indeed, sir!" And the two men went out.

From The Towers to Holmleigh is not more than half a mile. Sir Charles went first, leaving the sergeant to follow on his bicycle. If they were seen together it might arouse suspicion.