Adventures of Bindle. Jenkins Herbert George

and slapped his knee.

      "Well, I'm damned!" he cried. "A raid, of course."

      The man looked anxiously up at the blue of the sky.

      "It's all right," said Bindle reassuringly. "My mistake; it was a bird."

      A few minutes later the man turned off from the main road.

      "Hi! Tippy," Bindle hailed, "don't you forget that stone-ginger at the next dairy."

      A muttered reply came from Tippitt. Five minutes later he drew up outside a public-house on the outskirts of Wimbledon. Bindle took the opportunity of climbing up on the top of the van, where he gained the information he required. Every inch of the roof was perforated!

      "Air-'oles," he muttered with keen satisfaction; "air-'oles, as I'm a miserable sinner," and he clambered down and entered the public-bar, where he convinced Tippitt that his mate could be trusted with money.

      When Bindle had drained to the last drop his second pewter, his mind was made up.

      "Number 110, Downing Street," he muttered. "White dresses an' coloured sashes. That's it. Well, Joe Bindle, you can't save the bloomin' British Empire from destruction; but you can save the Prime Minister from 'avin' 'is afternoon nap spoilt, leastwise you can try.

      "I'm a-goin' for a little stroll, Tippy," he remarked, as he walked towards the door. "Back in ten minutes. If you gets lonely, order another pint an' put it down to me."

      "Right-o! mate," replied Tippitt.

      Bindle walked along Wimbledon High Street and turned into an oil-shop.

      "D'you keep lamp black?" he enquired of the young woman behind the counter.

      "Yes," she replied. "How much do you want, we sell it in packets?"

      "Let's 'ave a look at a packet," said Bindle.

      When he had examined it, he ordered two more.

      "Startin' a minstrel troupe," he confided to the young woman.

      "But you want burnt cork," she said practically; "lamp black's greasy. You'll never get it off."

      "That's jest why I want it," remarked Bindle with a grin.

      The young woman looked at him curiously and, when he had purchased a pea-puffer as well, she decided that he was a harmless lunatic; but took the precaution of testing the half-crown he tendered by ringing it on the counter.

      "Shouldn't be surprised if we was to 'ave an 'eavy shower of rain in a few minutes," remarked Bindle loudly a few minutes later, as he rejoined Tippitt, who was engaged in watering the horses.

      Tippitt looked at Bindle, his cigarette wagging. Then turning his eyes up to the cloudless sky in surprise, he finally reached the same conclusion as the young woman at the oil-shop.

      "Now up you get, Tippy," admonished Bindle, "an' there's another drink for you at The Green Lion." Bindle knew his London.

      As the pantechnicon rumbled heavily along by the side of Wimbledon Common, Bindle whistled softly to himself the refrain of "The End of a Happy Day."

      Whilst Tippitt was enjoying his fourth pint that morning at The Green Lion, Bindle borrowed a large watering-can, which was handed up to him on the roof of the pantechnicon by a surprised barman. Bindle emptied the contents of one of the packets of lamp-black into the can, and started to stir it vigorously with a piece of twig he had picked up from the side of the Common. When the water had reluctantly absorbed the lamp-black to Bindle's entire satisfaction, he called out loudly:

      "I knew we was goin' to 'ave a shower," and he proceeded to water the top of the pantechnicon. "Now I must put this 'ere tarpaulin over, or else the water'll get through them 'oles," he said.

      He clearly heard suppressed exclamations as the water penetrated inside the van. Having emptied the can, he proceeded to drag the tarpaulin over the roof, leaving uncovered only a small portion in the centre.

      The barman of The Green Lion had been watching Bindle with open-mouthed astonishment.

      "What the 'ell are you up to, mate?" he whispered.

      Bindle put his forefinger of the right hand to the side of his nose and winked mysteriously. Then going inside The Green Lion he, in a way that did not outrage the regulations that there should be no "treating," had Tippitt's tankard refilled, and called for another for himself.

      "If you watch the papers," Bindle remarked to the barman, "I shouldn't be surprised if you was to see wot I was a-doin' on the top of that there van," and again he winked.

      The barman looked from Bindle to Tippitt, then touching his forehead with a fugitive first finger, and glancing in the direction of Bindle, made it clear that another was prepared to support the diagnosis of the young woman at the oil-shop.

      Bindle completed the journey on the top of the van, industriously occupied in puffing lamp-black through the holes in the roof. His method was to dip the end of the pea-puffer into the packet, then insert it in one of the holes and give a sharp puff. This he did half a dozen times in quick succession. Then he would pause for a few minutes to allow the lamp-black to settle. He argued that if he puffed it all in at once, it would in all probability choke the occupants.

      By the time they turned from the King's Road into Ebury Street, Bindle's task was accomplished – the lamp-black was exhausted.

      "Victoria Station," he called out loudly to Tippitt. "Shan't be long now, mate. Another shower a-comin', better cover up these bloomin' 'oles," and he drew the tarpaulin over the rest of the roof. "Let 'em stoo a bit now," he muttered to himself. "That'll make 'em 'ot."

      He had been conscious of suppressed coughing and sneezing from within, which he detected by placing his ear near the holes in the roof.

      Opposite the Houses of Parliament, a lady came up to Bindle and handed him a key. "This is the key of the pantechnicon," she said loudly. "You are not to undo it until you reach Number 110, Downing Street. Do you understand?"

      "Right-o!" remarked Bindle, "I got it."

      "Now don't forget!" said the lady, and she disappeared swiftly in the direction of Victoria Street.

      "No, I ain't goin' to forget," murmured Bindle to himself, "an' I shouldn't be surprised if there was others wot ain't goin' to forget either."

      He watched the lady who had given him the key well out of sight, then slipping off the tail-board of the van he walked swiftly along Whitehall.

      A few yards south of Downing Street, an inspector of police was meditatively contemplating the flow of traffic north and south.

      Bindle went up to him. "Pretend that I'm askin' the way, sir. I'm most likely bein' watched. I got a van wot's supposed to contain carved-oak furniture for Mr. Llewellyn John, 110, Downing Street. I think it's full o' suffragettes goin' to raid 'im. You get your men round there, the van'll be up in two ticks. Now point as if you was showing me Downing Street."

      The inspector was a man of quick decision and, looking keenly at Bindle, decided that he was to be trusted.

      "Right!" he said, then extending an official arm, pointed out Downing Street to Bindle. "Don't hurry," he added.

      "Right-o!" said Bindle. "Joseph Bindle's my name. I'm a special, Fulham district."

      The inspector nodded, and Bindle turned back to the van. A moment later the inspector strolled leisurely through the archway leading to the Foreign Office.

      "That's Downing Street on the left," shouted Bindle to Tippitt as he came up, much to Tippitt's surprise. He was at a loss to account for many things that Bindle had done and said that day.

      As they turned into Downing Street, Bindle was a little disappointed at finding only two constables; but he was relieved a a moment later by the sight of the inspector to whom he had spoken, hurrying through the archway, leading from the Foreign Office.

      "Where are you going to?" called out the inspector to Tippitt, taking no notice of Bindle.

      Tippitt jerked his thumb in the direction of Bindle, who came forward at that moment.

      "Number 110, Downing Street, sir," responded