I have sat at an upper window of the Bovingdon Street dispensary and watched this tradesman closely when he has been conducting milkcans to the houses opposite. I have observed his slow, deliberate tread, so thoroughly in keeping with the fulness of his girth and stature. I have noted his extensive face, so plain and wise and red. I have remarked his drooping eyelid and crimson neck, his scant white locks, and row upon row of chins—features insignificant in themselves, but, when combined, imparting to his countenance a strangely judicial character.
This effect of power (such is the individuality of the man) receives additional strength even from the trivial business of his calling. Mr. Binney, when handing a milkcan through some parlour window, looks less like a milkman than any other imaginable human thing. He handles the pewter vessel gingerly, daintily, as if it were a precious casket, and a sort of trembling eagerness is sometimes to be observed in his demeanour.
There is nothing commercial in Mr. Binney's manner.
He does not seem to sell his milk. He bestows it.
To see him gingerly proffering his battered cans is to see, as it were, an earthly Providence—a conscious benefactor, distributing Nature's bounty to her helpless children.
He accepts the copper tokens which reward his ministrations with an air of gracious calm as far removed from any taint of barter as are his actions. You might suppose him to be a priest receiving offertory.
The same spirit of gentleness distinguishes his method of proclamation. Mr. Binney does not use the cry of "Milk-ho!" which his fellow-milkmen favour. I have already stated that the tone of his voice is deeper and more profound than that which they employ. Pushing his little handcart before him, he causes his utterance to correspond with his gait—which is majestic.
"Milk! milk! milk!" he exclaims—or, rather, utters—in a tone which is at once appealing and authoritative.
Mr. Binney so interested me that I reported him to the doctor. "What is the mystery of this unusual milkman?" I said. But the doctor only smiled.
A day or two afterwards, however, when I was seated in anxious expectancy at the upper window, Doctor Brink came up and brought me my answer. "Waiting for your milkman?" he said.... "Ha! I've just been sent for to him. Come round with me now and see him in his little home.... I shall want some help."