"You're a dirty-minded beast, Bindle," raged Mrs. Bindle; but her words beat up against the back door, through which Bindle had vanished. He had become a master of strategical retreat.
Whistling shrilly, he proceeded along the Fulham Road in the direction of Fulham Square Mansions. Bindle was in a happy frame of mind. It would be strange if a fortnight as porter at Fulham Square Mansions did not produce something in the way of a diversion.
"Cheer-o, uncle!" The remark came from a brazen-faced girl waiting for a bus.
Bindle frowned as he looked her up and down, from the low-cut transparent blouse to the short skirt, reaching little below her knees.
"If I was your uncle, young woman," he remarked, "I'd slap you into becomin' decent."
The girl jumped on to a bus that had just drawn up, and with a swirl of skirt and wealth of limb, waved her hand as she climbed the stairs.
"So long, old dear!" she cried.
"Got enough powder on 'er face to whitewash 'er feet," remarked a workman to Bindle as he resumed his walk.
"Women is funny things," responded Bindle. "They never seems to be wearin' so little, but wot they can't leave orf a bit more."
"You're right, mate," replied the man when he had digested the remark. "If I was the police I'd run 'em in."