"Then be damned to you!" he burst out, and turning on his heel, dashed upstairs.
"I ain't lived with Mrs. B. nineteen years without learnin' 'ow to 'andle explosives," remarked Bindle as he settled down to read an evening newspaper he had discovered in the letter box.
Bindle soon discovered that the life of a porter at residential flats is strangely lacking in repose. Everybody seemed either to want something sent up, or came to complain that their instructions had not been carried out.
The day passed with amazing rapidity. At eight o'clock Bindle stepped round to The Ancient Earl for a glass of beer. When he returned at nine-thirty he found his room in a state of siege.
"Oh, here he is!" said someone. Bindle smiled happily.
"Where the devil have you been?" demanded Number Seven angrily.
Bindle looked at him steadily. Having apparently established Number Seven's identity to his entire satisfaction, he spoke.
"Now look 'ere, sir, this is the second time to-day I've 'ad to speak to you about your language. This ain't a peace-meetin'. You speakin' like that before ladies too. I'm surprised at you, I am really. Now 'op it an' learn some nice words, an' then come back an' beg prettily, an' p'raps I'll give you a bit o' cake."
"You damned insolent fellow!" thundered Number Seven, "I'll report you, I'll——"
"Look 'ere," remarked Bindle tranquilly, "if you ain't gone by the time I've finished lightin' this pipe,"—he struck a match deliberately,—"I'll 'oof it myself, an' then who'll fetch up all the coals in the mornin'?"