"Her mistress has a weak heart," ventured Number Eleven, "and during the raids she shivers so——"
"Now ain't that jest like a woman, beggin' your pardon, mum. Why didn't Queenie say that instead of showin' 'ow bad she's been brought up? Right-o! I'll take her up some coal."
Ten minutes later Bindle surprised "Queenie" by appearing at the door of Number Eight with a pailful of coal. She stared at him in surprise. Bindle grinned.
"'Ere you are, Queenie," he said cheerfully. "Now you'll be able to go to sleep with a bit in each 'and, an' maybe there'll be a bit over to put in your mouth."
"Look 'ere, don't you go callin' me 'Queenie'; that ain't my name, so there," and the girl banged the door in his face.
"She'll grow up jest like Mrs. B.," murmured Bindle, as he slowly descended the stairs, "an' p'raps she can't even cook. I wonder if she's religious. Sort o' zoo this 'ere little 'ole. Shouldn't be surprised if things was to 'appen before Ole Charlie gets 'ome again!" and Bindle returned to his lodge, where, removing his boots and throwing off his coat, he lay down on the couch that served as a bed for the porter at Fulham Square Mansions.
During the next two days Bindle discovered that his duties were endless. Everybody seemed to want something, or have some complaint to make. He was expected to be always at his post, night and day, and if he were not, he was threatened with a possible complaint to the Secretary of the Company to which the flats belonged.
Bindle's fertile brain, however, was not long in devising a means of relieving the monotony without compromising "pore Ole Charlie." He sent home for his special constable's uniform, although he had obtained a fortnight's leave on account of his work. Henceforth, whenever he required relaxation, he donned his official garb, which he found a sure defence against all complaints.
"Well, Queenie," he remarked one evening to the maid at Number Eight, "I'm orf to catch the robbers wot might carry you away."
"I can see you catchin' a man," snorted the girl scornfully.