"Go on, Mr. Bindle," said Sallie.
"Well, miss," proceeded Bindle. "There's somethink about visitin' sins on children an' grand-children. I 'ad that out with 'Earty one night. 'Earty don't like talkin' religion wi' me. 'E says I ain't got no faith."
"What happened?" Sallie enquired.
"Well, I asked 'Earty why Gawd should punish a man for wot 'is father did."
"'Because,' says 'Earty, ''e 'ad an 'ard 'eart, and wouldn't believe in Gawd.'
"'Wot 'ud you say, 'Earty,' I says, 'if the police was to pinch you 'cause your father flitted without 'avin' paid 'is rent?' O' course 'Earty says nothink to that; but mutters that we can't understand the ways o' Gawd.
"Them ain't the ways of Gawd, it's the things these chaps says about 'Im. When you're strong, yer don't go knockin' over things wot can't 'it back. I knew a bruiser once, an' 'e was as gentle as a lamb. I seen a chap want 'im to fight, an' 'e wouldn't, 'cause 'e was afraid of 'urtin'."
Bindle paused to relight his cigar, then when it was once more in full blast he continued:
"Then they tells yer to love yer neighbours as yourself. I'd like 'em to look out of our window when Sandy 'Iggins an' 'is missus is scrappin' in their back-yard. No," he remarked meditatively, "a religion like that's wasted on Fulham."
That is just Bindle, bringing down the divine to the level of men's eyes: and raising the earthly to the mountain tops.