"I don't 'old wiv——" began Ginger.
"Never mind what you 'old with, Ging, you've got to stand by and see your old pal ain't choked with all these good things."
A fugitive shaft of light came into Ginger's eyes as he saw the array of bottles on the kitchen table. Tom Little and Bill Simmonds were busy commandeering all the glasses, cups, mugs, etc., they could find on the dresser, and unscrewing the tops of the beer bottles.
"Ow jer come?" enquired Bindle while these preparations were in progress.
"Taxis," I replied mechanically, "There are nine of them waiting outside."
"Nine?" exclaimed Bindle, his eyes open to their full extent. "Nine taxis in Fenton Street? 'Old be 'Orace!" and he laughed till the tears poured down his cheeks. Bindle was in a mood to laugh at anything.
"An' wot's all the neighbours doin', sir."
"Oh! they're busy counting them," said Carruthers, "they think it's a police raid." This was one of the few occasions on which I have seen Bindle laugh, as a rule he grins. Presently, wiping his eyes with the corner of a newspaper he had been reading, he cried "'Ere, a glass of milk for the invalid."
Tom Little dashed for the largest jug and filled it up with such haste that the froth foamed down the sides. Bindle clutched the jug with both hands.
"Excuse my getting up, miss, but 'eres to the Night Club."