"Rot! Come in," Little replied, dragging Bindle towards the room from whence the laughter came. Through the door he cried out:
"Shut up that damned row. Here's Bindle, the immortal Bindle."
The momentary hush that Little's command had produced was followed by yells of delight which crystallised into, "For he's a Jolly Good Fellow!"
Bindle stood at the door listening in amazement; then with a grin remarked to Little:
"Seem to know me, sir; seem sort o' fond of me."
"Know you, Bindle, my boy? There's not a fellow in Tim's that doesn't know and love you. A toast, you fellows," he cried.
Little seized a glass half-full of whisky-and-soda. "A toast," he cried, "to Bindle the Incomparable, rival of Aristophanes as a maker of mirth."
Cries of "Bindle! Bindle!" echoed from all parts of the smoke-dimmed room, and again there broke out what Dick Little called "the National Anthem of Good Fellowship," followed by calls for a speech.
Before he knew it Bindle was hoisted upon the table, where he stood gazing down upon some eight or ten flushed faces.
"Gentlemen, chair, please." Little rapped a glass on the table. Silence ensued. "Now, Aristophanes," to Bindle.
