manager's office. It was clearly 181. The sergeant had given him the wrong key.
"'Ere! Hi!" he began, when he stopped suddenly, a grin overspreading his features. Suddenly he slapped his knee.
"Wot a go! 'Oly Moses, I'll do it! I only 'ope they 'aven't left no servants in the 'ouse. Won't it be Hi, where the 'ell are you goin' to? You're passin' the 'ouse."
"Didn't yer say a 'undred an' heighty-one?" came the hoarse voice of Wilkes from the front of the first of the pantechnicons.
"A 'undred an' thirty-one, you ole 'Uggins. 'Adn't yer better count it up on yer fingers? Yer can use yer toes if yer like."
There was a growl in response. Bindle was popular with his mates, and no one ever took offence at what he said.
The two vans drew up before No. 131, and the four men grouped themselves by the gate.
Bindle surveyed them with a grin.
"Lord, wot a army of ole reprobates! Wilkes," said Bindle gravely, addressing an elderly man with a stubbly beard and a persistent cough, of which he made the most, "yer must get out of that 'abit o' yours o' shavin' only on jubilee days and golden weddin's. It spoils y' appearance. Yer won't get no more kisses than a currycomb."
Bindle was in high spirits.
"'Ullo, Ginger, where's that clean coller you
