saw the outer doors pushed open, admitting a stream of yellow sunshine and with it a little bald-headed man with a red nose and green baize apron. It was Bindle. He approached the counter, eyed Mr. Gandy deliberately, and ordered a pint of ale.
Mr. Gandy drew the beer as if it were a sacred office, wheezing the while. He was a man with a ponderous manner, and a full bar or an empty bar made no difference to the sacred flow of the liquor. He had an eye that could cower a "drunk" more effectually than the muscle of a barman.
"Dry work, movin'," said Bindle pleasantly.
Mr. Gandy wheezed.
"I'm a stranger 'ere," Bindle continued, as he produced some bread and cheese from a piece of pink newspaper. "Funny little 'ole I calls it. Nothin' to do, as far as I can see. No street accidents 'ere, wot?" and he laughed genially at his own joke.
"You're one of the pantechnicon-men from Holmleigh?" queried Mr. Gandy with dignity.
"Right, first time!" laughed the irrepressible Bindle with his mouth full of bread and cheese. "I'm up at the fort, I am."
"The fort?" queried Mr. Gandy. "The fort?"
"Yes, the fort," grinned Bindle. "That's what I calls it. Never saw so many guns in all me puff—millions of 'em."
