accordin' to 'is own account." Brooks was the foreman pantechnicon-man.
The manager frowned, and proceeded to read aloud Sir Charles's letter. It recapitulated the events that had taken place at Little Compton, painting Bindle and the foreman as a pair of the most desperate cut-throats conceivable, threatening, not only them, but the West London Furniture Depository with every imaginable pain and penalty.
When he had finished, the manager looked up at Bindle with great severity.
"You've heard what Sir Charles Custance writes. What have you got to say?" he asked.
Bindle scratched his head and shuffled his feet. Then he looked up with a grin.
"Yer see, sir, I wasn't to know that they was as scared as rabbits o' the Germans. I jest sort o' let an 'int drop all innocent like, an' the 'ole bloomin' place turns itself into a sort o' Scotland Yard."
"But you sought out Sir Charles and"—the manager referred to the letter—"'and laid before me an information,' he says."
"I didn't lay nothink before 'im, sir, not even a complaint, although 'is language when 'e come out o' the ark wasn't fit for Ginger to 'ear, an' Ginger's ain't exactly Sunday-school talk."
The manager was short-handed and anxious to find some means of placating so important a man as Sir Charles Custance, and, at the same
