The Night Club

Someone has described Anatole France as "a pagan preoccupied with Christ." The same description applies to Joseph Bindle. He cannot keep long off the subject of religion, and in all his comments there seems to be the same instinctive groping for light.

"'Earty reminds me of a cove I used to know wot never seemed to get thirsty except when 'e saw a pub; well, 'Earty never seems to feel religious except when 'e sees a chapel, then it sort o' comes over 'im. If 'e really feels 'e wants to pray, why can't 'e kneel down beside 'is own 'taters. If there's a Gawd, 'e's just as much in a greengrocer's shop as in a dirty little tin chapel, that's wot I says." Bindle looked round as if defying contradiction.

"I think you are right," said Sallie; "but you must not forget that Mr. Hearty does not share your views, any more than you share his. If religion helps people to do good, it doesn't much matter when they get it, or where they get it from."

"Yes, miss, but does it 'elp? You remember when the Lusitania went down, well there was a pretty good scrap round Fulham way. One night they went for a poor chap wot 'ad got a German name, an' they wrecked 'is shop. They'd jest got 'old o' 'im, when a big chap comes up wot's done time more'n once an' tells 'em to chuck it.

"'But 'e's an 'Un,' yells the crowd.

"'Yus, but there's only one o' 'im and there's 'undreds o' you,' says Bill, an' as they wouldn't chuck it Bill let fly, an' there was a pretty old mess."

There was silence for a full minute broken at last by Bindle.

"Don't you think Gawd likes a man to do wot Bill did, miss?" enquired Bindle ingenuously.

"I am sure he did," said Sallie, "and what did you do?"

"Oh, I got a black eye, an' Mrs. B. said she was more sure than ever that 'ell was waitin' for me.

"Wot does me about religion," continued Bindle after a pause, "is wot people'll swallow. There's Mrs. B. now: she can't take a pill without a bucket o' water an' about a dozen tries, looks like an 'en 'avin' a drink, she does; yet tell 'er it's religion an' she'd swallow anythink, an' make believe she likes it. If that whale 'adn't been religious, 'e'd never 'ave got Jonah down."

Bindle paused and for a few moments watched a trail of white smoke from a distant train.

"There was a cove somewhere in the bible called 'Fairy.'"

"Pharaoh, King of Egypt," murmured Windover.

"That's 'im, sir," cried Bindle. "Well look 'ow they say Gawd treated 'im."

"I'm afraid I've forgotten," I said with guile.

"Well," began Bindle, settling himself down for a story, "'E took to collectin' Jews, sort o' got 'old of all there was in the market, same as them Americans wi' food. One day the Jews got a-talkin' to each other about 'ome, though I never see a Jew yet wot wanted to get 'ome when 'e could stay in someone else's backyard."

Bindle paused to suck vigorously at his cigar, which showed signs of going out.

"Pharaoh said there wasn't nothin' doin', an' they couldn't go. Though 'ow anyone can want to keep a Jew wot is willin' to go 'ome does me.

"Then the Jews prayed to Gawd, and 'E made Pharaoh say 'e'd let 'em go. Then 'E 'ardened Pharaoh's 'eart an' started givin' Pharaoh beans."

"Was it not boils?" murmured Windover, examining the tip of his cigarette with great intentness.

"Maybe, sir. Well, first Gawd made Pharaoh agree to let the Jews catch the next bus, then 'E strafed 'im, 'ardening the poor ole chap's 'eart till 'e didn't know where 'e was. Wot I say is it wasn't sportin'."

"I'm afraid you cannot judge bible history by Queensberry rules," said Windover.

"It's like lettin' a bird go and then pullin' it back by a bit o' string tied to its leg. Poor ole Pharaoh couldn't 'elp 'isself with Gawd a-'ardenin' of 'is 'eart. That's wot I don't like."

"Your theology is a trifle unconventional, I fear," said Windover. "Where did you learn about Pharaoh?"

"Yer can't live wi' Mrs. B., sir, without pickin' up a lot about 'eaven an' 'arps an' things," was the reply.

"Go on, Mr. Bindle," said Sallie.

"Well, miss," proceeded Bindle. "There's somethink about visitin' sins on children an' grand-children. I 'ad that out with 'Earty one night. 'Earty don't like talkin' religion wi' me. 'E says I ain't got no faith."

"What happened?" Sallie enquired.

"Well, I asked 'Earty why Gawd should punish a man for wot 'is father did."

"'Because,' says 'Earty, ''e 'ad an 'ard 'eart, and wouldn't believe in Gawd.'

"'Wot 'ud you say, 'Earty,' I says, 'if the police was to pinch you 'cause your father flitted without 'avin' paid 'is rent?' O' course 'Earty says nothink to that; but mutters that we can't understand the ways o' Gawd.

"Them ain't the ways of Gawd, it's the things these chaps says about 'Im. When you're strong, yer don't go knockin' over things wot can't 'it back. I knew a bruiser once, an' 'e was as gentle as a lamb. I seen a chap want 'im to fight, an' 'e wouldn't, 'cause 'e was afraid of 'urtin'."

Bindle paused to relight his cigar, then when it was once more in full blast he continued:

"Then they tells yer to love yer neighbours as yourself. I'd like 'em to look out of our window when Sandy 'Iggins an' 'is missus is scrappin' in their back-yard. No," he remarked meditatively, "a religion like that's wasted on Fulham."

That is just Bindle, bringing down the divine to the level of men's eyes: and raising the earthly to the mountain tops.

It was nearly one o'clock on Sunday morning when the car slid from the Fulham road into the street that leads to Fenton Street. When we pulled up, Bindle slipped out of Carruthers' overcoat and got down. As he said good-night to Sallie we heard him whisper:

"I never 'ad a day like this before, miss."

We continued on our way in silence. When Sallie dropped me into a passing taxi, Windover remarked:

"I hope I shall be dead when Democracy discovers all it has been denied."

I knew he was referring to Bindle's remark to Sallie.