The neighbours were now arriving in strong force, and Mr. Rogers cheerfully told his tale to all who would listen; but none could make much of what he was saying. At the end of a few minutes the taxi returned with a policeman sitting beside the driver. As soon as he alighted Mr. Rogers dashed up to him.
"I give this man and woman in charge for stealing my furniture. You'd better keep the driver, too. He's probably an accomplice."
The policeman turned to Mr. Granger. "Have you anything to say, sir?"
"I think we had better all go to the police-station," remarked Mr. Granger coolly. "There has been a mistake, and the wrong furniture has been moved into my house."
The last Bindle saw of the protagonists in this domestic drama, of which he was the sole author, was the Railton-Rogerses being bundled into their omnibus by Mr. Railton-Rogers, and Mr. and Mrs. Granger calmly entering their taxi, on the front seat of which sat the policeman. He turned reluctantly away, regretful that he was not to see the last act.
The epilogue took place on the following Monday, when early in the morning Bindle was called into the manager's office and summarily dismissed.
Returning to Fenton Street earlier than usual he was greeted by Mrs. Bindle with the old familiar words:
"Yes," said Bindle, as he removed his coat; "but it was worth it:"
When Bindle announced to Mrs. Bindle that he intended to enlist in Kitchener's Army, she opened upon him the floodgates of her wrath.
"You never was a proper husband," she snapped viciously. "You've neglected me ever since we was married. Now you want to go away and get killed. What shall I do then? What would become of me?"
"Well," said Bindle slowly, "yer would become wot they calls a widder. Then yer could marry into the chapel and you an' 'im 'ud go to 'eaven 'and in 'and."
Mrs. Bindle snorted and started to rake out the kitchen fire. Whenever Mrs. Bindle reached the apex of her wrath, an attack upon the kitchen fire was inevitable. Suddenly she would conceive the idea that it was not burning as it should burn, and she would rake and dab and poke until at last forced to relight it.
"The next worst thing to bein' Mrs. Bindle's 'usband," he muttered, "is to be a bloomin' kitchen fire with 'er at the other end of a poker." Then aloud he said, "You'd get an allowance while I'm away, and a pension when I dies o' killin' too many Germans."